Blitzed

by Alexa Martin

  But my curiosity and love of gifts beat my sadistic alter ego.

  My fingers glide over the silk bow, committing the feel to memory before pulling it loose and tucking it into my desk drawer. I lift open the lid and unfold the crisp tissue paper inside, the sound of the crinkling paper barely noticeable over the sound of my heartbeat roaring between my ears. My lungs stop working and all of the oxygen becomes trapped in my chest as a brown box with “Christian Louboutin” written in white script appears beneath my fingertips.

  “Holy shit.” I breathe deeply as the monster butterflies knock my lungs back into commission.

  “Damn,” Vonnie whispers, completely out of character. “Max is playing no games.”

  She is not lying.

  Any hesitation I was feeling disappears and excitement replaces it. Adrenaline pumps through my body as I rip off the lid and throw the little red bag I’ve been dreaming of to the side. I can only see the embroidered, jewel-encrusted sneakers I had to delete from my phone for a few seconds before my vision completely blurs out and I turn into a blubbering pile of tears and collapse into my desk chair.

  “They’re . . . the . . . shoooes!” I hiccup between my sobs.

  “What?” Vonnie asks at the same time as Paisley pushes into my office and yells, “Oh my god! Are you okay?”

  I swipe uselessly at my face as the tears fall, trying to gather some composure, but probably just irritating the skin on my face even more. “He bought me my shoes,” I say once I’ve caught my breath. But, hearing the words outside of my head brings forth a fresh wave of tears, and I bury my face in my hands as they pour down my cheeks.

  “Is she happy or upset?” I hear Paisley ask Vonnie.

  “I mean, they might be tennis shoes—which seems a little pointless because how do you even see the red bottoms?” Vonnie says, the irritation that her friend wants tennis shoes instead of pumps evident. “But they’re still red bottoms, and it’s against the law to get upset over getting a pair. Trust me, I’m a lawyer.”

  “I didn’t know you were a lawyer,” Paisley says.

  Their conversation turns my sobs into snorts. When my vision clears, they are both staring at me like I’m crazy—which, let’s be honest, I very well may be, but even if I am, I’m not the only one.

  “Do you need anything?” Paisley eyes me carefully, like I’m liable to crack at any moment.

  “Yeah, like a Xanax?” Vonnie adds.

  “Oh, whatever.” I attempt to roll my eyes, but they are too sore from crying and I have to abandon ship midroll.

  “So no meds? What about a shot of tequila?” Vonnie asks.

  I contemplate this.

  Whatever the question, I’m a firm believer that tequila can always work as the solution.

  Then I remember that I need to go shopping to find an outfit worthy of these shoes for my date with Maxwell tonight.

  Then I almost start to cry again when I realize that this is my actual life and not some cruel Black Mirror version of my life.

  “If you start to cry again, I’m out,” Vonnie says.

  “Fuck.” I squeeze my eyes shut and use my hands as fans to blow back the tears. “You can’t leave.” I know as I’m saying this that I will come to regret this in a matter of hours, but that doesn’t stop me. “I need to go shopping. I need a date outfit to go with these shoes.”

  Vonnie’s entire face lights up. “Thank you, Bible study,” she says. “My prayers have been answered!”

  All right.

  Hours was a generous estimate.

  I already regret this.

  Twenty-seven

  Shopping with Vonnie is a strange mix of torture and pleasure . . . kind of like nipple clamps.

  On one hand, I might need to put my condo up for sale. On the other hand, I look fucking phenomenal.

  Vonnie didn’t stop at the knit royal-blue pencil skirt or the black-and-white-polka-dot blouse. No, that would’ve been quitting, and Vonnie is no fucking quitter. Which may be why she still didn’t stop after the faux leather jacket I just “had to have” or the matching bra and panties or the tote she swore she saw Meghan Markle carry. It might also explain the new red lipstick I’m wearing even though I already have three shades of red that I’ve never worn.

