Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Starlet

I woke up without a single headache to be discovered.

It’s a twenty-first birthday miracle!

I guessed that one sip of magic punch wouldn’t have been enough to grant me a hangover.

The first thing that came to mind as I stretched my arms in my dorm room bed was how John cheated on me. Luckily, the second thought that crashed into my head was dick—both the person and the phallus.

My body still felt sore from how he flipped me around like a pancake.

Did I tell him I was a good birthday girl?

Oh gosh, Starlet. What a night, what a night.

After hopping out of bed, I headed to take a shower. One of the perks of being an upperclassman meant you had a solid chance of getting a dorm with a shower attached. That sure beat sharing a bathroom with twenty other girls on your floor—the perks of advancing in school.

I had finished my shower and was drying my hair when Whitney stirred in her bed. She yawned wide-mouthed and then patted her stomach five times, as she did every morning.

“Morning, roomie,” she stated.

“Morning, roomie,” I replied.

She sat up and stretched her arms. “Hungover?”

“Not a lick.”

Her eyebrow shot up. “Seriously?”

“Maybe I’m immune to hangovers.” That, or I didn’t drink a lick last night.

“Don’t jinx yourself, dude. Remember that time I took twenty-one Jell-O shots?”

I shivered at the memory. “I do.” She came stumbling back to our dorm as if she were made of Jell-O.

She smiled. “I ended up in the nurse’s office being told my hangover caught up with me two days later. I’d never drunk so much Gatorade in my life.”

“Let’s just hope that’s not my case.” I snickered. “I’m feeling pretty good.”

“Good. That’s good, seeing how John was a total jerk. But then, based on the night you had…” She let out a sly smirk and wiggled her eyebrows. “We didn’t even get to talk about the night you had after you ran off with hot-hot.”

That was right. Whitney and I stumbled back home, giggling like schoolgirls over anything and everything. I mainly stumbled because of the bedroom activities, and she walked sideways due to the magic punch. We didn’t even begin to dive deep into my adventures with Dick.

I felt my cheeks heat from the thought of the previous night. I was not super comfortable talking about my sex life, mainly because sex with John was pretty mundane and boring. But last night?

About last night...

I sat down at my desk and pulled out a hairbrush. “Last night was…different.”

“Did he have a big peter piper? Did he pick a peck of pickled peppers?”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Why are you like this?”

“I don’t know. My parents are weird. I think the gene transferred to me, too. Really, though, how was it?”

“It was…” I shut my eyes for a moment and swooned to myself.

“Oh my gosh.” Whitney gasped, making me open my eyes. She pointed a stern finger my way. “He rocked your vagina!”

“He rocked my vagina,” I echoed, shaking my head in disbelief from the previous night.

“Heck yeah! I’m so proud of you, roomie. So does it stand true now? Did John have a small dick?”

“I don’t think we can even classify it as a dick anymore. It was more so a peanut.”

“And Mr. Hot-Hot was a…”

“Elephant trunk.”

Whitney tossed her arms up in victory. “Happy freaking birthday, Starlet Evans!”

Happy birthday indeed.

“I hope you can’t walk straight all weekend long,” she told me. “Speaking of… on a scale of one to ten, how basic are we feeling right now? Avocado toast level?” Whitney asked as I tried to style my hair.

My curly brown hair was a comedy of errors each morning. The number of times I’d thought about shaving said hair was at least fifty times per day.

Saturdays to Whitney meant one thing and one thing only—brunch. It was her favorite way to sober up after her wild Friday nights. For the most part, my roommate was a book nerd who took her education too seriously, but when Fridays rolled around? She was off the clock as an educated girl and punched in her party wild child timesheet.

She called it the perfect life balance. After last night, I understood why and was somewhat disappointed I’d missed out on two years of college parties because I was too focused on my studies.

“That sounds amazing. With a scrambled egg,” I offered.

