Page 30 of Snap Shot

“Because that's public information,available on newsstands and television screens everywhere!” I announce with the contrived enthusiasm of an advertisement voiceover.

“Fucking lawyers.” She whines. “You're no fun.”

“Yes, yes. I'm very boring.” A knotted shoulder muscle shifts under the pressure of my hand's massaging grip. “But you love me anyway.”

“Got me there.” She sighs. “What are you doing for dinner tonight? Kurt left for some team retreat.”

“No plans. What are you thinking?”

“Wanna get takeout from India House?”

“Yes, please! Pick it up and bring it over around seven?”

“You got it. If I get bhindi masala, will you tell me what's going on with Radek?”

“Nope.”

Gabe blows a raspberry in response. “Booooooo!”

“But you can help me brainstorm how to get on a problematic client's good side.”

“Done.”

When she hangs up, I snatch the neon vibrator off the floor and head into the en suite to wash it off before returning it to its satin home in my purse. You're in time out, Captain.

I flip open a pocket mirror to check my makeup more closely, hoping it's not smudged from sweat and tears. Of all the embarrassing shit I've been through, Landon Radek seeing me get off wins. How am I supposed to face him, much less work his case?

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One bhindi masala, one shahi paneer, one jeera rice, and two orders of phulka roti later, Gabe and I are too full to think about anything but the growing food babies in our bellies.

“India House bhinda are good, but not as good as your mom's.” Gabe gasps out a burp. “'Scuse me.”

“Agreed. One of these days, I'm gonna learn her recipe.”

“And then you'll invite your best friend over so she can eat it all.”

We clink wine glasses and down large gulps before refilling them.

The bottle of Riesling empties as we watch a video of hit Bollywood songs from the early 2000's on YouTube, failing miserably to keep up with the elaborate dance sequences. I blame the restricting fabric of my blouse and pencil skirt and switch them out for a pair of soft joggers and a loose tank. It's no use.

“How did we do this regularly at uni?” I pant, palms on my knees.

“I have no idea.” Gabe puffs out a breath and wipes her brow with the back of her hand. “Nothing like trying to keep up with old Aishwarya Rai choreo to remind you how old and out of shape you are.”

I humph. “Speak for yourself. I work out four days a week.”

“And itshows.” Gabe smacks my ass when I straighten, her tongue peeking out between her teeth.

“Owww!” I rub the sting away. “That is sorude.”

“Whatever. You liked it. That's the most action you've seen in years.”

I flip her off on my way to uncork a second bottle.

Gabe's post-workout sweet tooth craving kicks in and she ransacks my kitchen cupboards, discovering the wholesale-size bag of Lindt melting chocolate wafers on a high shelf. My best friend requests a personalized candy bar for Kurt.

I giggle and snort, my inebriated, unsteady hand using tweezers to place bright white letters onto the setting milk chocolate. When they spell out 'Eat My Ass,' Gabe chokes, spraying her sip of wine back into her glass. The sprinkle job I complete it with is messy, but hey, so is eating ass.

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