Page 32 of Catfish

It’s a fucking record for one night.

Not only does she look like a firecracker with a whole lot of shit to say, but it confirms that what lies behind her text messages is her.

Good to know, still not helpful though.

Reagan points at the door, intent on making her leave, but the damage is already done.

Holden is going to be voted out of office with his name headlining every newspaper and every form of social media known to man.

He wanted to be known for something outstanding...his wish just came true.

? Bad Day — Fuel ?

Chase: Look out your front door.

Through groggy eyes, I stare at my latest text message. I've had no coffee, no sleep, and I'm still in a pissed-off mood.

I don’t want to go look out my front door.

I don’t want to do anything right now but disappear into a pretty purple puff of smoke.

Dropping my phone onto my bed, I roll over, burying my face back into my pillow.

Last night wasn’t just an epic failure—it was horrific. Mrs. Montgomery was so beside herself that she left the party before the second round of appetizers could be served. Guests didn’t know if they should leave or stay, a good portion left with shock in their eyes, gossiping amongst themselves—loudly might I add.

Sadie tried to strike up the band again, but no one wanted to dance, and Holden also departed minutes later with a group of men while one of his assistants told me he was going to call me tomorrow.

Fantastic.

I couldn’t wait to get bitched at, fired twenty-four hours after being offered a job for his son’s birthday party that would probably pay months’ worth of bills for myself and Mama.

I’m completely clueless on how the busty blonde got through security, I basically played Nancy Drew all night to find out how it happened. The best answer I got was, “She must’ve slipped through.”

How does a woman wearing a dress like that just slip by?

That was the question of the night.

She looked like a damn disco ball that came straight out of Saturday Night Fever.

My phone rings with a custom ringtone of “your best friend is calling you” by some obnoxious woman in a sing-song voice. I roll my eyes back at one of the many well-known little antics of Sadie's.

I’m not in the mood for this shit.

I’m not in the frame of mind to listen to her bubbly voice that shoots out rainbows and little white bunnies that hop around aimlessly.

Another taunting sing-a-long from my awesome ringtone and I reach for my phone, face still implanted in my pillow.

Fumbling to hit the answer button, I find it after the tenth hit of my thumb, and Sadie's voice immediately protrudes my quiet airwaves.

“Good morning, angel,” Sadie croons just as I expected; cheery, bright, and hella annoying.

“What do you want?” I mutter into my pillow.

“What?”

I growl, yanking my head up from my pity-party and lean on my elbows. “I said, what do you want?”

“Did Mr. Montgomery call you yet?”

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