Page 9 of Pour Decisions
Not that anything was ever going to progress beyond one night anyway with Riggs. I mean just because I spent most of the day, okay all day, fantasizing about him doesn’t mean he did the same with me.
“You know, when I got out of the shower this morning and saw that you were gone, I was upset. I’d been thinking we’d go for rounds five and six, maybe order in some breakfast, at the very least exchange last names and telephone numbers. But now I’m realizing I got off easy. I should be thankful you left. Because I gotta tell you, if it’s the reality train you were looking to catch, that baby left the station a while ago and you definitely were not on it.”
His chest heaves as he gets worked up. I can’t help but remember how the muscles contracted under my palms when I took my turn on top. Or how good it felt under my cheek as I fell asleep after.
Then his words sink in.
That’s like the tenth time he’s called me crazy in this brief conversation. He hasn’t seen anything yet.
“I’m reporting you.” I point my finger at that same broad, heaving chest.
“To who?” He scoffs.
“To the WCWA board. You can’t just go messing around with peoples’ lives. It’s unethical and immoral.”
“If that’s what you think is going on, then go right ahead. Don’t come crying to me when they laugh you out of there for being ridiculous,” he says.
“I am.”
“Great.”
“Great.”
“It’s Daley.”
“What’s Daley?” I ask.
“My last name,” he says. “It’s Daley. You know for when you report me for such unethical and immoral behavior. Better make sure you’ve got the right judge.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“I’m turning you in.”
“Go right ahead.”
“See ya.” I turn and leave him standing there, off on my search to find a board member so I can turn him in.
Now that I’m on a mission, the crowd seems much smaller and more manageable. I make my way through a small gathering of people, tight smile pasted to my face, and zero in on Barbara Hershey, the president of the WCWA board.
Ha, that’s makes two people here that I knew. Well, three if you count Riggs. But I’m not going to.
I tap her on the shoulder. “Barbara, it’s so nice to see you again. May I borrow you a moment, I have something of great concern to discuss and I don’t think it can wait any longer.”
She faces me, looking down her nose. I never understood that phrase until now, but it is possible for tall people to look down their noses, literally, at shorter people. And also people who disgust them. As it seems—if her expression is any indication—I do to Barbara.
“Morgan, how fortuitous, I too have something to discuss with you. Shall we?” She motions toward the exit and begins walking in that direction, leaving me no choice but to follow her.
5
Barbara leads me down a narrow hall, away from the ballroom where the reception is, and stopping at a small conference room that is being used as an office for the WCWA staff.
She takes a seat at the head of the table and motions for me to take one at her side. Her hands fold on the table as she sits primly, waiting for me to get settled.
I jump right in. “Barbara, I—”
“Morgan,” she interrupts. “I hope you know how seriously we take these competitions.”
