by Max Monroe
“You have no idea, dude. No idea,” he says to Quince with a bro-curated expression of I’ll tell you later.
“Tell me,” I say and lock eyes with him from across the table.
His obstinance appears in the form of a raised eyebrow. “No.”
“Tell me right now.”
He looks to Quince again, but this time, the line of his jaw is all control your woman.
This is a nice restaurant and I’m wearing a five-thousand-dollar dress, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Quick as a flash, I stand and lean, over the bread carcass and carafe of wine and all manner of stain possibilities, and clasp my fingers onto the peak of his nipple.
He jumps and howls, and Quincy rears back in his chair, apparently shocked by this new side of me.
“You tell me what you know about Greer Hudson, and you do it now.”
His smile is overwhelming. It beams. And, if I’m not mistaken, it’s even a little bit salacious.
An image of Quince’s friend engaging in rough sex appears uninvited in my mind, and my hand jerks back as though his nipple burns. I sit back in my seat again.
“Fine. Whatever. What’s the point of attorney/client privilege, anyway?”
I scowl and tap my toe on the floor.
“Turn came in today to talk about her around lunchtime. That’s all.”
“Turn?” I ask.
“Trent Turner,” Quincy explains and reaches out to rest his arm affectionately around my shoulders. “It’s the nickname we gave him when we were kids.”
Jesus. While Greer was dining on pastrami with me, Trent Turner, Greer’s new boss, was seeing his lawyer about her. Mere hours after she was hired for the job.
What the hell did she do to this guy?
“And?” I prompt. “What happened?”
Caplin rolls his eyes and takes another piece of bread from the bread basket. I have to wait an entire thirty seconds as he slathers the thing with an ungodly amount of butter before he answers. “Well, he wanted to fire her—”
“What?” I nearly shout. Several patrons turn to look at us, and I feel the subtle heat of embarrassment as it pools in my cheeks. Quincy and Caplin don’t even notice. Evidently, they’re completely unfazed by uninvited attention.
“Relax,” he says through a chuckle. “He can’t. He knows he can’t. Hell, he knew it wasn’t possible before he even stepped foot in my office this afternoon. Still didn’t stop him from unloading his baggage full o’crazy on me, though.”
A relieved breath leaves my lungs. “Okay, well, that’s good.”
“Although,” Cap continues. “I did tell him I could hire a PI to find out more about her.”
What the fuck.
A private investigator? Jesus. Greer is the last person who needs some snoop digging around in the bowels of her life. They are shit-filled and clogged.
My only option is to protect her.
“Do that, and I will personally see to relieving you of a testicle.”
Cap smiles. “Like, in a kinky way?”
“No,” I say just as Quince jumps in with a “Hey!” of his own.
“All right, all right, all right,” Caplin agrees, a regular Matthew McConaughey. “Let’s all just calm down because I was never going to hire a PI. I only offered it to appease his temporary insanity.”
“So, no PI?”
Cap shakes his head.
“Well, what else did he say, then?” I continue my interrogation, because son of bitch, I’m mentally freaking out for my best friend. “Is he planning on making her life there miserable?”
“Couldn’t tell you.” He shrugs off my questions. “After I destroyed his irrational dreams of wrongful termination, he started talking about some chick he kissed at the party the other night.”
“He kissed someone?” Quince chimes in with a question of his own. “At a work function?”
“You know, I’m going to tell him you said that, Quince.” Cap winks. “More evidentiary support that he is the epitome of a man prude.”
“Who did he kiss?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Some fuck decided masks were a good idea,” Cap says, flashing a mocking wink at Quince, who gives him the finger back. “All he said was that she came as Beyoncé.”
Quince and I both freeze, statues in human form. “Beyoncé?” I ask to confirm.
“Yep.”
“As in Beyoncé Beyoncé? The singer?”
Cap smirks. “Is there more than one Beyoncé?”
“Wait…” I pause and blink through the utter shock of it all. “Are you sure it was Beyoncé?”
“How many times do I need to say Beyoncé before you stop saying Beyoncé?” he tosses back. “And what’s the deal? You got a thing against Bey or something? You really don’t want to mess with the Beyhive. They can stir up some shit.”
I ignore Cap completely and look at Quince. “What was Trent wearing at the party?”
I mean, I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to that question, but I have to make certain. This realization is too crazy not to double-check the facts.
“Walter White. From Breaking Bad.”
Good God, this is bananas.
“Nothing beat my Thor costume,” Cap chimes in with absolutely no valuable information for this conversation. “I was the tits.”
God, why is he here again?
Because, apparently, he does occasionally provide valuable information.
I’d bet on the fact that it’s rare, but I can’t deny it just happened.
“Holy shit.” I look at Quince. “I definitely didn’t see that coming.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Quince says, a rolling laugh vibrating his stomach a bit. “You’re a dick and a shitty lawyer for offering up that info, but I can’t deny I’m glad you did.”
“What?” Caplin asks. “What in the fuck are you talking about right now?”
Quince grins. “It seems our friend might not dislike Greer Hudson quite as much as he thought.”
