Page 38 of Wicked Pickle

I drag a metal bowl full of change toward me and dump it. The pages catch in my pocket as I reach for them, but I yank them out.

“First you,” I say, dropping the X-rated one on the bottom. I have to sniff, looking at it, remember how she tasted, the feel of her shuddering against my mouth.

Fuck.

I snatch a lighter from my top drawer and set the corner on fire, watching the yellow flame eat its way across the page.

I unfold the other.

The window light. Her body. As the other sketch shrivels into nothing, I hold this one above the bowl.

Just drop it down. Let it go.

But I can’t.

Symphony stares out at me, drawn by my own hand. She’s daring me.

Find me again.

Push my boundaries.

Fuck me, I’m going to have to locate her.

I shove the goddamn drawing in my drawer under a pile of old folders.

Yeah. I’ll be seeing that one again.

No fucking choice.

CHAPTER 13

SYMPHONY

The parking lot isn’t as full as the first time we drove into it the night of the bachelorette.

Marietta parks her mint-green Bug between a truck and a Harley and squeals, “I’m so excited!”

“Don’t drink shots, okay?” I ask. “Get a beer you don’t like and sip it.”

She kills the engine and stuffs her keys in a tiny purse. “I know, I know. If you have to babysit me, you won’t get hookup number two with the hot boy.”

I haven’t spilled a single detail about what went down with Diesel, but I let the comment go and open my door.

Today, we’re dressed way more normally in jeans and tank tops, minimal jewelry, hair up in messy buns. Marietta wears flats, self-conscious about her five-ten height, but I’m in killer heels, red to match my top. It’s my lucky color for this bar.

Definitely no Spanx. I don’t have an unlimited budget for undergarments to slice. But I do have a strapless bandeaux bra I can part with if needed.

I get goosebumps imagining Diesel ripping it off.

I’ve got it bad. It’s almost as though the violence is the draw.

Danger. I’m here for it.

We head for the door. I try to shove away intruding images, like finding some cute, skinny hot girl hanging on Diesel. Him looking at me with pity in his eyes for thinking I interested him for more than a blackmail wedding date.

I draw in a deep breath, willing the insecurity to get out of my mind.

“Don’t spiral,” Marietta says, her shoes crunching the cracked asphalt as we approach the door. “I know that terrified look. If for some reason he sucks today, we throw our drinks on him and leave.”

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