Page 28 of Work: Strictly Professional

My heart beats for Derek’s secret.

Again.

Again.

“I’ll pay you,” he says, devoid of any clearly identifiable emotion. “For your time. I’ll pay double your usual daily rate.”

He’ll pay me?

He’ll fucking pay me?

Holy shit, great balls of fire. I’ve never heard about anything this crazy happening to a real living person.

I’m in such a high temper that I can’t wait to get home to talk to Bridget. I get her on Bluetooth as I crawl out of my skin along the I-405.

“You should have seen him this afternoon, Bridge.” I’m talking too loudly, and there’s an unpleasant grating quality to my voice that isn’t usually there. “There was this big meeting, and, and, you should have seen him. He didn’t let anyone else get a word in.” It’s not what I want to tell her. It’s not even what really happened. What I want to tell Bridget is that Satan himself took a sharp turn in the direction of a little town called Insanity this morning and decided to tell his ex-wife that I’m his boyfriend. That’s what I’d like to tell her.

Don’t worry about it though, Bridge, no need to fret. He’ll be paying me for my time. Time and a half, so dinner’s on me. Dessert too.

Since there’s no way I can tell her that without seriously jeopardizing her mental health, I say, “He was a complete nightmare today.”

Actually, he was kind of majestic, but I also can’t tell her that because then she’ll start questioningmymental health. It was some meeting this afternoon. Tense and fraught. A major renegotiation of terms. The word re-baselining was used several times. Huge numbers with dollar signs in front of them were being flung around with abandon. You could have heard a pin drop when Derek was talking. He had every single person there hanging on every word he said. Admittedly, they were probably struck silent with fear. But when you think about it, inciting fear and being terribly powerful is kind of the same thing.

“Red. Flag,” says Bridget.

And there’s another thing I can’t tell Bridget. When it comes to red flags, I’m starting to think my dick is into them. I’m starting to suspect it would like nothing more than to collect a big ole pile of red flags, cut them into smaller red flags, and have them made into seven days’ worth of Superman underpants. Not only that, I think it might start refusing to wear anything else.

Mm, yeah, lovely red-flag undies cradling my balls and holding my boner snugly in place.

Ugh. Fuck. What’s wrong with me?

Don’t think I haven’t tried to talk my dick out of this line of thinking. I tried in the shower this morning. I tried really hard. And slow. Then fast. I even snuck to the restroom after that mess of a meeting and did my damnedest to get it to see sense then too.

It didn’t help.

If anything, my attempts to right things might be making them worse.

“Are you almost home?” asks Bridget.

“Yeah, do you need me to stop and pick anything up for dinner?”

“No thanks, I’m good. I don’t need anything.” She trails off but comes back. “Uh, Wynnie, it’s no big deal so don’t worry, but I did a thing today. Not a big thing or anything like that. Just a little thing that deserves a heads-up.”

With that, she’s gone, and I’m left stuck in traffic that isn’t moving, all but certain that the next time I see my best friend, her entire back will be covered in a massive tattoo featuring survival song lyrics, or worse, a picture of that turd Josh’s face.

Neither are great options.

“Bridge,” I call, tentatively craning my neck as I scan the living room, looking for her.

“What do you think?” She spins slowly and comes to a stop directly in front of me. Her sapphire irises widen, and she smiles nervously.

“What do I think?”Ordinarily, I try to keep my screeches to a minimum because I don’t think it’s a good look on me, but trust me, this warrants an ear-piercing scream, and boy, does it get one. “Holy fucking fuck, what do I think? Are you kidding me,Bridget Elizabeth Norma Jean Taylor. You little bitch. That’s a revenge haircut if ever I’ve seen one.”

Bridget concedes with a faux innocent shrug. She looks amazing, and not just because she’s wearing real clothes—and I mean really real clothes, not pajamas, not even loungewear. She’s wearing honest-to-God black jeans—jeans people, jeans—and a skintight tank that shows a hint of her midriff. She’s even rocking a smokey eye, and not one she got from crying. Her hair, the unequivocal hero of the entire look, has been cut and styled with near-surgical precision. It skims her shoulders, an ode to sleekness itself, and her face has been framed by the mother and father of all bangs.

Now, ordinarily, I’m hesitant to recommend bangs to anyone, especially so soon after a trauma, but fucking hell, they look amazing on Bridget. It’s givingget out of my wayandget in lineat the same time. No, it’s more than that. It’s givingI’ve taken my power back. Now Imma take yours.

I am living for it.

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