The next day, you are heading over to Randall's...

The next morning, you managed to avoid your mother completely. Seeking permission from your dad to use the car made things infinitely more streamlined. He pressed no conditions aside from "have fun and be safe" and didn't intrude on what exactly you would be up to. You made a mental note to ask him more often. Maybe you could get him to help reign your mom in from being so "Laura" crazy... Of all the people who knew about Randall's accident, she seemed to be dealing with the situation the worst, save Randall's parents. You couldn't help but wonder if Randall's dad had come around in these past few weeks. Even when things were normal, Randall avoided talk of his family life like the plague. You knew better than to push him on such delicate matters. You couldn't help but think that if they weren't such abysmal parents and your mother wasn't so overbearing, things wouldn't have to be so strained. Alas...

As you turned the corner onto Randall's street, you noticed a black BMW pull out of the driveway. Party guests are still leaving? you thought. Geez... Wonder what kind of shape Randall's in? Must have been another crazy night... You carefully parked a couple houses down the street. If you were going to be over here regularly, you were going to need to find a better parking situation. There were only going to be so many times of parking in front of a neighbor's house before they start asking questions. Questions were a bad, especially since, to the rest of the world, it looked like an underage student going to visit his teacher on the weekend, alone. You chuckled inwardly. It was a little funny to think about. You had already done exactly what those types of people were worried would happen. However, thinking about the kinds of consequences that could befall yourself, not to mention Randall, if someone did think something like that was happening made you realize there was nothing funny about it. For the foreseeable future, you had to play it cool.

You nonchalantly walked up to the door and rang the bell. After a few minutes passed, you started to grow a bit worried. Feeling gutsy, you discovered the door unlocked and cautiously proceeded inside. After venturing into the house, it occurred to you that there could still be a guest or two lurking about in the house. It would be impossible and awkward to explain your presence. You slowly moved room by room, careful to watch for whoever might be there, but also taking in the aftermath of Miss Card's housewarming party. It seemed that Miss Card's troupe of lady friends had succeeded in getting a majority of the boxes unpacked, however, they were replaced by what looked to be smorgasbord of empty and partially empty bottles. From wine to vodka, as well as a healthy variety of beer, bottles were everywhere. The house stunk of stale booze. Chips and dips were still out on trays on the counter and the dining room table was stacked high with pizza boxes. How many people were here last night? you wondered. What a fucking mess... As you made your way to the staircase, something caught your eye. A pink stiletto positioned haphazardly on a stair. As you moved upstairs, you found the matching shoe and further down the hallway, a pair of pink tights. At the end of the hallway, the door to Randall's room was closed. A pink party dress sat crumpled in front of it. I know you are supposed to be impersonating Miss Card, but does all the new stuff you buy have to be pink, too, Randall? Picking up the dress, you raised your eyebrows. You would've loved to have seen Randall wearing this. It was a rather miniscule piece of clothing, clearly designed to stretch to accommodate the wearer. Seemed like he was in a rush to lose the getup at the end of the night.

"Randall?" you called, softly. You knocked on the door. Again, no answer. You opened it and peered inside. Stepping in, you could see tented covers on the bed rising and falling. Ever covered by a sheet and comforter, there was no mistaking those breasts. You looked at the bedside clock. It was nearly noon and Randall was still dead to the world. Sitting on the bedside, you gently rocked his shoulder. Suddenly, his eyes flew open.

"Oh shit! Tim!" Randall sat halfway up, propped on his elbows. His eyes darted manically about, clearly disoriented. "Dude, what are you doing here? Somebody's going to see you!"

"Hey, buddy. It's uh, Sunday now. Everybody went home," you reassured. Randall's frantic expression relaxed and he flopped back down on the bed.

"Ugh... Fuck," he muttered. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon. Crazy night? How was it?" Randall looked at you like he was going to answer when he rolled out of bed and pushed past you to the bathroom. Liquid splashing and the sound of Randall's lurching indicated that it had must definitely been a drunken one. You followed, kneeling down beside your friend at the toilet. His auburn mane was suffering for a serious case of bed head, but still falling around his face. Gathering the strands, you pulled his hair into a makeshift ponytail.

