She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh, please. I’m not asking for specifics. I don’t give a shit about the academic bullshit. I want to know if Colt –“
I interrupt her, clearing my throat loudly. “No names,” I say, looking around.
“A code name, then,” she suggests. “I want to know if Horse –“
I roll my eyes. “Do I need to ask why you picked that as a code name?”
“I was trying not to be subtle." She runs her finger along the rim of her margarita glass and licks salt off her fingertip. “Because he’s hung like a horse, obviously.”
“Yes. I got the joke.”
“Yeah, you should have, especially given the fact that you’ve seen all of the goods."
“I’m not referring to him as Horse,” I protest. “Donkey would be more appropriate, since he’s a jackass.”
“Oh, that fits, too,” she says, laughing. “Donkeys have huge dicks.”
“Conversation with you is always so classy, Sable. It’s really a testament to how you were raised. Those classes in etiquette must have taught you a lot.”
I don’t know if Sable ever had to take etiquette classes, but that’s the type of family she was raised in. Her family is the Pierce family, one of those old money families, like the Carnegies. She had a butler. An actual, real-life butler. I’ve never seen a butler, except for on television.
“Oh honey." Sable laughs. “Rich people talk about cock just as much as poor people do. They just do it while they’re wearing designer dresses and drinking from crystal glasses.”
“Clearly, since you’re so focused on donkey dick.”
“Sure,” she says, sipping her margarita. “It’s me who’s focused on that.”
“I’m certainly not,” I protest. “I haven’t said a word about you-know-who.”
“Mmm-hmm. You can’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it.”
“I haven’t!” I lie. “Not even a little bit.”
“Sure you haven’t, doll,” she says. “That’s why your cheeks get all pink when I mention donkey dick.”
“My cheeks get pink when you say that phrase because it’s crude and disgusting,” I say.
“Oh, don’t be such a prude,” she scoffs at me. “You really do need to get laid. Donkey might be the guy for the job.”
“Not nearly,” I say. “He’s about as far from my type as someone can get. He’s more your type.”
“I’m not sure whether or not to be offended by that. Are you saying that jackasses are my type?”
I cock my head to the side as I look at her. “Are we really having this conversation? You’re the Queen of dating jackasses.”
“I beg your pardon! I haven’t dated all jackasses.”
“Name a nice one,” I challenge.
Sable purses her lips and looks into the distance, tapping her finger on the side of the glass. “David –“
I raise my eyebrows. “The one who said he really preferred thinner girls than you?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh yeah,” she says, remembering. “He had that weird model fetish. I forgot that’s why I dumped him. Okay, then. Cooper. He wasn’t bad.”
“The drummer in the band?” I shake my head. “No. Just no.”
“He wasn’t a jackass,” she insists.
I roll my eyes. “He brought his band over to play in our living room until three in the morning. And they brought groupies.”
“The groupies are par for the course."
“He borrowed money from you so he didn’t have to get a job,” I remind her. “And his band sucked.”
“He was an artist!"
“Oh!” I point at her, recalling another one. “The artist. Remember him? The guy who thought he was French?”
“Okay, he was kind of horrible,” she agrees with a wince. “I’ll own that.”
I giggle, recalling him. “He was insufferable,” I say. “He thought everything was superior in France. And wasn’t he from Miami or something? He wasn’t even French.”
“His French was not good, either,” Sable points out. “Oh God, I’ve dated some terrible people.”
“Yet you keep trying to get me to get into the dating game!”
“No, no. I’m not trying to get you into the dating game. I’m trying to get you laid. There’s a huge difference between the two.”
“It’s basically the same thing."
“Hardly! Some of those guys were great in bed, despite being total jackasses. In fact, sometimes the sex is better with someone you can’t stand.”
“That is not true,” I protest. “I’m not going to have sex with someone I can’t stand just to have sex.”
“I just find it unbelievable that you’ve made it twenty-three years without losing it,” she says. “I mean, how many twenty-three-year-old virgins are there in the world? Do you think there’s anyone else on campus who hasn’t lost it at your age? You’re like a freaking unicorn.”
“Are you purposely trying to make me feel bad?” I ask. “And how am I a unicorn?”
“You know,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “You’re like a rare, exotic, fictional creature. Unicorn and Donkey Dick. You're a perfect combination.”