“What does that mean?” Caplin asks again, slightly agitated that he’s out of the loop.
I resist the urge to laugh in his face now that he’s the one on the outside of the know.
Quincy, however, is too good of a guy to let him suffer. “We know who came to the party as Beyoncé.”
“Who?” Cap furrows his brow, and I chime in with the answer.
“My best friend. Greer Hudson.”
“Are you serious?” The words fly out of his mouth. “The chick Turn kissed at the party is the same one he went on and on about finding a way to fire?”
Quincy laughs. “Sure sounds that way.”
“Well, fuck me sideways and call me Sally, it looks like I was right.” Caplin reaches for his phone, shaking his head in actual glee. “Oh, man, I can’t wait to tell him about this shit.”
And suddenly, it hits me like a flipping lightning bolt.
I reach out quickly, smacking Cap’s phone out of his hands, and he scowls. I don’t bother apologizing.
“Don’t tell him.”
“What?” Quince asks.
Instead of answering, I ask a question back. “Didn’t you say Trent is renting one of the apartments in my parents’ building while he’s working on the Vanderturn New Orleans hotel?”
His brows pull together as he answers. “Yeah.”
“Well, boys,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “I’ve got a plan.”
It’s a bit evil.
And I’m going to have to keep one hell of a secret from my best friend.
But something just feels so right about this.
What Greer doesn’t know won’t kill her.
Yeah, but she might kill you…
Meh. She’ll have to catch me first.
Greer
Thirty-three years and it’s come to this.
Moving in to an apartment a friend’s family owns, rent-free, while I try to sell the house I’ve put all of my time and effort into.
> The letter from the bank I found in my mail upon my return from New York four days ago made it pretty clear, though. Sell soon, or lose the house to foreclosure and send your credit to the depths of hell forever.
In fact, I’m pretty sure there was a doodle of the devil standing beside a car with a “Credit” decal holding a pair of hedge clippers and everything.
So, I did the only thing I could do—contacted a Realtor friend and started moving out my shit so I can make my house, my pride and joy, market-ready.
Fuck my life.
A lot of people toss around those three words in moments of menial crisis. When they’re having a bad start to their week or dealing with a summer cold or when freaking gas prices go up by ten cents. Over things that are annoying, maybe even a little bad, but not end-of-the-world scenarios.
But my current depressing situation is truly worthy of fuck my life.
When Hudson Designs really started to struggle a couple of years ago, I took out a loan against the equity in my house to cover expenses in the interim. I figured it was a short dry spell, and if I could bridge the gap, I’d come out on the other side okay.
When that didn’t work, I took out another, and before I knew it, I was drowning in personal debt, in addition to the loans for the business.
When it came down to eating or paying the mortgage, I chose the one that would keep me functioning, keep me scrapping to save what I’d built.
Unfortunately, when things didn’t turn around like I’d hoped, all of those short-term-focused decisions eventually caught up with me.
I look around the insanely big apartment, my new apartment, and my stomach rolls with discomfort.
The floors are original but beautifully restored wood, and the trim woodwork throughout the vast living space is original but impeccable. The cabinets in the kitchen are custom-made, the counters expensive marble, and the bathroom is roughly the size of a streetcar.
Emory’s parents could be pulling in a hefty amount of rent each month for this place, and instead, they’re letting me stay in it for free.
Good God, this feels like more than I deserve…
“Are you sure it’s okay I stay here?” I ask Emory uncomfortably. I appreciate her generosity, but that doesn’t mean I feel good about it. I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve ever had in life, and somehow, taking her offer in this time of need seems like a concession of morals.
“Of course. There hasn’t been a tenant in a couple of months, and my parents love you.”
“They do?”
She laughs. “God knows why.”
“Very funny.”
Emory grabs my arm and shoves. “Well, when you ask a dumb question, you get a dumb answer. My parents have known you almost as long as they’ve known me, Greer. You’re like a second daughter. I’m not sure why you’re surprised by that. Especially after I already told you before we left for New York that they were more than willing to help you out.”
God, the Collinses are fucking generous. Too generous. And there was no way in hell I could take them up on their offer to help me climb out of my garbage financial situation. It was way too much, and I didn’t feel worthy of that kind of charity.
Also, I didn’t want to feel like a charity case either.
My pride is far too thick and strong to allow that.
Insecurity of my vulnerabilities makes me play off her words. “You’re right. I mean, I’m entirely lovable. I’m probably even their favorite daughter.”
She squawks and drops one of my boxes unceremoniously. I set mine down gently and jump forward to put my finger in her face.
“That thing better have pillows in it, Emory Marie!”
Arms flailing, she comes at me like a wrecking ball, and I leap over boxes like an Olympic hurdler to get away.
“Favorite daughter, my ass!” she yells, chasing after me on a hyena-like laugh.
“All right,” I yell, dodging her fist with a bob and a weave. “All right, you lunatic! You’re the favorite daughter, obviously! I’d definitely respect someone who came out of my vagina more than someone who didn’t!”
