Dark Wild Night (Wild Seasons #3)(59)
Author: Christina Lauren

“Fucking finally,” Finn says with a small lift of his brow.

I laugh, taking a deep drink. “Do you ever stop and think how crazy this is?”

Tilting his chin up, he asks, “The wives, you mean?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, from Vegas to now.”

“Part of me suspects Harlow masterminded the entire thing,” he says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the one to slip us each the Bike and Build info years ago.”

“The long con.” I acknowledge this by lifting my can to him. “How is the esteemed Mrs. Roberts?”

He grins. “Crazy as fuck. She’s probably up there giving Lola the third degree.”

I think third degree is probably an understatement, but if Lola can handle anyone, it’s Harlow.

“It’s a good time to be a man,” I say. The clink of our cans echoes dully through the store.

Chapter ELEVEN

Lola

I EXPECT AN INTERROGATION from Harlow, but I definitely don’t expect to find London and Mia also waiting for us at the loft. My brain is still fuzzy from the sex, from the impending trip, from the deadlines looming on my calendar; I don’t seem to have any extra space in my thoughts for what’s happening right now.

I stare at the three women just inside my door, blinking in confusion.

“I texted them,” Harlow explains with a wave of her hand. “During the fuckfest. After you came—I think—but before Oliver did.”

“You called an emergency meeting because I was having sex with Oliver?” Pressing my palms against my face, I mumble through a laugh, “Oh, my God.”

Harlow pulls my hands away, shaking her head. “I’m just relieved you’re getting pounded.”

“Harlow,” Mia says, pulling me away from her. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Says the girl who can barely walk today.”

Mia ignores this and pulls me inside. It’s true: she’s limping. But it’s not her bad leg. Harlow would never tease her about that. Mia’s walking like an old woman, or a very, very pregnant one. Delicately, like her back might snap in half.

“What’s with you, Blanche?” I ask, grinning.

“Shh.” Mia waves me off.

The girls crowd around me in the living room—London and Mia next to me on the couch, and Harlow sitting on the coffee table, facing me.

“The thing we need to discuss,” Mia says with dramatic sincerity, “is how we failed you.”

Harlow turns to look at her in thrilled amusement.

I lean away from Mia, skeptically observing the three of them. “You what?”

“All this time,” Mia says, lifting a delicate hand to her throat, “things were developing with Oliver, and we have to assume if you weren’t telling us everything it’s because we weren’t available to you. As friends.”

I level her with a flat look. “Are you being a passive-aggressive troll?”

London and Harlow nod.

Mia shakes her head solemnly. “We’ve just been so busy.”

“You were buying a house, asshole,” I remind her.

She agrees with a smile. “So busy signing all those papers for days on end, I couldn’t answer my phone, asshole.”

I lean back against the couch, laughing. “It just happened.”

“No thought at all,” Harlow deadpans.

Nodding, Mia says, “That sounds like our Lola. Impulsive.”

“No, I mean, last night—” I begin.

“Last night was the first time you guys ever flirted and then boom! Sex?” Harlow asks, nodding as if she’s got the answer right.

“The three of you are enormous dicks,” I say, grinning. “And I need to pack.”

I push up from the couch and start walking down the hall to my room.

“But we still need details,” Mia calls out as she follows.

Details.

My head swims with them. I still feel full of Oliver. I want to tattoo every detail on my skin: The curve of his mouth when he’s coming. The soft brush of his fingers on my shoulders when he’s moving to touch my hair. His shoulders over me, shifting up and down, up and down as he moves.

“It was nice.”

Harlow snorts from my doorway, watching as London and Mia settle on my bed. “He broke your vagina and—from the sounds of it—almost broke furniture, and it was ‘nice’?”

I look up from where I’m pulling clothes from my dresser. “Can you not say ‘vagina’?”

“It’s an awesome word,” she argues. “You should be proud—”

“God, I’m sure my lady parts are unbelievable,” I cut in, turning back to my packing, “but it’s not an awesome word. It’s an awesome thing, but it’s a horrible word.”