Free Whatever Life Throws at You by Julie Cross Page A

on the image of some Royals’ groupie with bouncy size-D boobs putting her hands all over Jason Brody.
    I open the car door and lift my bag out. “That could be a problem…”
    Lenny stops and turns to face me. “Why?”
    “Well, Brody is really tight with my dad, and my dad knows I’m staying here tonight. He might tell him about the high school party that got in his way.”
    “And your dad would have issues with this…?”
    I can’t believe she’s so confused and surprised by this fact. “Yes, my dad would have major issues with me being at a party with an open bar and horny boys.”
    There are already tons of cars parked near the house and loud music coming from the guesthouse. Lenny’s older brother Carl got things started, apparently.
    “Don’t worry,” Lenny says, “He’s not going to rat you out to your dad. He didn’t tell your dad when he saw us in the bar that one time, right? Besides, just say you thought we were having a girls’ night and Carl decided to throw a party.”
    Maybe that would work?
    Let’s hope so ’cause I don’t want to imagine Dad’s reaction if he found out about this party.

Chapter 7
    Annie Lucas: The definition of a perfect game in baseball means not letting anyone get on base. So my question is—why is only the pitcher credited? Does the pitcher shoulder all the responsibility for this feat?
    20 minutes ago
    Lenny London: PARTY!! Don’t judge me. I’m still gonna be brilliant even minus a couple brain cells. And what will you be? Exactly.
    10 seconds ago
    Lenny’s brother Carl is a complete asshole. He’s also completely brainless. The polar opposite of his National Honor Society sister. He’s supposed to be in college, but I highly doubt he’s willing to take a break from his pot smoking, binge drinking schedule to actually attend class. After three hours of loud music, beer, and not nearly enough food, I’m strung out on the celebrating plan.
    “Annie! Make sure I don’t sleep with that guy.” Lenny points without even attempting subtlety at a tall, lanky blond dude. “Yes, you! We are so not sleeping together.”
    The guy looks at her from across the room, and it’s clear he’s confused.
    “He’s a Scorpio,” Lenny explains. “I can’t be with a Scorpio, we’re not compatible.”
    “I’ll pry you apart if it comes to that,” I say, patting her on the back. I stand up from my spot on the couch and stretch out. Through the guesthouse windows, a very different party comes into view. I walk closer, and the view inside Lenny’s house lays out clearly for me to see. Everyone is dressed for the Oscars and holding champagne glasses. There are even waiters in crisp white shirts and black dress pants wandering around with trays of things like stuffed mushrooms. Jake London is the highest paid player on the team—though he makes half of what the highest paid in the league makes—and he can probably afford a party like this after every home game.
    I spot Brody, the only person wearing jeans to the grown-up party, walking toward a group of his teammates. Even with this window-to-window, pool-between-us view, it’s obvious the four guys stop talking when Brody enters their space. Brody offers a hand to one of the pitchers, like he’s congratulating him or something. But the guy doesn’t move a finger in Brody’s direction. All four faces tighten and then seconds later¸ they’ve turned their backs and headed in different directions.
    My neck heats up. I don’t have any reason to feel humiliated, but I do. For Brody’s sake. Maybe for the fact that I saw something I hadn’t been invited to see. But then Mrs. London—sporting the best fake smile I’ve ever seen—stalks in Brody’s direction, steering him to a plate of mushrooms, a glass of champagne, and a few twenty-something women in tight black dresses.
    I drop my gaze to my own boring attire—jeans and a sweater. Again. Brody does that eye roaming, boob gawking game that guys do, and in an