Page 8 of West Bound

“That’s the dumbest fucking question,” I tell her, spilling my inner thoughts. “Everyone thinks you’re hot and wants to fuck you. Men, women, animals, aliens. Ev-er-y-one,” I exaggerate and draw out the word.

“I can’t do it, Viv. I can’t sleep with my boss. That’s totally unprofessional and I’d be mortified if anyone ever found out. I’d have to quit my job. There’d be no way I could face my colleagues knowing they’d heard all about how I rode our boss’s face in his office while people walked just on the other side of the wall.”

I snort and my damn nose burns from the salsa that gets trapped in it.

“Wow. Seems like you’ve really thought about it. I hadn’t realized you’d already planned a life with Mr. Amato but clearly…you have.” I wipe the snot that trickles from my nose.

“I haven’t. It just came to me. Whatever. Let’s stop talking about this. I’ll just need to find some hot boys to keep my mind off of him, or buy a new B.O.B. to keep me warm on my lonely nights.” She places her glasses back on her face and resumes scarfing down her chips and queso. “How did this conversation fall on me, anyhow? We were talking about you seeing Phoenix tomorrow.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” I whine. “How the hell am I going to face him and not immediately kick him in the balls and stick a wet finger in his ear?”

Now it’s CeCe’s turn to snort.

“Why is that your default? Giving people a wet willy?” she asks.

“I dunno. It’s just fun to watch people squirm. Plus, think about it. Wet plus finger plus ear equals gross.”

She shakes her head slowly and motions to my empty cup.

“Need a refill?” she mumbles through a mouth full of cheesy perfection and I toggle my cup side to side to show her it’s empty.

“Let’s top off our sodas and we’ll see what flavor we can add to it with this.” She digs into her glorified, luxury shopping bag and produces a silver flask that I know has the initials C3V on it. A gift from Bishop one Christmas during college, the unofficial fifth girl to our gang.

The C3 represents Camille, Cecilia and Cathia. The V is for me, the lone oddball of the bunch.

While my girls are all drop dead gorgeous beauties with dark hair, tan bodies and long limbs, I’m just a tiny, pale faced redhead with freckles and a loud voice.

“What’s in it?” I ask.

She shrugs and quirks her lips. “I dunno. Guess we’ll see.”

“Yikes. Alcohol roulette. Haven’t played that in a while. But…I guess seeing Phoenix for the first time in years calls for something wild and crazy. Count me in, sister!”

CeCe holds up her hand and high fives me. “That’s the spirit, my little fireball. Let’s get sloshed,” she says in her best British accent.

And that’s just what we do. Drink…at eleven forty-five…on a Monday morning. Good thing our underground city has a CVS because breath mints and eye drops are a must on my way back to the office.

The last thing I want is to get caught buzzing at work and be the next Dan-fuckyerdaughter-Rendon.

CHAPTER THREE

PHOENIX

“HUMBLE” - Kendrick Lamar

My phone vibrates in my hand and I see my agent's name on the screen.

I swipe it and hold it up to my ear. “So…where am I going?”

“Congratulations, Nix. You are now a Wrangler.” Mauricio, my very non-Texan agent, says with the worst southern accent I’ve ever heard.

“And I got what I wanted?”

Mauricio had been negotiating my contract with a few different teams for the last two weeks. I had narrowed it down to three teams–the Houston Wranglers, the Louisiana Roughnecks, and the Mississippi Crawdads. I wanted to go back home but I wanted every penny that I was worth. Even after my Tommy John surgery, I was still one of the best damn pitchers in the league.

“Nope.” My jaw clenches and anger begins to pulse through my veins. “I got you more.”

“Say that again,” I say, more than a bit taken back.

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