  “Hold still!” She scolds me like I’m the daughter she never had.

  “I’m trying!” I yell back, my patience waning. “Am I even going to have hair when you’re finished?”

  My bathroom looks like a beauty salon exploded.

  There are two different straighteners, three curling irons, one set of curlers, five hairsprays, and more eye shadows than I can count.

  “Your lighting sucks.” Aviana aims an appraising look my way. “More highlighter for sure. And what do you think, V? Matte red lips or should I swipe some gloss on top?”

  Vonnie releases her death grip on my hair and walks around to examine my face. “Hmm . . .” She taps her chin with her manicured nail. “I like the matte with the cat eye, I think it’s more of an authentic retro look.”

  “Agreed,” Aviana says. “But something is missing, don’t you think?”

  Even though I don’t wear makeup often, I still love it. I’ve never left a Sephora empty-handed and I watch beauty videos on YouTube like someone is paying me. So if these two ruin makeup for me, I will hurt them.

  “You guys, it’s Maxwell,” I say for the thousandth time since they commandeered my condo. “He’s not going to care if my lips are glossed or if my hair is wavy or in an updo.”

  This, apparently, is not the right thing to say.

  I know this when both of the women in front of me assume the sass action of hands on hips and narrow their own perfectly lined eyes at me.

  “Is this not your first official date?” Aviana asks.

  “Well, yeah—”

  Vonnie interrupts me. “And did he not just make you see stars last night when he put it down?”

  “Yeah, but I—” I start, but Aviana cuts me off this time.

  “Did he or didn’t he send a pair of two-thousand-dollar shoes to your job? Which, by the way, I don’t even understand the point of Louboutin sneakers. How do you even see the red bottom without the sexy arch of the heel?”

  “That’s what I’m saying!” Vonnie yells before I get the chance to answer, even though I’m starting to get the impression that these are all rhetorical questions.

  “But he doesn’t—” UGH! Foiled again!

  “He does. He dicked you down and bought you shoes that turned you into a sobbing mess for a solid thirty minutes.” Vonnie returns to her position behind me and jams another bobby pin into my hair.

  “Ouch!” I jerk my head out of her reach and turn to face her. “It was not thirty—”

  “Zzzzip!” Her eyes go scary wide and she does the zipper motion in front of her lips. I open my mouth again, and she pinches—yes! Pinches!—my lips shut. “No talking!”

  I normally wouldn’t listen, but she’s scaring me, so I stay quiet.

  “Just give me this.” She lets go of my lips and looks at me with puppy dog eyes. “Let me bask in the wooing and newness of this with you. Let us get you over-the-top, make-other-girls-go-home-and-cry beautiful. We know Max would think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world in your pajamas, but I want to see him speechless. Pleeeeease!”

  Vonnie doesn’t beg.

  Vonnie gets what she wants without even asking for it.

  It might be fun being the first person to tell her no.

  Kidding. I give in right away.

  “Fine, but can you at least try not to stab me in the head with another bobby pin?” I glare, but my heart’s not in it. Now that she mentioned it, I kinda want to see a speechless Maxwell too.

  “Ew. So many demands.” Aviana rolls her eyes, a dimple appearing on her cheek even as she tries
to fight back her smile. “What a diva. Are you sure you don’t want to join Love the Player?”

  “Positive,” I say at the same time Vonnie says, “She’s sure!”

  “Well, I never.” Aviana brings a hand up to her always exposed chest, doing her damnedest to act offended.

  “Girl, bye.” Vonnie laughs while putting my head back in position. “Apply that highlighter.”

  * * *

  —

  I HAVE ONE of my new shoes on when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Okay, you.” Vonnie points to Aviana. “You go let Max in. And you”—she points to me—“stop acting like those shoes are going to dissolve. They aren’t. And if it takes you another five minutes to put on the left shoe, I’m going to throw them out the window.”

  “Bossy much?” I roll my eyes and smile a little bit, but I also hurry the eff up because Vonnie doesn’t do empty threats.

