Free Beautiful Mess by Lucy V. Morgan Page A

didn’t,” I scoffed.
    “Well…not the whole thing, okay? But it would have only been Jack if you weren’t so miserable. We upgraded to the ‘Meisty to cheer you up.”
    “You know how poor my alcohol tolerance is.”
    “Which is why it’ll be especially amusing.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Just one?”
    I sighed. “Go on, then.”
    He sloshed the brown liquor into a tumbler and I downed it in one burning, bitter gulp. My whole body shuddered.
    “Are you sure I’m supposed to drink that straight?” I coughed.
    His eyes darted about. “Nope.”
    “I’m going to get a shower. Thanks for poisoning me.”
    My head was fizzy already. When I said my alcohol tolerance was low, I wasn’t exaggerating. I smacked right into Tom as he emerged from the bathroom.
    “Thinking of joining me?” His hips were towel-clad, damp hair swept back.
    “Your manly manliness is difficult to resist.” I squeezed the bicep he offered, dutifully. “Is it safe to go in there?”
    “Safe as it’ll ever be.”
    Showers are supposed to make you feel better, aren’t they? You scrape off the day. Lather up your troubles. Wash that man right out of your hair (Oprah finger snap!). So why, after at least fourteen quid’s worth of Clinique, did I still feel like I was scraped off Craig’s shoe?
    I slathered on coconut moisturizer, threw on satin pajamas, combed the curls out of my hair. The only thing the Jäger had done was give me a headache. What was that incessant --
    -- oh, the doorbell. Great.
    The boys never answered the door unless they were expecting food. It was an unwritten rule-- a bit like “Bailey always brings the cake off-cuts from work and we feed them to her rats when she’s not looking.”
    I tucked my hair up into a bun and shuffled towards the groaning bell. I still wasn’t sure why we went for the musical one that plays the Phantom of the Opera. In the dark, it just got creepy.
    Linc filled the doorway, all shoulders, dimples and ruffled black hair.
    “Hi,” he said, looking awkwardly surprised. Not that it was personal. Linc(oln) always looked like that. It was his thing.
    “You can come in, you know.” I stood aside and he nodded at me.
    “Yeah. Okay.”
    He practically lived with us, anyway--what with he and Olly’s website.
    “Go on then,” I said.
    He slid in and I put the latch on behind him.
    “Good day?” I asked.
    “I killed some servers. I was meant to do that, but then they wouldn’t come back online…and then…” He toyed with his hair. “Then we all snuck off for McDonald’s and came home.”
    “Sounds eventful. Maybe if your gay poodles take off, you can quit the day job, like Olly.”
    “They’re camp werewolves.” He grinned just slightly. It lit up his whole face. “But yeah. Paws crossed.”
    I’d barely shut my door when I heard him talking to Olly in the kitchen.
    “What’s wrong with Bailey? She’s all…sullen.”
    “Oh.” Olly talked through a mouthful of pizza again. “That cunt dumped her.”
    “Shit.” Air hissed through Linc’s teeth. “Is she okay?”
    “They were together for like, two years. Do you think she’s okay? Still.” More chomping. “The dude’s done her a favor. I mean, he stayed over often enough and there was never much going on in the bow-chic-a-wow-wow department, eh?”
    They guffawed with that manly, cringing laugh that they do when a footballer misses a goal.
    They’d listened to me and Craig have sex? Was it even that loud? Why had this not been mentioned in a passive aggressive boy-pun?
    Linc tittered. “Oh man. That’s low.”
    “It’s true though! Come on, you were here enough times. Creak…creak…creak…sorry, baby.”
    Oh God. As if things weren’t bad enough.
    “If my girlfriend looked like Bailey then I’d want her to at least, you know, realize that I’m fucking her,” said Olly.
    Linc cleared his throat. “Your girlfriend looks like Lucy Liu.”
    “I know. I got some sauce with my awesome! Let’s