Reckless

doesn’t work that way.”

I stuck my head in the bathroom. “We should go, you guys. No one else is down here.”

Romeo turned and squeezed out of the bathroom first. “Would you look at that,” he said, staring at the large painting over the queen-sized bed. “It’s that painting of Tiff the Quiff.”

“The one Christos sold at Brandon’s gallery!” Kamiko blurted.

I’d totally forgotten about it. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told us it was going in her yacht. The painting depicted Tiffany in a bikini, lounging beside the infinity pool behind her dad’s mansion. The night of Christos’ show, Tiffany had bragged that her dad had paid $25,000 for it.

Romeo stepped up onto the bed, heedless of the fact he still wore his shoes.

“What are you doing, Romeo?!” I gasped.

The bedspread bunched around his feet. “Whoops!” he said, giving the covers a wrinkling twist with his shoes.

“You know Tiff’s going to make the servants fix the bed,” Kamiko said dryly.

Romeo considered. “Maybe it will piss them off enough that they decide to poison her in her sleep.” He ran in place several strides, tearing the covers up.

“Get off the bed, Romeo,” Madison said.

He ignored her. “I always thought this painting needed a finishing touch. A final flourish, if you will.” He pulled a black marker out of his pocket.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, worried.

“What, the pen? An artist is always prepared.” He uncapped the black marker and leaned toward the painting, one arm resting on top of the picture frame.

“Romeo,” I warned, “you should stop now.”

Kamiko and Madison were both wide-eyed, but no one seemed to be jumping in to save Tiffany’s painting. I couldn’t blame them.

“Don’t, Romeo!” I pleaded half-heartedly. Well, make that quarter-heartedly.

“Worry not, dearest Sam,” he said. “It’s water-soluble.”

“But what if it doesn’t come off?” I asked.

Kamiko suddenly went vicious. “Tiffany has been a total bitch to you all night, Sam. She was trying to claw your eyes out and throw you in the ocean. She totally deserves it,” Kamiko argued. “Do it Romeo,” she goaded, “Unless the meatballs between your legs have turned into cotton balls.”

Romeo was never one to be outdone in a comic standoff. “Very funny, Kamiko. I’m sure your gargantuan lady balls swing between your legs like a gorilla’s musty nutsack. Anyway, I don’t see the pen in your hand, Zorro.”

Kamiko parried, “You’re the Gay Blade around here, not me.”

There was a pregnant pause before Madison, Kamiko, and Romeo snickered their way into boozy belly laughs.

Wow, they were all drunk. This situation was now officially out of hand. I was surrounded by intoxicated idiots.

Romeo was about to resume his penmanship practice when I grabbed for his arm. He dodged clear, almost falling off the bed, but caught himself. “Careful, Sam, the artist is at work.” He tilted his head from side to side, examining the painting in preparation. “That Tiffany is such a total bitch—”

I couldn’t disagree with him there.

“—she’s like one of those train-track melodrama villains,” Romeo continued, “but Christos’ painting doesn’t quite capture that.” He leaned forward and drew a small, twisty black line.

“I don’t know Romeo, maybe this is too much,” I said nervously, certain we’d be caught. I reached for his arm again, but he shrugged me off.

“Wait,” he whined. “I need to get the twirliness just right.” Romeo squeezed his monocle into his eye socket. His tongue jutted from the corner of his mouth as he scrawled the other half of a mustache onto the painting of Tiffany’s face. “There. Perfect.” He stood back to admire his work and let his monocle swing free from its button- string.

“Oh my god, Romeo,” I said. I couldn’t decide if I was horrified or mortified, or maybe just a bit satisfied.

Tiffany had been a Bitch On High to me at every turn since day one. No matter what I did, she hammered me down with obvious delight. A little temporary water-soluble disfigurement of her treasured painting might do her some good. Remind her that she wasn’t permitted to walk through life hurting people, free from consequence. Maybe I’d been cutting her too much slack all along, and she needed a wake-up call.

“It captures her inner spirit, don’t you think?” Romeo asked joyfully.

I had to agree. Twirly-mustached Tiffany was definitely an improvement. “But it needs one more thing,” I said. I stepped onto the bed, took the marker from Romeo, and drew Where’s Waldo glasses on Tiffany. Wow, that felt really, really good. I smiled at my handiwork.

“That’s more like it!” Romeo cheered.

Madison and Kamiko chuckled.

I handed Romeo his pen and he capped it before shoving it in his pocket. He pulled his smart phone out of his other pocket and snapped a picture. “For posterity,” he smiled at me, “And my blog.”

He stepped carefully off the bed and helped me down. “I still can’t get over how fancy this yacht is,” he said. “It’s some kind of James Bond boat. I keep expecting Tiffany to strut in wearing a bikini, carrying a loaded harpoon gun like that Octopussy chick.”

“What’s an octopussy?” Madison giggled.

“Haven’t you seen that James Bond movie?” Romeo asked.

“No,” Madison answered.

“You mean Octiffany,” Kamiko suggested. “She totally has eight arms she uses to snare her unsuspecting prey and eat them alive with her toothy maw.”

I think watching Adventure Time all the time had finally gone to Kamiko’s brain in all the wrong ways.

Madison laughed. “Which maw?”

“Ewwww,” Romeo grimaced. “You girls are gah-ROSS! But, what I want to know is,” Romeo giggled in anticipation of his own joke, “does she squirt black ink from her pooter or her pooper?” In one motion, he whipped open the cabin door and turned to face us.

Kamiko’s mouth dropped open with a clank, totally unhinged.

Madison appeared to suddenly throw up in her mouth, but held it in because she had too good a manners to barf on someone else’s boat.

I goggled, fearing imminent execution. I think Madison, Kamiko, and myself were in too much shock to speak.

Tiffany stood in the hallway, a few paces behind Romeo, holding a drink in her hand.

How long had she been outside the door?

Romeo blundered blissfully forward, completely unaware of Tiffany’s presence. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, having missed our collective horror. “I’m going with an ink-shooting pooter, because you know that girl has a hollowed out vaj. Plenty of room for extra ink. And mice. Her stench trench has seen so much action, it must be like a wind tunnel in that thing. What do they call that subway tunnel from England to France?”

“The Chunnel,” Tiffany said stiffly from behind Romeo.

“That’s right, the Chunnel,” Romeo chuckled, completely lost in his own mirth. “Tiffany’s fun tunnel could accommodate a high-speed train. What the—!”

Tiffany’s drink dribbled over Romeo’s head.

“You’re ruining my hairdo!” Romeo squealed, flicking fingers across his coiffed faux-hawk. “What is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with you, you nasty little man?!” Tiffany seethed victoriously. “You’re all wet now, Mr. Funnyman.”

Romeo narrowed his eyes at Tiffany. “I would never hit a lady,” he said threateningly. “Luckily, you aren’t a