Page 105 of Sour Notes

Real fucking stupid.

Especially when it comes to keeping my hands off Mia and sticking to the rules.

Then this morning we jumped out of bed like it was on fire because Mia’s fucking brother decided to hammer on our door at five-fucking-thirty.

Yes, you read that right.

We went to sleep at two.

Choices were made.

Bad. Fucking. Choices.

Nick made them too, which is probably why he woke up choosing violence.

Christ, he’d lose his shit if he knew what Mia and I did last night. The door wouldn’t be the only thing he pounded to all hell today.

Dead man walking over here.

I’m about two seconds from losing it myself, if this little black goat doesn’t stop headbutting the back of my leg.

What the ever-loving fuck possessed the idiot to plan sunrise yoga the day after he kept us out all night drinking?

As if to hammer in the point, the little horny—horned, I mean horned—fucker rams the back of my leg again.

Of course the one goat who escaped the pen has to make its way over to me.

Go headbutt Pete, you little demon. A solid headbutt in the balls would do him some good.

The bastard looked smug as shit when he caught sight of the three of us—Nick included, after his violent outburst of a wakeup call—hiding behind sunglasses and silence this morning.

The devil tilts his head at me and bleats. As if to say fuck that, I’m here to torture you.

Should I pick it up and toss it back in the pen with the others?

How do you pick up a goat?

By the horns? By the waist? Do goats even have a waist?

Before I can figure out my next move, the yoga instructor comes out.

Now, I don’t mean to be sexist. I’m all for equality. But I kinda thought yoga was a woman’s thing.

Why is the yoga instructor a six-foot, long haired Greek gladiator?

Have you ever seen Couples Retreat? Mia made us sit through that for movie night once—terrible movie, do not recommend. Well, she loved it, but I digress—this dude makes that instructor look like an acne-ridden teen.

Mia’s spine straightens.

What the fuck?

Legit, she was slouched, scrolling her phone, seconds from falling asleep on her feet.

Now, she’s standing to attention like she’s had a pole shoved up her ass—not mine, unfortunately—perky, alert, ponytail bouncing like a shampoo ad.

Fuck this.

I’m not sober enough to deal with this bullshit today. If she wants this guy to bend her into positions, she can have at it. I don’t want any part of it.