“Hard-boiled, grated with a cheese grater,” she corrected. “And goat cheese with Mike’s Hot Honey.” She moaned in desire. “Can we go to Eve’s Place for brunch? My treat for your birthday.”

Eve’s Place was our favorite brunch spot for two reasons; we could walk there from campus, and it included a menu the size of my forearm. If you wanted to eat like a health nut or drown in maple syrup and whipped cream, Eve had a food item for you.

After giving up on brushing out my hair, I tossed it into a messy bun that flopped on top of my head. “I can’t do brunch, remember? I promised my dad he could have me all weekend for my birthday.”

She cried out in despair as if I’d told her that London had fallen. “But what about our weekend brunch traditions?”

“The tradition will have to take a hiatus for one weekend. Unless you want to join us.”

She narrowed her eyes in thought. “Eric is quite the looker.”

I shivered. “Never mind, you can’t come.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a new stepmom?”

“You disturb me daily.” I chuckled as I picked up my sneakers and slid them on before grabbing my pink puffy winter coat, scarf, and mittens.

After I was bundled up and packed my backpack, I walked over to Whitney and kissed her forehead. “Have some avocado toast for me.”

She grumbled and waved me off. “Tell my future husband I said hi.”

I snickered at my friend before grabbing my laundry basket of clothes to wash at Dad’s house. I headed to my car and hopped in to drive down to Chicago for the weekend. Going to school at UW-Milwaukee worked out nicely for me, seeing how it was only a two-hour drive to my dad’s house. We’d spent every Sunday together for father-daughter time. It was the one day he didn’t work at the tattoo parlor and the one day I’d spend doing all my laundry. Having Saturday and Sunday with him that weekend would be nice. Day in and day out, I was a daddy’s girl.

I drove straight to Inked, knowing Dad would be there Saturday morning. He lived and breathed that shop, and I was almost certain he and his employees would be working on some fantastic pieces. When I was a kid, I’d spend so much time sitting there watching Dad and his guys and gals ink up individuals. It was amazing how many people cried joyfully when they saw their masterpieces come to life.

If I weren’t already on my career path and had a steady hand and a lick of artistic skills, I would’ve gladly spent my life working at Dad’s parlor.

I parked the car around the corner from the shop and hopped out into the freezing weather. I rushed to the front door as my cheeks were hit with the chilled wind.

“Surprise!” the crew shouted, sending me into a complete frenzy of shock. The parlor had been decked out in birthday decorations. “Happy birthday, Starlet!” they sang.

One of the coolest things in the world was seeing a bunch of beefy, tatted biker men holding pink and purple balloons to celebrate me. The whole crew consisted of Dad’s best friends, and I’d grown up surrounded by them my entire life. Nelson was the first to hurry over and wrap me in a tight bear hug.

“Happy birthday, nugget,” he said, rubbing his fist over my curly hair.

Nelson was the definition of a rock star. He looked like a linebacker, too—effortlessly cool and effortlessly gigantic. Nelson was six-foot-four and at least two hundred and ninety pounds. He wasn’t chubby, though. He was all muscle. He lifted me off the floor as if it were the easiest thing to do. His wife, Joy, was the next to come my way. Joy was a beautiful Black woman who was inked from head to toe. She had vibrant gray hair and shaved the sides of her head. She always wore high heels at least five inches tall and was still shorter than her husband.

I pretty much considered them my aunt and uncle. They were what Dad called his ride or dies. They surrounded us with so much love during some pretty dark days of our lives, and I honestly didn’t think we would’ve made it through the tough days if they hadn’t showered us with their light.

Harper was next to embrace me. He was an older guy in his sixties and one of the best tattoo artists in the world. People flew in from around the world to have Harper ink them. He was a cool, calm man in touch with energy and the universe. Sometimes, if he sensed a person was nervous before a tattooing session, he’d pull out his deck of tarot cards and do a reading on them, then follow it up with a quick reiki session. We called him our hippie guru.

