Roman Holiday - By Ashleyn Poston Page 0,2

t-shirts.

It was worse than herpes.

I thought it was a phase. Like N*Sync and Hanson. But it wasn't. It got worse when Holly Hudson died, and the band dropped off the face of the earth. Now, Maggie's obsession is a plague on both our houses. Every tabloid headline, every newspaper snippet, every photo on the internet she consumes like a vacuum. There's a paparazzo she follows—John...James...something. I try not to pay attention. He actively stalks Roman Montgomery with a vicious sort of vendetta. Of course Maggie likes him best.

"Oh my God," she gasps, staring down at her phone, "they're in Montana! They bought groceries!"

"Yay, groceries," I murmur, thrumming my fingers against the fake marble countertop. I wish we could afford wood, at least.

"No, this is legit! Look at this, bb. Look!" She spins her phone over to show me a blurry image of a dark-haired guy bending over a mound of lettuce. "It's RoMo!"

"He eats healthy at least," I remark. "I really don't see why you stalk a murder on Twitter."

"He didn't kill her, okay? Roman Montgomery couldn't hurt a fly." She rolls her eyes. "Why does everyone think he did?"

"A guy with no alibi? Getting off scot-free?"

"He has an alibi. He was out."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Out where? Or was he fucking some roadie again and didn't want to admit it?"

She rolls her eyes, "Smartass," and returns to her Twitter feed, rattling off other news—that their contract is running out, their album Like Thunder, which came out a month prior to Holly Hudson's death, is about to go Platinum, blah blah blah... "So when are you leaving for Dirty Myrtle? Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. In the morning. Are you sure you can't go with me?" I try to put as much whine in my voice as humanly possible. "It's going to be hell without you."

"You've gone every year without me so far," she says, not even sparing a glance up from her phone.

"But this is different! That was with Dad and Mom, not Mom and the step-idiot. He'll ruin it. All of it. How will I survive?"

"Better question," she replies, "how will the bar survive without you?"

I deflate a little. Of course, she wouldn't understand the condo was something between Mom, Dad, and me. It was our vacation. And now Chuck—Charles—is going to poison it with his expensive shampoos and lavender-scented aftershave. "I'm prepared to come back to a smoldering ruin."

"You have so much faith in the bar staff."

I eye Geoff, our head bartender, schmoozing up a broad-shouldered hunk in the corner of the bar. Behind Geoff, the faucet is running. I take a bobby pin out of my hair, letting a leaf of pink hair fall into my face, and throw it at him. "Hey, earth to Major Geoff!"

He jumps when it hits him square in the ear. "Ow! Sorry. Was, uh—"

"Yeah, I know. Faucet."

He jumps to turn it off. "I swear I'm not a space cadet," he replies with a chuckle. "Nice hair though, boss. Is that fuchsia or electric pink?"

"It's called My-Mother-Will-Kill-Me-Pink."

"Sounds about right. Got that whole Lolita thing going on." I snort in reply. Geoff tsks, turning back to the patron he's trying to flirt the pants off of. Geoff's a twenty-four-year-old horn dog from New Jersey, so he has the whole Jersey Shore dark hair and tan thing going on, which the pale mountain men of Asheville eat up like a dark chocolate mousse. He says over his shoulder, "You're turning into such a heathen, boss."

"Ugh, I know." I mock-roll my eyes. "Now all I need is to go clubbing and bring home a guy with tattoos and a bullring."

"Well..." Maggie bites her bottom lip thoughtfully, "if you're not doing anything tonight, a few college guys playing a Quidditch match down at Hope Park. They're probably still there. Wanna go? Most of them don't have bull rings, but I totes think you can find a tatted Malfoy."

"Tempting. Do I have to run around with a broom between my legs?"

“Well, yeah.”

“Then that's a deal-breaker.”

“Muggles,” she scoffs, sliding her phone into her back pocket, and twists her long dreads up into a bun behind her head. She fans the back of her neck with a drink menu. "Just means I'll have all the Nevilles to myself. Dear fuck, it's hot. Are you ever going to get the air conditioning fixed?"

I shrug apologetically. "Eventually?"

"Eventually, eventually. Well, eventually you'll regret not coming with me to the Quidditch match."

Normally, I would cave and go with her, just to be a good wing-woman, but