Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Just because you’ve already got this information doesn’t mean you understand it. Tell me how we display bottle versus draft revenue and what impact that has on our stock lines. Tell me where we record additional membership revenue for one-off events.”
Her face was the very picture of exasperation, and I fought the urge to pull the little bitch over my knee and slap some humility into her. “Fine, show me the profit and loss spreadsheet, and then show me all the other reports you’ve already palmed me off with, and all the others you’ll use to stall because they don’t mean shit,” she hissed. “But tomorrow we will be looking at marketing, and you will be telling me what I want to know whether you like it or not.”
We simmered and we festered and we managed to somehow trawl our way through a whole day of my show and tell puppeteering, but by the close of play on Sunday evening, I had no intention of rolling over and letting her bulldoze through my marketing strategy.
I kicked off my shoes as soon as I was back through my own doorway, grabbed a triple of vintage bourbon and flicked on the TV I hadn’t used in months. My pulsed raced as I considered the unthinkable, but I did it regardless; cancelling every one of my morning alarm calls.
Time to take an impromptu duvet day. I’d fucking earned one.
***
I called Topaz on her mobile, smiling to myself at the surprise in her voice as she registered who was calling. I imagined her still in bed, green hair splayed out on her pillow like a bird’s nest as she groped for her handset. To say she wasn’t a morning person would be an understatement. The girl sounded half fucking dead.
“I’m not coming in today,” I said. “You can tell Faye when you see her.”
“Not in?! You mean, not at all?”
“Just tell her,” I snapped. “And don’t be late.”
I’m such a fucking cunt sometimes.
I kicked back on the sofa, flicking through TV channels in horror as I came face to face with the dregs of daytime TV. I lasted through all of twenty minutes before I had twitchy feet, mind racing through the stacked up to-do list at the office. I imagined Faye’s pouty, self-entitled face to keep me glued to my seat, and it worked well enough. My mobile was on the coffee table in clear view, ready for the stream of text messages and calls when she realised she didn’t know shit about running our club. Only they didn’t pissing well come. I didn’t hear a single peep out of her.
She’d always been stubborn; stubborn and highly strung. An explosive and unpredictable combination.
Faye Devere had always been a maelstrom of enthusiasm to my calm. She was creative and flamboyant, with her head too high in the clouds for her own bloody good, but her ideas, more often than not, were spot on. She thought big and I thought real, and somehow between us we’d find that sweet spot, where shit got done and it got done well. It was Faye who’d set her heart on the Explicit venue in the first place, way beyond the scope of my initial investment. Faye who’d convinced me to dig fucking deep and take a chance on it, on us. Explicit was her grand vision, brought to life by my bullish determination to make a fucking go of it. We’d gone in big, I’d gone in big, and it had paid off.
And then she thanked me by pissing off into the sunset without so much as a goodbye.
I wasn’t going into that fucking office, not even if I had to tie myself to the coffee table and watch a whole fucking day of soul-destroying TV.
Just as well I had Vincent cunting Blackmore’s shitty novel to keep me occupied.
Topaz’s expression was one of both fear and relief as I strolled through the bar at just gone seven that evening. She was perched on a stool with her earplugs in, fingers only slightly more covered in glitter and glue than the bar top beneath them.
“You’re back!” she said, her cheeks flushing.
“Clearly,” I muttered. I leaned over her shoulder, trying to work out what in the name of hell she was actually doing.
“Faye’s idea,” she said. “Explicit gaming cards, for truth or dare night.”
“Truth or dare night?” I pulled a face. “And when exactly is this truth or dare night supposed to be happening?”
She shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’m just getting them ready.”
I fished a completed card from the glitter, and it looked like a poorly executed primary school project.
“Kiss my ass. Five points. It’s time for your partner to get down on all fours and pucker up for some deep anal smooching. Five straight minutes of asshole worship are heading their way. Tongue penetration compulsory.”