“Bright greetings, our beloved.” Harper smiled, pulling me into a hug. Harper gave the best hugs. He hugged someone as if he’d been waiting his whole life to embrace them. The kind of hug that made a person melt into his arms.

Next, Cole—the party animal. He was in his late thirties yet still celebrated as if he were twenty-one. Cole decorated his body with piercings, the newest being his dolphin bites right below his bottom lip. He was a slim man with shaggy blond hair and green eyes that sparkled. I’d never seen him have a bad day. Cole lived for the thrill of life. It shouldn’t have been a shock when he walked out with a tray of shots lined up for everyone.

“Twenty-fucking-one!” Cole shouted while blowing on a party favor noisemaker hanging out of his mouth. “Happy birthday, buckaroo,” he said as he placed the tray down and kissed my forehead.

Last, there was Dad—the best papa in the whole world.

“Happy birthday, princess,” he said as he hugged me. “I can’t believe you’re all grown up.” He kissed my forehead repeatedly.

My father and I looked very much alike, though he had a few more tattoos on his skin than my naked self. He’d been trying to ink me for years, but I still wasn’t ready for what I wanted him to create against my skin. One day, though. One day.

Dad was a handsome man with deep dimples that always showcased when he laughed, which he did a lot. I had those same dimples. I had his brown eyes and his full smile, too. He stood at six-foot-two with a shiny bald head that everyone liked to rub for good luck.

“I thought the boyfriend was coming with you?” Dad asked.

I wrinkled my nose. “Let’s just say that didn’t work out, and I hope I never see him again.”

Dad narrowed his eyes, debating whether to ask for more details, but then shrugged. “Good. He had shitty tattoos.”

I smiled. “The worst of the worst.”

“Shots!” Cole called out, shoving one into my hand.

I laughed. “Okay, but we can’t get too wild. I have a big day on Monday, and I can’t get too crazy,” I warned.

Cole waved me off. “It’s your twenty-first birthday. You’re supposed to let loose.”

If only he knew how loose I’d been the night prior. Just thinking about it made my cheeks heat.

“Don’t worry, buttercup,” Dad said. “I’ll take care of you.”

They all looked so excited that I couldn’t let them down.

Besides, how bad could a shot be compared to last night’s magic punch?

I took the shot from Cole, and we all cheered and tossed it back. “Oh my gosh!” I cried out. Worse. It could be much, much worse than the magic punch.

Joy snickered and patted me on the back. “Let me make you an actual drink. One that won’t make you want to throw up. Trust me. This is coming from a girl who hates the taste of alcohol.”

In Joy, I trust.

She mixed me a drink, which was a real magical punch because I couldn’t tell there was a drop of alcohol in it.

I drank those mixed drinks like a sailor. We blasted music all day, dancing in the parlor with full freedom. I didn’t know I could drink so much until I drank too much. The next thing I knew, it was Saturday evening and I was hugging my father’s toilet while he held my hair back for me.

“I feel like death,” I said after throwing up for the third time.

The hangover I thought I’d missed Saturday morning? It was kind enough to catch up with me Saturday night.

Dad snickered. “I remember my first ever hangover. I was fourteen and threw up in my dad’s favorite pair of shoes.”

“Fourteen?!” I gasped.

“Not everyone was a good kid like you, princess. Some of us made bad choices day in and day out.”

“I’m never drinking again,” I groaned as I sat back and leaned against the tub.

Dad sat beside me, and I laid my head on his shoulder. “That’s what everyone says when they get sick from drinking. Then what do you know? Another night to forget happens, and the cycle replays.”

“Not me,” I swore. “I’m done.”

He kissed my forehead. “You take a shower and put on some pajamas. You smell like ass. I’m going to make you some popcorn to help settle your stomach. You haven’t eaten enough today.” He pushed himself up to a standing position. “How about some Taco Bell? It makes all hangovers a little better.”