Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
My mental hard-on dropped to half mast. My crap-o-meter, however, was dinging so hard it was about to shoot out of the atmosphere.
They decided to be nice to her all of a sudden, for no apparent reason? Un-fucking-likely.
“Your date,” I repeated dully. I was still hoping there’d be nakedness involved when she asked for a favor.
“Fake date,” she corrected with a prim nod.
This was a good time to remind her that these people had seen me with Gretchen and may have some questions, the primary one being—What the fuck?
No part of me wanted to tag along to this get-together, but an annoying (and unwelcome) sense of protectiveness tackled my conscience to the ground. I wasn’t prepared to send her to the lion’s den knowing she might get eaten whole. She could use a win. Especially as she seemed to be struggling with some confidence issues. Otherwise, she wouldn’t adopt a fake accent to go with her secondhand designer clothes.
“Fine.” I sighed. “But don’t forget to take pictures and file them. I’m not gonna suffer through these hipster assholes in vain.”
“Oh, Riggs, thank you!” She ran to me, but when she actually got to me, she stopped, her gaze colliding with my naked chest. Her cheeks reddened. She punched my bicep clumsily. “You’re . . . uh . . . the best.”
“But it’s gonna cost you.” I jabbed a finger in her direction.
She took a step back, her mouth pulling into a hard line. “If you think I’m going to hand out sexual favors every time you—”
“I’m not that desperate, and you’re not that hot.” I made a cross sign with my hands, lying blatantly. She was all seven deadly sins combined, once you fished her out of those Elizabeth Bennet dresses. “I mean you’ll literally have to pay. I’m broke, remember?”
Her face relaxed. “Right. Yeah. I’ll buy you a pint or two, sure.”
“Food too.”
“Don’t push it, boy toy.”
Man, she was going to blow a gasket when she realized I was going to order appetizers too.
An hour later, we were at a swanky restaurant on the Upper East Side. Duffy introduced me to her former colleagues, Sadie, Warren, Dalton, and Amber. I immediately forgot who was who, refusing to waste any memory space on these professional pretenders. The men wore the uniform of smart pants and rolled-up dress shirts. The women looked like they were auditioning for a Netflix real estate show. A cross between the vulgarly rich and sex workers.
It was obvious from the get-go they just wanted to see where Duffy had landed, postmeltdown. They expected a broken mess a week after her train wreck departure.
Our table ordered appetizers and bottles of wine. Duffy sipped on a glass demurely.
“Thanks for including me,” she murmured into her wine. The only reason she came was to establish a history with me. I appreciated a good hustler when I met one.
“The pleasure is ours, girl.” One of the women threw her friend a When is she going to break down in tears? look. Her cleavage was so generous it made Bill Gates look like a cheapskate. “We were actually super impressed with how you handled Gretchen the other day.”
“Yeah. She had it coming.” One of the men nodded, nibbling on his antipasto bruschetta. “I mean, the woman had some nerve, accusing you of stealing her garments.”
“You’re not even the same size. She gained so much weight this year.” One of the women stabbed at her cocktail’s ice cubes with her straw, leaning forward. “Is it true, by the way? Is she a size six now? One of her stylists told me she could barely squeeze her into a size four pencil skirt the other day. Keto, my ass. This woman eats carbs. Probably every day.”
Poppins frowned. “Gretchen’s problem was never the size of her body. It was always the size of her gob.”
No complaints here, but I had a different experience with Gretchen’s oral skills.
“So, are you going to sue her or something?” one of the talking heads wondered. This was officially the Mean Girls Olympics.
“No.” Duffy reached to smooth out her folded napkin on the table. “I know I overreacted. I shouldn’t have . . . you know, gone bonkers. I was under a lot of pressure.”
The entire table nodded solemnly. Now that it was clear Duffy wasn’t on suicide watch and wasn’t going to spend the entire dinner shitting all over her former boss’s reputation, everyone quickly lost interest.
I knocked down two more glasses of wine, wondering why people held a liquid that was made by people stomping on fruit barefoot to a higher standard than a perfectly hygienic beer made in a brewery. Maybe my new neighbor, Charlie, would have good input on that.
“So, are you guys, like, together?” Clone Woman One motioned between Duffy and me with her finger.