96 Hours (9 page)

Abby returned with a square blue box. “I saw this on one of the shelves downstairs.”

“Yahtzee?” Erica asked. “Seriously?”

A flash of hurt zipped across Abby’s face. “I thought it would help us bond. What’s more American than the game of Yahtzee?”

Erica had no comeback for that. Instead, she helped open up the box. “If we’re playing Yahtzee, I’m going to need another shot,” she said to Brian, whose face was still in the book. “What’s that?” Craning her neck to see the cover, she read, “‘If. Five hundred questions for the game of life.’”

Abby handed everybody a score sheet and explained the rules. Taking the dice out, she handed each person one and said, “Highest roll goes first.” She then proceeded to roll herself a six.

“Of course,” Erica muttered.

“Wait.” Brian looked at the dice, then at the book in his hand, then back at the dice, a smile forming on his lips. “I’ve got a better idea. A way we can get to know each other. And maybe take our minds off this shit for a little while.” He picked up two dice and rolled them. A four and a six. “Page forty-six.” He flipped to that page, and read. “If you could rid the earth of one thing, what would it be?”

Erica hated this game already.

“Well, hell,” Brian went on, answering his own question. “That’s easy. Fucking crazy Middle Eastern terrorists. Duh.” His smile was forced and the anger in his eyes was nearly palpable.

“Not exactly taking my mind off it,” Michael stated. “I don’t know about the rest of you.”

“No, if we’re going to do this,” Abby said, the wheels in her mind turning, “we have to do it in an organized manner. We can’t just be blurting out questions.” She grabbed the dice. “I’m one, Erica’s two, Michael is three, and Brian is four. We’ll roll one die to decide who gets to answer—just roll again if you get a five or six. We’ll roll both dice to choose the page number of the book, like Brian just did. The reader can choose any question on that page. Capisce?”

Brian nodded. Michael and Erica just blinked.

“I’ll start,” Abby replied, not waiting for a response and rolling a die. “Three. Michael.” She rolled for the page, studied the questions, and smiled. “Okay. If you had to choose the single most charming person you’ve ever met, who would it be?”

Michael didn’t need to think long. “I’d say Corinne’s right up there at the top.”

Nods surged around the table. “I’ll drink to that,” Brian said, lifting his glass. They cheered and downed the shooters.

“Hoo,” Erica said, closing her eyes momentarily. “I’m going to have to graduate to sipping from now on.” The world around her swam out of focus for a second, then cleared.

The dice and book went to Michael, who rolled Brian’s number. “If you could own one article of clothing from any film, what would you take?”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Erica said. Abby agreed.

“I’d have to say . . .” Brian scratched his chin. “I’d have to say Bogie’s hat from
Casablanca.
Coolest hat ever.”

“Good choice,” Abby commended him, then turned her crystal blue gaze on Erica. “What would you have said?”

“Lara Croft’s entire tomb-raiding outfit,” she replied without missing a beat.

“Complete with guns?” Abby asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Complete with guns.”

“And would you actually wear it?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’d look hot.”

“Damn right I would.” Erica could feel the guys watching them, but the tequila told her she didn’t care.

“Brian,” Abby said after a moment of holding Erica’s gaze. “Your turn.”

He rolled Erica’s number, scanned the page, and grinned wickedly. “If you were to become a prostitute, how much money do you think you could charge per hour?”

“Am I wearing the Lara Croft clothes?” Erica deadpanned.

“Oh, yeah,” Brian answered.

“You couldn’t afford me.”

Michael and Abby both burst into laughter.

“I could save up my money for a couple of weeks,” Brian chuckled, playing along as he slid the dice and book in Erica’s direction.

“You still couldn’t afford me.”

“Months?”

“Maybe a year. Two. Two years.” She laughed, and realized that she was feeling almost relaxed. Immediately after that thought came the relief. It was good to just . . . be. She rolled the dice.

“Abby. What is the one thing you’ve learned about yourself that you wish you knew when you were fifteen?”

“Hello? That I like girls.”

“To girls,” Brian toasted. They clinked glasses in the middle of the table.

