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Penelope snorts, laughing. “Can we do that? Please?” she begs.
“We could change all the coffee grounds for the laxative ones,” Kip suggests.
“Take the batteries out of all the remote controls, and cut the ass out of all the clothes.” I chuckle.
“We could get all the locks changed,” Penelope suggests.
We spend the next thirty minutes calling out every stupid, juvenile, petty revenge idea we can think of, and then we do them all. We plant shrimp inside every cushion cover, curtain pole, and air conditioning vent. We have a locksmith change the lock on every door, and we remove every battery and destroy every item of clothing we can find. It’s ridiculous, but the six of us laugh like kindergarteners the whole time as we run round the Rhodeses’ house.
Gulliver’s cell chimes loudly, and we all turn to him as he pulls it from his pocket and lifts it to his ear. It’s almost eight in the evening, and we’re all sitting around the table in the kitchen, drinking mugs of the best champagne we could find in Barnaby’s wine cellar after we drilled large holes in every cork and every bottle in his extensive collection. The air might not ruin his entire cellar, but it’ll spoil all the good vintages in there. There’re champagne flutes in the cupboard, but it felt like a bigger fuck you to him to drink his ten thousand dollar bottle of champagne out of coffee mugs. We even took a picture to post to social media once the girls’ parents reappear.
“Hello?” Gulliver answers. His brow furrows and his lips turn down into a scowl as he listens intently to whoever is on the other end of the line. “Okay, thanks,” he says after a moment, ending the call and sliding his cell back into his pocket before turning to Izzy. “Your parents just scheduled their flight home; they’ll be here by lunchtime tomorrow.”
An intense silence fills the room as we all glance around the table, waiting for someone else to speak.
“Should we leave?” Princess asks, looking at me, then turning to Gulliver and Izzy.
“Fuck them. Let’s drink the rest of the champagne, order pizza, and make the house smell like cheese and empty calories,” Izzy says, forcing an obviously fake smile to her lips.
Scoffing lightly, I smile at her and nod. “I agree, let’s stay up late, get drunk, and watch a bunch of movies. We can even order in Indian food, the smell of that lingers for days, then we’ll clear out in the morning before they get here.”
“This was getting boring anyway,” Davis cries.
“We get to really start playing with them once they’re back,” Kip says.
Lifting his mug into the air, Gulliver gestures for us all to follow suit. “Let the games begin.”
32
PENELOPE
Light filters through my eyelids and I groan, rolling away from Hawthorn as a wave of nausea hits me. After the fourth bottle of champagne we opened last night, I lost count of how many glasses I drank, but with the way my stomach is roiling and my head is pounding, I know I drank far too much.
Hawthorn stirs next to me, his soft chuckle alerting me that he’s much more awake and alive than me. “How are you feeling, Princess?”
“Urgh,” I moan.
“Come here,” he says, reaching for me and pulling me into his warm, naked chest. “Champagne, Indian food, pizza, and ice cream is not a good mix.” He laughs.
“I’m pretty sure I’m about ninety percent dead,” I whine, slowly forcing my eyelids open. Tilting my head back, I find his soft, amused eyes looking down at me, his hair ruffled and sexy. “How can you look good?” I ask.
“This wasn’t my first rodeo. You were pretty wasted at the party the other week; this can’t be your first hangover.”
“I’ve never felt this bad in my life. My head’s pounding, and I think I’m going to puke. Is that what a hangover feels like?”
A low, rumbling laugh vibrates through his chest, and he nods. “Yeah, it is. Come on, a shower will help.”
Lifting me off his chest, he crawls off the bed and stands by the side, holding his hand out to me.
“I can’t move,” I groan.
“Do you need me to take over?” he asks, indulgent laughter lacing each word.
“Yes,” I cry dramatically, lifting my hands into the air.
Leaning down, he slides his arms beneath me and lifts me off the bed, cradling me to his chest as he encourages me to wrap my arms and legs around him.
I rest my head against his shoulder as he carries me into the bathroom, placing me down on the counter while he turns on the shower and strips off his underwear. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I glance down at myself. I’m wearing his shirt and nothing else. Even without looking, I know my hair is a mess, and I doubt I remembered to take my makeup off before I went to sleep last night. I must look like a disaster, but when I lift my chin and look at him, he’s not disgusted, he’s smiling and amused.
