Page 17 of Truth or Tequila (Grand Slam 1)

Chapter Seven

sophie

“I hate you so much.” My head’s resting on my steering wheel as I look down at the phone on my lap. Maisie’s head—still resting comfortably on a pillow—fills the screen.

“Soph,” she whispers. I can’t see her mouth. I only see half of one of her eyes looking through her hair, “I’m hungover, too.”

“Yeah, but you get to sweat out the tequila by the hotel pool today. I have to act like a functioning human.”

I look in the rearview mirror. Somehow, I managed to take a shower this morning, but it didn’t help at all. I’m so pale. I look like I’ve been dead for about two weeks.

“What time’s your meeting?” She moves the hair off her face. It falls back down. Now, I can’t even see half an eye. I’m just staring at her hair.

“In about five minutes,” I say, closing my eyes. It’s the only way my head feels tolerable. “That gives you about two minutes to tell me what I did last night. Who was the guy I tried to seduce? It was like Seth or Sutton—something with an “s.” The only things I remember about him are his eyes. They were so blue. I can still see them.”

“His name’s Seb.”

“What kind of name is Seb?”

“Soph, how do you not know who he is? He’s the catcher—”

My phone’s alarm goes off. We both groan. I slap at the screen until I finally hit the right spot to turn it off. “That was aggressively loud. I’ve got to go. You can tell me more about him tonight. You didn’t give him my number, did you?”

“Not technically—”

“Mae, I’ve told you to stop doing that.” I look in the mirror once more. Still no good. “I’ll be back to the hotel by five. I’m not drinking tonight. Nothing. Not even a glass of wine. Just comfort food and movies, please.”

“Yeah, I already told everyone tonight’s canceled. I can’t take another night of Savannah. She’s getting worse, right?”

“Somehow, she is. I don’t even know how that’s possible. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay,” she yawns. “You can do this, Sophie.”

* * *

“Sophia Banks.”

Gary Randall peers at me from behind his enormous desk. It stretches almost the entire length of the small office and it’s unusually tall. He stands up and extends his hand. At least I think he’s standing. His waist barely clears the top of the desk.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Randall.” I walk around the desk and shake his hand. I’m towering over him. I’m about five, nine-ish with my heels, and at least a head taller than him. He has to crane his neck to look me in the eyes. The snarky look on his face, makes me wish I’d worn flats.

He motions toward a chair. I drop into it to try to ease his Napoleon complex, but also because the walk from the parking garage has left me exhausted and dehydrated. I’d do anything for a glass of water.

“Roman Garcia raves about what you did for his company.” Gary finally sits down. He must be sitting on a really high chair because somehow he’s looking down at me.

“He’s very kind.” I manage to get out.

“Well, I don’t know about that.” He lets out a sharp laugh. It feels like someone stabbed my head with a spear. “He’s kind of an asshole. He’s gay as Tinkerbell but you can’t cross him. He’s part of that Cuban business mafia. You know—”

“Wow,” I say, putting my hand up to stop him. “Somehow, you managed to be homophobic and racist in that one statement.”

“Excuse me!” He slaps his hands down hard on the desk. My head’s pounding. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

I close my eyes as a bit of tequila manages to regurgitate into my mouth. I’ve already thrown up twice this morning. You’d think it would all be gone by now.

“Mr. Randall,” I say, grabbing the sides of the chair to try to get control of my body again. “I didn’t mean to offend you, as I’m sure you didn’t mean to offend Mr. Garcia, but you hired me to help you with your organization’s faltering reputation. Although you said your main concern is a potential sexual discrimination suit, we should start being careful—organization-wide—about any kind of discriminatory behavior.”

I smile at him. Just that small movement makes my head feel like it’s about to explode.

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