Page 3 of Deviant

I laugh out loud, appreciating the fact that my former college roommate turned best friend always has the ability to make me laugh.

Me: As much as I would like to see that, you better not.

Justina: Boo you fun killer. I’ll come pick you up. Seven and I’m taking your ass to dinner and pregame drinks before we hit the bar.

Me: I’ll be ready.

Shoving my phone into my purse, I start taking down all the little things I've collected over the two years I’ve been working here.

There are company photos from parties.

Photos from my senior year in college.

Little knick-knacks all over my desk.

Don’t even get me started with what’s probably in my drawers.

Each item gets removed and either put in the box or I toss it in the trash.

Eventually, I finish, and I have a box full of mementos and no job.

Data entry wasn’t my career, but it was a job that paid the bills and let me afford my own apartment.

A tiny ass apartment but mine nonetheless.

Something I didn’t share with anyone, but the Monstera plant Justina gave me as a housewarming gift.

I’m resourceful if nothing else, and I know I can and will have another job soon to help until I can buckle down and figure out my actual path in life.

As a fucking very last resort, I can ask my dad for help, but seriously, that’s the last fucking thing I want to do. So that’s my Hail Mary in the back pocket. It’s not because he’ll give me shit about it or be a dick. My pride just won’t let me. I’d rather choke on a mouth full of cocks than swallow my pride and ask Maverick Davis for money.

Shutting down my computer, I grab my purse and pick up my sad-ass box of shit and walk out. They gave me two boxes, and what does it say that I only needed one? This was just a stepping stone.

It’s quiet and I’m thankful it’s the end of the day, and I don’t have to do a walk of shame through the building past all the other employees.

All the ones that didn’t get laid off today.

How fucking embarrassing would that be?

* * *

I’m stuffing my ass into these dark wash jeans and wondering if I really need to be going out to dinner and drinks right now when Justina’s ass walks in.

“What’s up, bitch? Party is here!” I love my friend, but I don’t know how the fuck she always has so much energy and is constantly wanting to go out.

I’m twenty-two but feel like I’ve just hit thirty and should be in bed by nine.

“Before you even open your mouth to ask me. Yes, it looks okay. It looks better than okay. It’s fucking hot as hell, and the way your ass looks like a fucking peach makes me want to fuck you myself.” Well shit, okay then.

She fucking reads me so well and I was antagonizing over if my outfit was okay. I’m not ashamed of my body, but I have extra weight in my thighs, hips, and stomach. I’m pretty confident, but I trust her to tell me when something just does not look okay, and it’s okay for an outfit to look terrible. I just don’t fucking want to go out in public in it.

“Thanks, Just,” I tell her sincerely as I watch her slick back her auburn hair into a tight high pony.

Her brown eyes track me in the mirror, and it feels like she’s peering in and peeling me open.

“Mm-hmm. You’re welcome. Now get some fucking shoes on and let’s go. I’m fucking starving, and if I don’t toss back some tequila in the next thirty minutes, I’m gonna end up dry humping our ride share driver.” Eloquent as fucking always, and I wouldn’t put it past her to actually try and bone whoever the hell picks us up.

I check my makeup in the mirror and quickly spray some of my favorite perfume on, Frederic Malle’s Portrait of a Lady. The woodsy, cinnamon scent engulfs me instantly, causing me to feel like sex on a stick.

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