"Thanks, Tim," Randall muttered weakly into the bowl. Eventually, his stomach decided to cease emptying it's contents. You grabbed a cup from the counter and filled it with water. Despite his protests, you managed to convince Randall to slowly sip it. "I'm never drinking again." You didn't doubt his sincerity at the moment, but you knew it was unlikely to stick. Miss Wells and Miss Espisota were sure to break it. You assisted a groaning and groggy Randall back to bed. As the situation passed, you noticed his attire, or lack thereof. He wore a large white oxford, sleeves rolled up, not a single button fastened. The shirt hung open, doing nothing but mildly obscuring the humongous breasts jiggling beneath. Pink lacy bikini cut panties adorned his lower half, the strings of unattached garters poking beyond the tail of the shirt. It was a sight to see. As Randall flopped back on the bed, the shirt opened fully, making you wonder why he bothered wearing it at all.

Trying your best to ignore the magnificent mammaries you asked, "So I take it the party got a little wild?"

"I guess so," he said slowly. Randall sat upright, your eyes locking onto his breasts. He rubbed at his temples, "Can't seem to remember much of anything about last night. I must have blacked out pretty early. Fucking Carla and Amanda! I don't think I've ever felt worse in my life."

"What's the deal with them anyway? Looks like they got a lot of stuff out the boxes, but it's a war zone downstairs."

"They just wanted me to have a 'good time'. You should've seen the outfit they bought for me last night... I don't think Miss C's ever looked more fuckable."

"I can only image."

Randall seemed to notice the shirt he was wearing for the first time. "Dude, who's shirt is this? Oh man..." He quickly stripped it off. "Fuckfuckfuck. Fuck!" Suddenly, you realized that it wasn't just a shirt, it was a man's shirt. An awkward presence filled the room. Your stomach flip flopped. How did he get that shirt? Had Randall slept with somebody? You felt a bit disillusioned. I mean the two of you were just helping each other out from time to time, right? Randall wouldn't do that... You took a deep breath. It was just a shirt. Just because it was a man's doesn't mean that Randall got it last night. For all you knew, it could've been something Miss Card had hung onto from someone long ago.

"Oh man, Tim... What the fuck has been going on with me lately?" asked Randall, fear evident in his voice, his head in his hands.

"I don't know, dude. I don't know," you said softly. "Look. It's just a shirt... Doesn't mean anything." You were trying to convince him as much as you were trying to convince yourself. "Besides, you were obviously wasted. Nobody is themselves that deep in a bottle."

"Am I ever really myself these days?" he whispered. You didn't know what to say to that. Suddenly, he sat up stiffly. "My phone!" You looked at him questioningly. He looked around the room, anxiously. "Tim, I need you to do me a solid. Look in my phone and go over my messages for me. I know it sounds like I'm bitching out here, but I'm took freaked out to do it myself." After finding the device, Randall handed it to you. As you unlocked the phone, it was already on the message screen.

"Looks like your most recent message is from some random number. All it says is call me sometime." You felt a little relieved. Randall sighed in relief as well. That didn't sound too bad. "Uh, looks like the next one is from you to George. At one in the morning." You couldn't keep the disapproval out of your voice. "Why aren't you at my party? Sad face, sad face, sad face." You raised an eyebrow at him. Randall shrugged a reply. "Seems you traded messages with somebody named Steve..."

"Uh oh..."

"Dammit! The fucker sent you a picture of his dick," you complained. A relatively large one at that.

"Gross! Fucking perverts..."

As you scrolled further up, it seemed that Randall texted first. Not only that, he was being unabashedly flirty. "Um, hate to break it to you, Randall, but you kind of asked for it..."

"What?!" His voice rose sharply in pitch.

"Steve: You're such a tease. What do you want?

You: You know what I want. Wink.

Steve: Dick pic."

Randall was beet red. As confused as you felt by this, you were sure it didn't hold a candle to the what Randall must have been feeling. "Never drinking again..." he repeated. Sitting up straight, he looked you dead in the eyes. Even disheveled and hung over, Miss Card was strikingly beautiful. "Tim, am I a woman?"