Page 29 of The B!tch List

I raised a brow and shrugged. “Think it was more than twice on one of those occasions, but I’m not one to split hairs.”

Nancy’s eyelashes fluttered like she was remembering everything. In fact, I was pretty sure she was close to asking me to just bring the whole bottle of vodka. I didn’t blame her though because we were more than compatible in the sack—like I said, I was in lust with her pussy.

“Just get me a drink, Shaw.” She moved a step away again. “I’ve had a shit week and need something strong.”

“Okay,” I said, holding up my hands in surrender. “Vodka and tonic coming right up.”

God knew how much later and we were both well on our way to being drunk. Problem was, neither of us were happy drunks. We looked like we’d been sent for and couldn’t go as my Grammy used to say about people who looked morose.

“Oh my God,” Nancy sighed. “What the hell is wrong with us? We’re in the prime of our lives and yet we’re both standing here staring into our drinks and looking miserable.” She pointed at herself. “Ishould be out with friends, dancing and having a great time. Instead.” She looked me up and down. “I’m here, with you.”

“Hey,” I protested. “Don’t think I like it any more than you do. I could be at a kegger tonight, playing beer pong or strip poker.”

“So, why aren’t you?”

I looked up at the ceiling, thinking about it. “I fucking hate frat parties and I have something going on that’s kinda making me shit company.”

“Oh, has that something been going on for the last twenty-two years or so? Because got to say, Shaw, you’ve always been shit company.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. She always had a cute but snarky remark for me, which often made me smile, even if it was only when she’d turned her back.

“Glad I can cheer you up.” Nancy winked and took a slug of her vodka. “Okay spill it. Tell me what the current something is.”

She then grabbed a spare stool and plonked herself down onto it, settling in. Normally, I’d have told her to fuck off and mind her own business, but whether it was the alcohol or the fact that my head felt about to burst with it, I opened my mouth and let it all spill.

The whole shazam; Monique, Professor Ritter, the baby that may or may not be mine and the fact that Tate had done me a solid by flying to Wichita with me to tell Monique’s mom she was crazy if she thought that sweet blonde-haired cutie was mine.

“Holy fuck,” Nancy gasped her eyes going wide as she gripped the tabletop. “And you’re sure she’s not yours?”

I thought back to the little girl running around and babbling about dollies and Legos as I watched her, desperately trying to see any resemblance to Professor Ritter. Of course there wasn’t one; Mrs. Devonshire was right, Tia did not belong to our history professor. She was fair not dark and did not have a chin with perfect right angles at the bottom corners.

“No, I’m not sure. Iamsure she isn’t the professor’s kid though. I’ve seen the kids he has with the Dean and let me tell you, they arenotpretty girls.”

“Shaw! You can’t say that,” Nancy gasped.

“But they’re not. Honestly, all three of those girls look like Ritter in a dress. They don’t have one feminine feature amongst them. You know the eldest one has a huge Adam’s apple, bigger than mine.”

Nancy blinked slowly. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. And you do know there are laws against saying things like that…” She sighed. “Yes, of course you do, you’re a trainee lawyer.”

I shrugged. “Just saying what I saw. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“So, what you’re saying is, the fact that the baby is pretty means she could be yours.”

“Nooo, no way.” I shook my head vigorously. “What I’m saying is, she’s definitely not Ritter’s kid. However, the fact she isn’t his means that there’s a ninety-five percent chance that she’s mine.”

“What’s the other five percent?” she asked taking a drink.

“That Monique sat on a dirty toilet seat.”

Before I had time to blink, Nancy’s vodka came out of her mouth and hit me smack bang in the middle of my chest, dripping down my shirt.

“Please tell me you actually know the facts of life,” she gasped, wiping at the alcohol on her chin.

“Yes, I do, you idiot. It was a joke.”

“What gives with the five percent then?” she asked.

As the liquid slowly ran down her neck toward her cleavage, I shifted feeling a little tight in the crotch department and shrugged. “I don’t know, I didn’t want to appear too cocky, I know how these things turn out. You’re confident about something and it generally turns to shit. Plus, there is a five percent chance she may have banged someone else.”

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