Greer: I wonder if Arlo’s dick in my mouth will help.
Cora: Normally I would prefer you don’t talk about my brother’s dick in your mouth, but for the love of God, do whatever it takes. He can’t find out. Keep all the dicks in your mouths.
Greer: Do you have a plan?
Cora: Does it look like I have a plan? I’m still clenching my ass out of pure mortification from what happened to me earlier. I’m barely hanging on by a thread, here. Arlo is onto me.
Greer: Yeah, and he’s not going to drop it. You need to figure something out.
Cora: I know, but I don’t know what the next plan of attack should be. I for sure thought the ex-lax was going to do it for him. Maybe I need to step it up even more.
Stella: That’s what you keep saying, but you’re failing drastically. At least when Greer was pranking Arlo, she made an impact.
Cora: Arlo also didn’t know that Greer was the one after him. The situation is different.
Greer: It’s true. Whatever Cora does, Pike is going to counterattack.
Cora: That’s why the next plan of attack has to be calculated. We really have to think about it.
Stella: You know, I think I might have an idea.
Cora: Please, for the love of God, tell me.
Stella: Did Arlo ever tell you about his interview with Pike?
Cora: No.
Greer: Ohhh, wait, are you going to say what I think you’re going to say?
Cora: What are you going to say?
Stella: Once again, Mr. Stick Up His Ass doesn’t care for the new hire. He was totally schooled by Pike in history. Romeo told me Arlo was fuming about it.
Greer: Yeah, I remember that. Pike absolutely destroyed Arlo in knowledge.
Cora: Sooo, what you’re telling me is not only is Arlo going to be mad that I got wasted and married in Vegas, but he’s going to be livid that it’s to a guy he can’t stand?
Stella: Pretty much. But I bet you it’s on Pike’s radar to impress after that interview, and when I say impress, I mean impress the staff. Staff members tend to follow Arlo’s lead, and he hasn’t been quiet about his dislike for Pike.
Cora: Okay, what’s the plan, then?
Stella: Leave it to me. We’re going to take care of this once and for all. In the meantime, fuck with his tea.
Cora: What do you mean?
Greer: Ooo, good one. But don’t fuck with his tea, he’ll think it’s on purpose. Make your tea wrong, that will drive him nuts.
Cora: How do I make it wrong? It’s a tea bag in water.
Stella: Read this link [link]. It’ll give you everything you need to know.
“What are you thinking about?” Pike asks, cutting through the silence of the night.
I didn’t bother with dinner tonight—frankly, I’m exhausted from trying to decide how to destroy my husband’s tastebuds—and instead served him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, thinking at least he can cringe over that.
But lo and behold, the fucker liked it.
Yes, fucker.
That’s what he is in my head at the moment, because my brother won’t stop texting me to find out if the balloons were from Keenan and if I was getting back with him. While I thought saying no would put him at ease, Arlo continued, wanting to know why the quartet said husband. Basically, Pike has made my life with my brother a living hell.
I’m stretched out across the bed, while Pike is sitting at the dining table with his book. I’ve always loved my little apartment. I never needed anything bigger than this, that was until an Englishman started crashing at my place. Now I realize I need so much more space. I need a couch, and I need another room other than the bathroom. Because at night, this is how it is—we’re in the same room, but we’re not talking, or barely talking, just sharing the same air.
Looking to the side, I say, “I’m thinking about all the ways I can possibly get away with murdering you in your sleep.”
“Aw, babe, you’re thinking about me?” He presses his hand to his chest.
I scoot off the bed and say, “I hate you.”
“You know . . . now that hurts.”
I walk over to the kitchen and he sets his book down to follow me.
“I hurt your feelings?” I ask him in a sarcastic tone.
“Yes, you did.” He leans against the counter, watching me. “I think you should make them feel better.”
I pause in my pursuit of making some tea and look over my shoulder at the stud of a man that I despise. God, he looks so good. Tight, black shirt that clings to his biceps, grey-washed jeans hanging low on his hips, and dare I say it . . . bare feet. I might as well stick my hand down his pants now, because that’s how enticing his bare feet are to me.