Page 24 of The Challenger

“Ugh,” I say. “Major slimeball?” Most of the venture capital guys are, according to June.

“Unfortunately, he’s the most successful wanker of them all,” she grumbles. “Not one to leave a penny or a pussy unturned if it means a buck. If you know what I mean.”

“Ewww. That shit happens in your industry?”

“All the time. My companies always need cash, but I don’t need a dirty dick in my face to make it happen.”

June’s had a tough run with men. Her father never supported her entrepreneurial dreams. An early boyfriend screwed her out of a Kickstarter deal that went viral. And a string of questionable Tinder dates ended with a quickie marriage Vandana begged her to reconsider. She didn’t. And it all went downhill fast.

“Anyway,” she continues. “You hardly said a peep about the book tour at brunch. How did it go this time around?”

I sit up and my legs tremble as I cross them. This tour was the straw that broke my back. “It went okay. I mean, all the extra security made me more paranoid.”

“But no sign of the stalker?”

A mutinous lump expands in my throat. I should tell her about the texts. I need to tell someone. But the small, stupid, scared girl inside of me says if I don’t breathe a word of it, maybe it will just go away.

“So far, so good.”

June studies me. A stone’s throw away, waves crash on her sliver of multi-million-dollar beach front. I can taste salt in the air, heavy and sharp, as much as I can taste her scrutiny. She and Vandana don’t know who I was growing up in Santa Cruz. The painfully introverted girl with a rotation of friends who swiftly moved on from the local weirdo who spent most of her free time talking with imaginary people in her bedroom. Instead, they know what I told them.

“I hope you’re not putting up a classic Flynn front,” she finally says. “That whole ordeal last year was misery for you. I thought about you alone on the road, and I’m glad you’re home safe.”

Safe? That is a moving target I can never land on with both feet. And even if Mr. Stalker died a slow death right in front of me, it wouldn’t change a thing. He is not the underlying problem.

Apingdraws June’s attention back to her computer screen and her outcry is pure frustration. “A four-hour delay on my flight? Crikey. Who flies at one in the morning?”

“I can still drive you to the airport,” I say.

She slams her laptop shut and wags her finger at me. “I have the perfect plan. We grab a G&T and shoot a round of pool while we plot when and how you will shag the tennis star ... for real ... before he leaves. Australia is a given after that. What do you say?"

June is a lethal pool player, and by that I mean a shark of the great white variety. Her side hustle during our Stanford years was luring unsuspecting guys into betting on games and making out like a thief. I don’t mind getting bulldozed because watching her bank the most ridiculous shots is worth the price of embarrassment.

I pull on my jacket and remind her that Christmas and Boxing Day are my limited windows with Chavez. June packs up her Chanel tote and throws down the ultimate challenge, channeling Flynn Dryden Truth #3: Crush your habits.

“Two days is a lifetime in Vandana years,” she says. “Time to take a page out of her book and make her proud.”

* * *

Even the cricketsare asleep when I stagger out of the Escalade at midnight. It's a fool's game to try and out-drink June. But after Chavez texted me at the start of my pool game beatdown, our brief exchange left me feeling bulletproof and swilling one too many forty-proofs.

CD: Hola. Trying not to think about you and obvs working, right? Ha ha.

FD: Hi.

FD: I liked hitting with you today.

CD: I liked a lot about today.

At that point, June saw the goofball smile on my face and poked me in the belly with her pool cue.

FD: What should I bring to the brunch?

FD: And what should I wear?

CD: Nothing. I mean, bring nothing, ha ha. Wear a nice dress, please. You have beautiful legs.

CD: Make that beautiful everything.

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