Free Reunion Girls by J. J. Salem Page A

out from the roof of the limo from their waists up, dancing and rapping a song called "Super Bitch."
    Babe and Gabrielle had wasted no time in catching up with Lara, taking full advantage of the stocked bar. Not to be outdone, Lara had squealed in excitement at the discovery of a bottle of Cristal, and popped it open. And thus began the final infusion that had rendered her disabled a few hours later.
    But before that, there were toasts. To Dean Paul's marriage. To Dean Paul's annulment. To Dean Paul's divorce. Done in the snarky way that only three ex-girlfriends could manage. Even in Lara's loopy state, she had been in awe as the limousine turned onto a narrow, dark gravel road that looked to be a dead end. It went on for more than a mile, providing refuge for about twenty houses.
    She knew it well. West End Road. Some called it the street of dreams. On one side was Steven Spielberg's property; on another, a Gothic home that had once been the sanctuary of Jackie Kennedy's maternal aunt.
    AKA Bomb Threat's place was a beautiful Greek Revival—deep green shutters, an old-fashioned porch, an American flag snapping in the night wind. She knew the view must be spectacular in the light of day. Georgica Beach was right there, arguably one of the best ocean spots in the world. Just beyond it she could make out the lights of houseboats and mansions.
    The minimalist interior surprised her. Given AKA Bomb Threat's flashy lifestyle, Lara had expected a lavish, almost tasteless decor. Instead, the entire home had been outfitted with smooth restraint—everything in white or muted shades of sand and gray. Huge living, dining, and kitchen areas fed into each other seamlessly, anchored by four bedrooms, and flanked by an outside deck with a large terraced pool and a sunken hot tub.
    Gabrielle had flung off her fur and started up the music and the hot tub right away. Babe had wasted no time in raiding the house bar. And Lara merely tried to remain upright on her Armani heels. The drinking in the limo had sent her over the edge. In fact, she had just stood there, tottering and weaving, as Gabrielle and Babe stripped to their undies and stepped down into the steamy, bubbling jets of the hot tub, screaming for her to get in.
    Lara had wanted to. The water looked so inviting. But it seemed outrageous to just casually sling her Michael Kors number over a pool chair as if it were a blouse from Banana Republic. Oh, well. The day was already spilling over with outrageous moments. Off went the dress. People could buy one of those economy cars for less. Whatever. She was feeling no pain. So in her strapless bra, thong underwear, and sparkling diamonds, she slipped out of her dangerous stilettos and joined them.
    She moaned out loud as she sank down. It felt so good to be away from those people at the reception, to be out of those shoes, to have Dean Paul's nuptials behind her. For a moment, she had closed her eyes, head bobbing, mere seconds away from passing out.
    "No!" Babe shouted. "You are not fading away on us!" She jumped out and raced inside, dripping wet, returning moments later with a slim can of Red Bull, which she promptly pushed into Lara's hand. "Here. Drink this. It'll keep you going."
    Lara had trouble flicking the tab on the can.
    Babe took it back and did the honors.
    Gabrielle laughed and drank up. It was a brown liquid, and she took it straight from the bottle, like a rebel gun-slinger in a hot saloon.
    Lara forced down the Red Bull. It seemed to do the trick. At least she could keep her head up and participate in the conversation. The subject was Dean Paul. What else?
    "It's every girl's rite of passage to date an asshole in her twenties," Babe had been saying.
    Even drunk, Lara bad known how stupid this was. Babe Mancini was barely out of her twenties herself, and here she was holding court like a veteran of forty. "But Dean Paul isn't one," Lara argued. And she really believed that.
    "Isn't what?" Babe asked pointedly.
    Lara