Page 41 of Back for More
1
Lily
*Have Fun With That*
Boy, do I need this drink.
After spending the first part of the day torturing myself by lying out and trying not to stare at my new boss while he put those muscles of his to good use down by the lily garden, I need at least ten drinks. See, what the calla lily lacks in fragrance, it makes up for in vaginal likeness. And there I was, secretly ogling a sweaty, shirtless Wes Carver while he was surrounded by pink, purple, and red gaping vagina blossoms. Total botanical porn. Though, even if it were a bed of carnations, it still would have been hot.
Since I have access to his work calendar, I know that Wes will be spending several hours of each day in Ashland next week, while his client does a walkthrough of some resort. I am already looking forward to that break from being around him. I’m starting to feel another starvation and lust-fueled sugary gluten-y carb-binge coming on again, and I don’t think either of our genitals can handle another make-out session. It’s feast or famine, and I cannot afford to feast.
I managed to dodge Alecia’s questions about Wes over the dinner-and-wine portion of our girls’ night out—mainly due to the fact that she took a power nap in the Uber on the way to the bistro and in the booth in the bistro after we ordered—but now she’s awake and ready to party like a mother.
We’re in Belford’s only night club that doesn’t play honky-tonk music. Not much has changed about this place since Lilecia came here with our fake IDs back in high school. Not even the bouncer. Or the bartender. Or the portion of the wallpaper near the front entrance where Alecia wroteNealecia 4EVAon grad weekend.
“To Girls’ Night! Woooohooooo!” Leesh holds up her Whiskey Sour to clink glasses with my vodka Greyhound.
“To Lilecia,” I say.
She bounces up and down, spilling her cocktail onto her hot pink jumpsuit. She had to let Charlotte dress her up and do her makeup, as a condition of being allowed out tonight, and I have to say—despite the heavy-handed use of glitter in her mom’s hair and on her eyelids and cheekbones, Charlotte did a spot-on job.
I muster up awoohoobut also remind her to pace herself.
“Boooo!” she says, pounding her drink and then smacking her lips.
I reach for the credit card in my purse to open a tab. Alecia slams her glass down on the countertop and slaps my hand.
“Drinks are on me!” she yells into my ear. “You need to pay off your credit cards, right?”
It’s humiliating but true. “Oh God, are you sure?” Before I left, I was always the one who paid for everything. I got my first Barnes Group paycheck yesterday, but it was not substantial, thanks to that stupid 401(k) contribution. I mean, do I really need to save for retirement when I’m twenty-three? Isn’t it slightly more important to be able to pay for at least one round of your best friend’s drinks in this special time of life?
“Neal said it was okay.” She slaps her card down on the bar in front of the bartender. “Another round!” she tells him. “Oh shit I have to text Neal to tell him where we are. And then we’re dancing!”
I look out onto the dance floor, which is populated by about a dozen women who are sashaying around to En Vogue, to the downplayed delight of like eight guys who are standing around with their beers in one hand and their other hand in their pockets. I spot exactly zero prospects, which is fine because I’m not looking.
“I will get drinks next time, I promise,” I tell her. “I should be getting a few tiny residual checks forwarded to me at some point.Hooray for Hollywood!” I sing.
“Girl, you better not be feeling sorry for yourself. You did exactly what you said you were going to do—you lived in New York and LA, and you were a professional actress! I’ve done literally nothing—I haven’t written one page of a novel!”
“Um, excuse me. You’ve made two humans, and you have the perfect husband. You can still write. Eventually.”
“Yay me!” Alecia takes a big gulp of her second Whiskey Sour. “Okay, now we dance!”
“Okay!”
She yanks me back as I head toward the dance floor. “But first, you have to tell me what’s up with you and Wes.”
“Do I?”
“Dish.”
I shrug. “There’s nothing to dish.”
“Liar! You looked away. Don’t lie to me, dammit. I’m a mother!”
I laugh. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Don’t change the subject. You’ve spent years of your life trying to stay away from him, and now your broke ass is back and you’re his fucking assistant. Discuss!”