  Once they’re on my feet, she continues on like I didn’t speak. “I’m going to go sit down on the couch and pretend like I’m on Twitter or something, but really, I’m going to film his reaction to seeing you. So make sure you don’t fuck up my angle.”

  “Max!” we hear Aviana yell from the other room. “What a surprise! You look so handsome.”

  Seriously? These are the two I picked for this covert mission? They are the least discreet people I know. I should’ve called Jacqueline. Max wouldn’t have even known she was here and she probably has a world-famous hairstylist who wouldn’t have made my scalp bleed.

  Oh well, live and learn, I guess.

  “After I leave, count to thirty so I can get my camera all set up, got it?” Vonnie does a final once-over, giving me a nod of approval at her and Avi’s handiwork. “He’s. Going. To. Die!” she whisper shrieks, complete with air claps.

  Now I remember why I invited Vonnie . . . or why I didn’t fight when she invited herself. Because giddy Vonnie is the best Vonnie. It’s one thing to have a friend. It’s another thing completely to have a friend who gets more excited for the good things happening in your own life than you do. That’s what these women do. In our group, we celebrate joys and mourn losses, and we do it together and authentically.

  And right now, my joy includes hot freaking shoes and a—nearly impossibly—hotter man.

  Vonnie closes her eyes and uses the deep breathing techniques Charli is always pushing on us to school her features into a mask of perfectly crafted disinterest.

  “Oh, hey, Max,” she says right before my bedroom door closes behind her.

  I don’t bother counting to thirty. Not because I’m ignoring Vonnie’s instructions, but because I’m so nervous that I lose count after seven. Instead I move to the mirror, in need of an Issa-style pep talk, but when I look in the mirror, I forget that too.

  I barely recognize myself. My hair that is usually pulled into either a ponytail or a bun is falling in long waves down my back with pieces pulled into a braided ropelike crown. Aviana killed the cat eye and lined my lips to perfection. The body-hugging pencil skirt paired with the billowing blouse with maybe one too many buttons undone gives my curveless body the appearance of Jessica Rabbit—well, maybe not quite, but a girl can dream! And then my shoes. Some girls think a crown goes on their head, but my crowning glory is on my feet. I squeeze my eyes tight and turn on a red sole to the door. I may have lost track of time, but not enough to forget that Vonnie is liable to barge in and drag me out by my ear at any second.

  “What even is a hashtag? Back when I was a kid that was a pound sign . . . or a tic-tac-toe board,” I hear Vonnie say on the other side of the door.

  I pull open my door. “Oh my god. We are not old enough to talk about the good old days, do not age us like that.”

  Vonnie’s shenanigans—does saying “shenanigans” age me?—distract me from the task at hand so much that I don’t even look at Maxwell right away. Not until I hear his sharp intake of breath and the air around me becomes supercharged.

  “Jesus, Brynn. You look . . . I mean, you’re always beautiful, but wow.” He stumbles over his words, and somehow the stumbling makes everything he’s saying even more meaningful. “How’d I get this lucky?”

  And with that, my abused head, glued and ripped eyelashes, and my underwire-tortured breasts are all worth it. Not to mention, he looks fucking phenomenal too.

  “Well, you kids have fun tonight.” Aviana moves behind me, pushing me into Maxwell, then pushing us both out of my door. “Be safe! Wear your seat belts and condoms!”

  “Especially the condoms.” Vonnie hands me my purse. “I’m done having kids and I don’t need some mini Maxwells convincing me to open the baby shop back up.”

  My jaw drops to the ground as heat fills my face. I don’t know why they wasted their time on blush when they planned on doing this the entire time.

  Fucking Lady Mustangs.

  Twenty-eight

  We walk down the stairs of my condo complex in silence.

  I’m not sure if it’s because negative five seconds into the date Maxwell is already regretting it, or if he’s just waiting until my face returns to its regularly scheduled hue.

