No Strings Attached by Randi Reisfeld

Author:Randi Reisfeld
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse

California, Here We Are: Nick and Eliot Find Nirvana

“Holy crap! They’re gonna do it … right here … in public!” Eliot’s bug eyes nearly popped out of his head; the roadmap he’d been clutching slipped to the ground. “It’s not technically public if it’s a private backyard, but …”

Nick gaped, speechless. Right in front of them, better than big screen, more 3D than HD, was the most awesome scenic view they’d had the entire road trip. This skinny dude—gotta be Jared, the kid who’d put the Roommates Wanted ad on Craigslist—with this bodacious chick, sharing a chaise lounge in the backyard, sucking face, pawing each other, going at it, hot and heavy. A towel was slowly slipping off his butt and she was topless, man! The couple was oblivious to anything else, including the presence of the two best friends who’d driven out from Michigan to spend the summer in L.A.

Nick felt overdressed. Clearly, dude, life out here was waaay more casual than in West Bloomfield. He’d have to adjust.

Eliot, unsurprisingly, was in deep distress. “N … n … ni … Nick … I think they’re gonna do it!” He gulped. “We gotta let them know we’re here.”

“Chill, E,” Nick shushed him. “These are our roommates. And you never get a second chance to get your first impression. Somethin’ like that.”

“This isn’t right,” Eliot whispered frantically. “We shouldn’t be standing here. Let’s go back to the car … until … uh, they’re done.”

Neither moved.

Nick had spent most of the three-day drive wanting to pop his best friend. No more so than right now. Why couldn’t Eliot just zip it, enjoy the show? The entire trip, Eliot had whined about “things that could go wrong.” He’d conjured an encyclopedia of worst-case scenarios, everything from catching Legionnaires disease if they stayed overnight in “that fleabag motel,” to food poisoning from the freakin’ Waffle House, to carjacking. “We’re running out of gas. We’ll be stranded in the middle of nowhere” was on permanent loop.

There were times he’d wanted to pull over and leave Eliot in the middle of nowhere.

You’d think by the time they’d reached Los Angeles, the E-man would have chilled out. Not so much. The shotgun-riding worrywart was sure every other car on the freeway had targeted them for a drive-by. When they pulled off the 101 at the Hollywood Hills exit, Eliot had been convinced Nick was going either “the wrong way,” or “in circles.” Kept whining that the car, Nick’s 1997 Chevy Nova, wasn’t going to make it up these steep hills, they’d be killed in a head-on with an oncoming car, just around the next hairpin turn. “This can’t be the right neighborhood,” Eliot whined. “We’re lost. We should call Jared, give him our cross streets. He’ll tell us how to get there.”

Call for directions? How lame would that look?

Nick didn’t need directions. Let alone nervous Nelly the nail-biter on his butt. He needed his best friend to have a little faith in him. After eighteen years of friendship, Eliot Kupferberg still thought Nick Maharis was a reckless rebel, bound for trouble.

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