They played on for another half hour before Michael decided to pack it in. “I’m exhausted, my friends. Not to mention a wee bit intoxicated.” They all laughed, louder than necessary because they were
all
intoxicated. “I know it’s barely seven o’clock, but I slept rather badly last night, as I’m sure we all did, and I’m afraid the jet lag is kicking my sorry behind. Time for me to catch forty winks. Or in this case, about three times that, I hope. It’s been fun.” He raised his glass in salute, downed the remainder of his drink, and was off.

“And then there were three,” Abby said. “Brian.”

“What, we’re not rolling the dice any more?”

“If you could have prevented any single fashion idea or trend from happening, what would it be?”

“Oh, for god’s sake, the damn mullet. Who the hell thought that was a good idea?”

Abby and Erica exchanged glances before both burst into laughter. “Amen to that, my friend,” Abby said. “Erica. If you could relive one experience with your mate, what would it be?”

Abby held Erica’s gaze and a delicious tension slipped into the room on silent feet, enveloping the two of them. The air seemed to shift and Erica blinked slowly.

“I don’t have a mate, so I can’t really answer that.”

“Me, neither,” Brian chimed in, feeling suddenly left out. He raised his glass. “To being single.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Erica said.

“So will I,” Abby added, one corner of her mouth turned up in mischief.

They clinked, Abby and Erica never breaking their gaze. Erica snatched the book from Abby’s hand, then seemed surprised to have it in her grasp, her vision was that foggy.

“Okay,” she said, squinting at a page. “Abby. If you were to be the opposite sex for a single day, what would you do?”

Abby furrowed her dark brows in concentration as if looking for the absolute perfect answer. Brian and Erica waited, watching. “I have two things. Is that okay?”

A nod.

“First, I’d pee standing up.” At the ensuing laughter, she went on. “Come on. What woman doesn’t wish she could do that?”

“True enough. And then?”

“I’d make love to a woman with my 24-hour dick.”

Brian choked on his sip of tequila, recovered, and stood. “And that’s my cue.” He pretended not to notice how flushed Erica had become. “Ladies, it’s been fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

They watched him go and Erica started up from her chair. Abby stopped her with a hand on her forearm.

“Oh, no. I have more questions for you,” she said, a glint in her eye.

“I’m drunk.” Erica’s voice was matter-of-fact.

“I know.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yup.”

Erica sat.

“Where’s the most unusual place you’ve ever had sex?”

“Sex questions? Is that what we’ve come to?”

“Apparently,” Abby said and cocked an eyebrow expectantly.

“On the dining room table.” They both looked at the table in front of them.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Abby swallowed. “Have you ever had a threesome?”

“No. Have you?”

“Yes. I don’t recommend it. Somebody always ends up feeling left out. What’s your favorite part of a woman’s body?”

“The place where her neck and shoulder meet.” Erica squinted at her suspiciously. “Hey. These aren’t ‘if’ questions.”

“They’re not?” Abby feigned confusion while sporting a half-grin and turning the book around so she could look at it from various angles.

“You’re making these up.”

“Could be. What do you wear to bed?”

“Nothing.”

Abby swallowed again. Hard. Erica was looking at her, but obviously not focusing well. They were almost done, Abby knew. “You’re fun when you’re drunk.”

“I know.”

“And modest, too.”

“I’m just as modest when I’m sober.”

“But not as fun.” A moment passed. “One last question.”

“Okay.”

“What the hell’s your problem with Walmart?”

Erica burst out laughing, a feminine, musical sound Abby realized she was only hearing for the first time. “You really want to hear my Walmart story? You asked for it.”

Abby propped her chin in her hand and listened as Erica spoke.

“I was fourteen,” she began as her memory took her back nearly two decades. She wanted to be at the mall. Not because her friends were there—lord knows, she’d had precious few of those. Nobody wanted to be friends with the brainiac—nobody popular anyway. Her closest friend was Julia, and Julia had already gotten her new school clothes. Right there at Walmart. No, Erica wanted to be at the mall so the popular girls would
see
her there, at least
think
they were wrong about where she shopped. That damn Kristy Tarrington could spot a designer knockoff from clear across the classroom and she was never shy about saying so. She’d humiliated Erica on more than one occasion.

Because of that, Erica had given her parents endless amounts of grief about her “cheap, stupid clothes.”