  When we reach his car, he opens the door for me like the old-fashioned gentleman he is before moving to the driver’s side door.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” I blurt as he reverses out of the parking spot. “Vonnie was there when the shoes were delivered and I couldn’t ditch her after that. I know they love me, but I think they get some sick pleasure out of embarrassing me.”

  “You don’t need to apologize.” His gaze stays focused on the road in front of him, but his hand drops from the steering wheel and finds its way to my knee. “Vonnie has put me on the spot many times. You’ve never come to training camp, but I swear she goes out of her way to say something humiliating right in front of the press.” His chest starts to shake with laughter. “The training camp when Poppy started seeing TK, she dragged TK next to me and asked Poppy if she was sure she liked white chocolate or if she was getting a craving for dark.”

  My eyes damn near fall out of my head. I wish I could say I didn’t believe it, but I do. I so do. “What did Poppy do?”

  “She stuttered and stared for a solid five minutes. TK started to think she was having a stroke and picked her up and carried her off the field.” Poor Poppy. “Then as I was signing autographs, I lost count of how many women told me they craved dark chocolate all the time and slipped me their numbers.”

  “Oh shit!” I choke, trying to hold back my laughter.

  I’m only successful for a few seconds. Tears fall down my face, testing the adhesive power of the false lashes Aviana spent almost an hour applying. “I’m sorry,” I say, wiping the tears off of my face. “I shouldn’t laugh.”

  His fingers tighten around my leg. “There’s not a single sight more beautiful than you laughing.” All the humor in his voice has fled.

  Ho. Lee. Shit.

  “I . . . I . . .” My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water trying to come up with something to say. “Thank you?”

  Maxwell smirks and glances at me from the corner of his eye. “You’re very welcome.” Then, praise baby Jesus, he turns into a parking garage and gives me the perfect topic change.

  “You never told me what we’re doing tonight.” I stare out the window. I know it’s just a parking garage, but something about this parking garage is super familiar, I just can’t quite put a finger on why.

  “We’re almost there. Why spoil the surprise now?”

  “Because surprises are the worst.” I poke my bottom lip out, a move Ace helped me perfect.

  “Really? Because Angela told me you seemed very happy signing for your shoes.” He raises a single eyebrow.

  Dammit, Angela. What kind of traitor—

  I look down to my beaded, bedazzled, embroidered feet, and my bravado fades. That lovely woman bro
ught me my shoes. She’s an angel on earth.

  “Shoes don’t count. So unless this is a fancy sneaker warehouse, I’ll like this better if you tell me in advance.”

  He glances at his phone before pulling into a reserved parking spot. “I guess that’s a risk I’m going to have to take.”

  Ugh.

  Men.

  He grabs my purse from the ground of the back seat for me and gets out of the car. He hands it to me and links our hands together when I meet him behind the car. The parking spot he took is right next to a door, and before we even reach it, a man in a navy suit is opening the door.

  “Mr. Lewis, Miss Sterling.” He holds out his hand to shake ours as we pass him and enter the building. “We’re so excited to have you in our audience tonight,” the man says.

  As he talks and I look around, things start clicking into place and my heart rate picks up considerably.

  “The cast is thrilled to meet you. It’s not often we get an all-pro football player in the theater.”

  “Oh my god.” I stop walking. The room is spinning and I’m pretty sure my system is overflowing with adrenaline and pure, unadulterated fucking joy. “You didn’t.” I shove Maxwell. “Please tell me you didn’t!” I squeal, my feet bouncing as fast as my heart. “No! Tell me you did! If you didn’t, then I’m going to cry because my hopes are all the way the fuck up!”

  I throw my hands over my mouth. I don’t want my filthy mouth to get us kicked out of the theater.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maxwell, the smug jerk, says. “I thought you were hoping for a warehouse of shoes?”

  I’m about to answer—or fall to my knees, begging him to tell me where we are—when the door at the end of the hallway opens and three women dressed in silk taffeta dresses à la the Revolutionary period file into the hallway.