“Two words: whiskey dick.”

“Oh, please.” I lift her off my lap and set her onto the bed. “It was one time.” Rickie got me wasted on absinthe one night last week, and I passed out before I could fuck her. But Kaitlyn won’t go unsatisfied tonight.

She knows it, too. She’s just impatient.

I get up, adjusting my jeans to conceal my semi. “Come on. Bring your guitar if you want.” Kaitlyn likes an audience almost as much as she enjoys being fucked.

We go downstairs together. Keith stops me in the foyer, pressing two shot glasses into my hand. I down the first one, then offer the second to Kaitlyn, who wrinkles up her nose.

“There’s probably wine in the fridge,” I point out.

Without a word, she disappears to go look for it.

Keith trades me the shot glasses for the bong, and I take a deep, slow puff. Ahh. That’s when my shoulders begin to unknit. Finally.

Most people love October. This weekend the country roads will be jammed full of tourists who drive up here just to revel in October’s colorful wonders.

But I hate it. The days are short, the nights are dark, and my family’s business runs at one hundred and fifty percent capacity. And I can’t win with anybody. My brother is pissed off at me for living in Burlington. My girlfriend is pissed off at me for running home to Tuxbury each weekend.

“Fucking October,” I say as Keith hands me another shot.

“Yeah. Fucking midterms,” he agrees.

It’s more than that, though. October is the month my father died. It’s been six years, but every October I feel raw. Like I’m bleeding out of every pore. I have a few remedies at my disposal to dull the ache: booze, home-grown pot, and sex. They’re not perfect, but they’re the best that I’ve got.

“So when are you gonna bring home some new cider?” Keith asks. “I love that stuff.”

Someone cranks up the Green Day just then, so I have to shout my answer. “Don’t know, man. Jagermeister is cheaper.” I don’t need my brother bitching at me for walking off with some of the fancy hard cider he makes. “There’s the bonfire in two weeks, though. Griffin always pours a lot of cider that night. You’re coming, right?”

“YEAH!” Keith shouts back at me.

Christ, it’s loud. I hope they don’t blow out Rickie’s speakers. “Where’s our fearless leader?”

Keith shrugs. He leans into the living room to look around. “Rickie’s right there!” he shouts, pointing. “On the beanbag with your friend from home!”

Uh-oh. Rickie better be taking good care of Chastity. Maybe I shouldn’t have left her in the kitchen. And—I can’t believe this happened—it sounds like she waited around in the library for me today when I was halfway across Vermont.

I am such a dick.

Stepping into the living room, I survey the wreckage. The party has deteriorated severely in the last forty minutes. Or improved, depending on your viewpoint. The lights are low and the music is loud and everyone looks half in the bag.