“I don’t know where you got such expensive taste,” her father had said. “When you get a job and you’re making your own money, you can buy whatever you want. Until then, you’ll get what we can afford or you’ll get nothing. Your choice. Understand?”

She’d run to her room in full-out sob mode, screaming that she hated him, teenage oblivion preventing her from comprehending just how much such a remark could hurt. And from that moment on, she’d vowed that once she was employed, she would never, ever buy clothes in a Walmart again. Ever.

Until yesterday.

Abby’s face registered new understanding while Erica’s flushed pink and she looked away, embarrassed.

“You should take me to bed,” she said to Abby.

They looked at each other, Abby with an expression of amused satisfaction until Erica realized what she’d said.

“Help
me to bed, I mean.
Put
me to bed. Ugh.” She covered her eyes with her hand. “I’m going to hate myself in the morning.” Removing her hand and glaring, she added, “And you.”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” Abby stood and steadied herself against the table, feeling suddenly more inebriated than she’d thought she was. “Stay here for a second.” She gathered the glasses and took them to the kitchen, loaded them into Corinne’s dishwasher and set it to run. Back in the dining room, Erica was sitting with her cheek on the table, her arms dangling between her knees. “Ready?” Abby held out a hand. She was startled by how warm and soft Erica’s hand was, how snugly it fit into hers.

With some measured maneuvering and deliberate steps, they managed to make it down the basement stairs without becoming a rolling ball of flailing limbs. Once at the bottom, Erica went straight to the bathroom to relieve herself, leaving the door wide open. Abby bit her lip and shook her head, baffled by the enormity of the difference between cool, poised, sober Erica and witty, doesn’t-give-a-shit, intoxicated Erica. She stifled a sigh, knowing un-fun Erica would be back in the morning. Probably with a wicked hangover. As Abby wondered how much of tonight’s Q & A Erica would remember, Erica came out of the bathroom, removing clothes as she walked.

“Everything okay?” Abby asked as Erica peeled off her T-shirt, then slid off her pants.

“Uh-huh,” she responded in bra and panties, both of which were quickly discarded. Abby’s eyes widened and she wanted to turn away out of respect, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. Erica pulled the covers back and crawled into bed, but not before Abby got an eyeful of milky skin covering flesh that was a glorious combination of curves and muscle. Thick, strong thighs. Rounded, feminine hips. Abby flexed her fingers, clenching her fists to tamp down the desire to run a hand over the roundest, tightest behind she’d ever seen unclothed. Erica flopped onto the mattress on her stomach and pulled the covers over her, nearly jarring Abby out of her trance.

A deep breath in and then out slowly, Abby wet her lips and pulled herself together. In the bathroom, she found some Motrin and a glass, which she filled with water. Catching Erica before she passed out, Abby ordered her, “Here. Take these and drink this water. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Forty-five minutes later, Erica was snoring like a truck driver and Abby was still awake. She lay on the loveseat with her feet propped up on the arm and hanging over, not exactly comfortable, but she’d slept on worse. It was barely nine-thirty and she was exhausted, but she couldn’t get her mind to turn off. It went from the horrifying visions of the towers collapsing and people plummeting to their deaths, to the smiling faces of Tim and Corinne MacDougal, to Michael and Brian clacking their shot glasses together, to Erica’s pale, beautiful body crawling naked into bed. Around and around the pictures went until Abby thought she’d go insane. The next time the towers appeared in her mind’s eye, she got up and quietly rummaged until she found Erica’s cell phone, reminding herself once again that she really should get one of her own. She left the bathroom light on, then took the phone outside and dialed. When there was no answer at home, she took a chance and dialed her mother’s office number at the museum. Luck was with her.

“Mom?” Hearing her mother’s voice was such a relief, it brought tears to Abby’s eyes.

“Abby, baby, how are you? Are you still in Canada?” Michelle Hayes sounded tired. She sounded surprised, thankful, and happy to hear her daughter’s voice, but mostly, she sounded exhausted.

“I’m okay. How are you? You’re still at work?”

“Oh, Abby. It’s all so awful. It’s just . . . it’s crazy here. It’s nuts. People don’t know what to do. Traffic is a disaster. Hundreds are missing. It’s just . . . it’s awful. I’m actually glad you’re not here right now. Are you okay there? Is it terrible?”