It’s The Quickie, in a discreet package but distinguishable all the same.

Hollis’s best friend tilts her head. “Have you used a vibrator before?”

I can’t lie. Shrug my shoulders when words fail me. I mean, come on—I’m twenty-four years old, but…

“You’ve never…” Madison jiggles the box, close enough to my face that I want to smack it out of her hand.

“It’s not a crime.”

“No, but it should be.” Her eyes roam my face, taking in my red-hot cheeks then straying to my light pink hair. The lacy straps on my blush dress, the rash spreading across my chest from nerves. “So—never?”

I shrug again. “I was too busy with homework and graduating early to worry too much about sex.”

“This isn’t about sex—this is about self-care. An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day. Plus, it can add years to your life. I read that once.”

Maybe. But still…it never crossed my mind. And I was never in a relationship, which placed orgasms far down on my list of priorities. Way, way down. Like—at the end, on a separate sheet of paper. Written in invisible ink.

“Not to get personal, but…” She leans in close. “Chandler, have you ever…you know.”

I narrow my eyes. If she’s trying to find out if I’m a virgin, she’ll have to come right out and ask, because I’m not going to make this easy on her. It’s none of her business, and I haven’t decided if I want to make it such.

“You know what—don’t answer that. It’s none of my business. But do yourself a favor and take this out of the box when you get home. Get comfortable and…don’t overthink it.” She pats me on the shoulder, fingers squeezing.

I’m saved from this conversation by my drunkish cousin, in her cute all-white outfit, giggling into her lacy Madonna-circa-1989 fingerless gloves.

“Would y’all mind if we met the boys out?”

Y’all? Is she Southern now?

“Where?” Madison wants to know, a gleam in her boy-crazy eyes. As long as I’ve known her, Madison has never had a boyfriend, but she’s always on the prowl for one. Not in a bad way; she just cannot find a normal, decent guy to love her.

“The guys are…” Hollis has to check her phone. “Axe throwing.”

Axe throwing? What does that mean? Are they literally throwing axes? “Are they going to be there all night?”

Hollis’s nose goes back in her phone, fingers typing furiously. “For the next hour or so? Would you mind if we popped in? Or is that weird?”

“I don’t think it’s weird to want to see your fiancé—you have a crush on him,” I tease, just to see her blush. And it’s true; she has a major crush on her soon-to-be husband, partly because they haven’t known each other all that long. Weeks.

Not months, not years.

Then again, when you know, you know.

You know?

“We have reservations at Pucker, but I can always cancel them, no big deal.” Madison is already pulling up the bar’s app.

Pucker is the drag bar downtown, in the city, where we were going to spend the remainder of the evening. Apparently there’s a huge chandelier in the center of the room, multiple stages—and loads of fun for bachelorette parties.

Madison, party planner extraordinaire, begins gathering up the troops now that Ginger is done with her sex toy spiel, the energy kicked up a notch at the thought of spending the rest of the night with hunky, manly men.

My stomach churns and I place a hand there, nerves dancing.ThreeTrippI’m in hell.

That can be the only explanation for this.

Just when I thought I’d be able to leave after the last game of axe throwing—go home and take off this godforsaken lumberjack costume—Buzz throws a wrench in my damn night because Hollis texted and said the girls were joining the boys for a bit before both parties moved on to their next stop of the night.

Now I’m stuck here still throwing axes for the time being.

FML.

A short while later, the door to Axe to Grind blows open and a dozen tittering women walk through.

Every male head in the place swivels.

It’s impossible not to; they look like a small army of pink Barbie dolls, the only one standing out is unmistakably Hollis, with her all-white outfit, white wig, and BRIDE sash. Plus, they’re loud. And laughing. And wearing pink wigs.

Drones. Pretty little dolls here to cause mischief.

Granted, most of Hollis’s friends seem normal. From what I’ve seen the few times I’ve been introduced, they’re not your average WAGs (wives and girlfriends of professional athletes) since she doesn’t come from that crowd herself. Her friends are hard-working, normal women. Nurses. Teachers. One is a barista. One is a dance instructor. Blah blah blah, I only listen when I have to.

Tonight, they’re decked out and dolled up in some bachelorette party getups I don’t quite understand. Then again, who am I to judge when I’m standing here, holding an axe, dressed like a goddamn mountain man for no goddamn reason.