“Oh my God!” she exclaims on a cackle. “Why are you so gross?”
“Because I was raised by wolves, Emory.”
“You were raised by men.” She wrinkles her nose, and I grin.
“I’m pretty sure we’re saying the same thing here.”
Emory’s eyes roll toward the ceiling. “We both know that’s not it. Your brother has way more manners than you do.”
I shrug it off. “I guess I just don’t conform to the societal ideal of a lady, then.”
“No kidding.” She snorts. “Quince and Trent’s friend Cap is right. You probably would get along great with him.”
“What?” I ask, stopping short as suspect rosiness colors her cheeks and her mouth closes. “Did you just say Trent? As in Trent Turner?”
“You know he’s friends with Quincy. And I’m dating Quincy. I can’t help it if my boyfriend is good buddies with your new boss.”
I glare. “So, you’ve been talking about me with my boss’s friends?”
“No, of course not,” she says. Too bad, her face says another thing.
“You have! Why were you talking about me?”
“We weren’t,” she refutes.
“Emory Marie!” I shout, arms raised like a lunatic. “What did you say about me?”
“It was just casual conversation—small talk—not the combination to your safety deposit box. Jesus.”
“My safety deposit box has nothing but lint and an old Altoid in it. I’d honestly rather you’d given them the combination,” I retort. “And when did all this happen?”
“That night I had to suffer through dinner with my lovely boyfriend and his, obnoxious, third-wheeling, caveman buddy, Caplin Hawkins. I already told you all of this.” She puts a defiant hand to her hip. “And you act like the details of our friendship are a state secret. Are you a Russian spy? Do I need to ask the FBI to conduct an investigation?”
“I just…” I pause and look down at my Converse sneakers as I try to formulate what in the hell I even want to say. “I just don’t like wondering what other people know about me,” I say seriously, and the tone of my voice sobers Emory up quickly.
“I wouldn’t say anything bad about you. I’m your best friend, and I’m always looking out for your best interests.”
“Talking about me with my boss’s best friends doesn’t feel like my best interests.”
“I swear I didn’t say anything bad.”
I mull over her words for a long moment. “So…Quincy is good friends with Trent?”
She nods. “Friends since they were kids.”
“So…he talks to him a lot?”
“I guess, yeah…” She pauses and searches my eyes. “What are you getting at here?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug one nonchalant shoulder. “Maybe Quince could, like, you know, talk me up to his asshole friend. Put in a good word.”
She quirks a brow. “You want Quince to talk you up to Trent?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” I respond with another shrug. “He could tell him I’m wonderful and a brilliant designer and have impeccable taste and shit like that. Basically, just the facts, you know?”
“Just the facts, huh?”
“Yes. Just the facts,” I repeat. “Then, maybe, my bastard boss will pull that giant stick out of his tight, firm ass and stop throwing shade my way.”
She smirks. “His tight, firm ass?”
“Shut up.”
“Okay…” She pauses for a moment, and before she can continue, a soft, amused laugh escapes her pretty red lips.
“Stop laughing, you biotch.” I glare, and she raises both hands in the air.
“I swear, I’m not laughing at you, just at the situation,” she explains through another fucking laugh. “And I am truly hearing what you’re throwing down here, but there’s a pretty big hole in your plan…”
“And what’s that
?”
“Trent Turner can’t be the only one to stop throwing shade.”
I scoff. “I don’t throw shade.”
She eyes me for a long moment, and I sigh.
“Ugh. Never mind. Forget it.”
Emory grins and wraps me up in a tight hug. “I promise, it’s all going to be okay. I’ve got your back, friend. Hell, I’ll always have your back, even in the moments you might not realize.”
My eyes narrow at the careful construction of her wording, but I decide to let it go and focus on the important shit.
Tomorrow is a fresh beginning—the first official day of my new job and a chance to open up new doors.
I’ll own a house again one day. I’ll be on my feet soon.
And life as I know it is going to be bigger and better than ever.
Greer
The very first day of my new job has arrived, and the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and some other shit that happy people notice is definitely going on just outside of my new apartment.
Normally, I would focus on the drunk guy puking against the building across the street, but not today. Today, I am a shimmering beacon of positivity.
My new apartment is still a bit of a mess with boxes and stuff scattered around, and I’ve had exactly zero opportunity to put my own little design touches throughout the massive space, but last night, I managed to sleep a solid six hours.
Sure, it’s two hours short of the recommended amount, but a miracle considering the circumstances.
This is a big day. A monumental day, in fact.
I have everything to prove.
Yeah, you also have everything to lose.
I shake off my inner-bitchy-subconscious and revert my focus back to positivity.
Today, you are a positive ray of sunshine, Greer.
A real beacon of light. So bright and shiny that if you lifted your skirt, your crotch could be used as a flipping flashlight.
I ignore the tightness in my chest and give myself one last final pep talk.
Today, you will be light and airy. Focused but breezy. Serious but ecstatic.
You are going to nail this first day so hard, it’ll be screaming your name by the time you get home tonight.
