Losing It (Losing It, #1)
Cora Carmack
Chapter One
I took a deep breath.
You are awesome. I didn’t quite believe it so I thought it again. Awesome. You are so awesome.
If my mother heard my thoughts, she’d tell me that I needed to be humble, but humility had gotten me nowhere.
Bliss Edwards, you are a freaking catch.
So then how did I end up twenty-two years old, and the only person I knew who had never had sex? Somewhere between Saved by the Bell and Gossip Girl, it became unheard of for a girl to graduate college with her V-Card still in hand. And now I was standing in my room, regretting that I’d gathered the courage to admit it to my friend Kelsey. She reacted like I’d just told her I was hiding a tail underneath my A-line skirt. And I knew before her jaw even finished dropping that this was a terrible idea.
“SERIOUSLY? Is it because of Jesus? Are you, like, saving yourself for him?” Sex seemed simpler for Kelsey. She had the body of a Barbie and the sexually-charged brain of a teenage boy.
“No, Kelsey,” I said. “It would be a little difficult to save myself for someone who died over two thousand years ago.”
Kelsey whipped off her shirt and threw it on the floor. I must have made a face because she looked at me and laughed.
“Relax, Princess Purity, I’m just changing shirts.” She stepped into my closet and started flipping through my clothes.
“Why?”
“Because, Bliss, we’re going out to get you laid.” She said the word ‘laid’ with a curl of her tongue that reminded me of those late night commercials for those adult phone lines.
“Jesus, Kelsey.”
She pulled out a shirt that was snug on me, and would be downright scandalous on her curvy frame.
“What? You said it wasn’t about him.”
I resisted the urge to slam my palm into my forehead.
“It’s not, I don’t think… I mean, I go to church and all, well, sometimes. I just… I don’t know. I’ve never been that interested.”
She paused with her new shirt halfway over her head.
“Never interested? In guys? Are you gay?”
I once overheard my mother, who couldn’t understand why I was about to graduate college without a ring on my finger, ask my father the same question.
“No Kelsey, I’m not gay, so keep putting your shirt on. No need to fall on your sexual sword for me.”
“If you’re not gay and it’s not about Jesus, then it’s just a matter of finding the right guy, or should I say… the right sexual sword.”
I rolled my eyes. “Gee? Is that all? Find the right guy? Why didn’t someone tell me sooner?”
She pulled her blonde hair back into a high ponytail, which somehow drew even more attention to her chest. “I don’t mean the right guy to marry, honey. I mean the right guy to get your blood pumping. To make you turn off your analytical, judgmental, hyperactive brain and think with your body instead. “
“Bodies can’t think.”
“SEE!” She said. “Analytical. Judgmental.”
“Fine! Fine. Which bar tonight?”
“Stumble Inn, of course.”
I groaned. “Classy.”
“What?” Kelsey looked at me like I was missing the answer to a really obvious question. “It’s a good bar. More importantly, it’s a bar that guys like. And since we do like guys, it’s a bar we like.”
It could be worse. She could be taking me to a club.
“Fine. Let’s go.” I stood, and headed for the curtain that separated my bedroom from the rest of my loft apartment.
“WHOA! Whoa.” She grabbed my elbow and pulled me so hard that I fell back on my bed. “You can’t go like that. “
I looked down at my outfit—flowery A-line skirt and simple tank that showed a decent amount of cleavage. I looked cute. I could totally pick up a guy in this… maybe.
“I don’t see the problem,” I said.
She rolled her eyes, and I felt like a child. I hated feeling like a child, and I pretty much always did when talk turned to sex.
Kelsey said, “Honey, right now you look like someone’s adorable little sister. No guy wants to screw his little sister. And if he does, you don’t want to be near him.”
Yep, definitely felt like a child. “Point taken.”
“Hmm… sounds like you’re practicing turning off that overactive brain of yours. Good job. Now stand there and let me work my magic.”
And by magic, she meant torture.
After vetoing three shirts that made me feel like a prostitute, some pants that were more like leggings, and a skirt so short it threatened to show the world my hoo-hoo in the event of a mild breeze, we settled on some tight low-rise denim capris, and a lacy black tank that stood out in contrast to my pale white skin.
“Legs shaved?”
I nodded.
“Other… things… shaved?”
“As much as they are ever going to be yes, now move on.” That was where I drew the line of this conversation.
She grinned, but didn’t argue. “Fine. Fine. Condoms?”
“In my purse.”
“Brain?”