Deborah Wilde

Even though his ass extended past the seat, it was so rock hard that it didn__ droop over the sides. I checked twice to make sure.

The twin desires to both smack the smug off his face and rip off his pants to see for myself should have negated each other and yet, there they were. __eriously, his stupid reality show Live like a King hits douchebag territory, but a demon?

Even with all the lights off, the room was as bright and insistent as Martha Stewart__ smile.

My cheeks still bulging with wine, I properly scoped out the room. Mom? Check. Dad? Check. Ari? Check? Rabbi Abrams, here to perform the ceremony to induct my brother as the latest member in the Brotherhood of David, the chosen demon hunters? Check. I spit the wine back into what I now realized was a silver chalice and handed it to the elderly bearded rabbi. __arry on,_ I told him. Then I threw up on his shoes.

An icy slither ran up my core as I stared at my right hand, its tremors Richter scale violent. Was this my demon-killing ability? Destined to be some supernatural whore luring hell spawn into back alleys for deadly rub and tugs?

What better way to lose that hangover headache than get drunk again? Oh, the joys of being Canadian with socialized health care and legal drinking age of nineteen. After a year (officially) honing that skill, I imbibed at an Olympic level. The red wine on the modular coffee table gleamed in a shaft of sunlight like its position had been ordained by the gods. I snatched up the crystal decanter, sloshing the liquid into the glass conveniently placed next to it. Once in a while, a girl could actually catch a break. I fanned myself with one hand. The myriad of lit candles seemed a bit much for Ari__ romantic encounter, but wine drinking trumped curiosity so I chugged the booze back. My entire body cheered as the cloyingly-sweet alcohol hit my system, though I hoped it wasn__ Manischewitz because hangovers on that were a bitch. I__ slugged back half the contents when I saw my mom on the far side of the room clutch her throat, eyes wide with horror. Not her usual, __ou need an intervention_ horror. No, her expression indicated I__ reached a whole new level of fuck-up. __ava Liron Katz,_ she gasped in full name outrage.

Mornings after sucked. Walks of shame were a necessary evil, but that didn__ mean I enjoyed shimmying back into the same trollop togs twice. I picked glitter out of my hair, then straightened my sequined top. I was officially decommissioning it. Multiple washings never quite managed to remove the lingering aura of bad decisions I made while wearing party clothes. My philosophy? Cross my fingers and hope for the most bang for the bucks spent later on new outfits.

What__-his-name had started out with all the promise of a wild stallion gallop, but he__ ended up more of a gentle trot. I didn__ know if the fault lay with the jockey or the ride, but it had been a long time since I__ seen a finish line.