“Oh my God, I cannot wait!” she exclaimed, excitedly.
“Seriously, with this lineup of authors, I have no idea how in the world I’m going to be ‘an author.’ I’m going to be fan-girling all over everyone,” I admitted, truthfully. “And maybe even their husbands.”
“Their husbands?” she asked, horrified.
“Hell yeah, I am just saying if Jasinda Wilder can write characters like Colton Calloway and Michelle Valentine can create Noel Falcon, then you know damn well that they get that crap from somewhere. Their husbands must be incredible in be—”
“Dude, you cannot hit on authors’ husbands—or any husbands for that matter,” she stated, appalled. “You should know that—plus, you’re married. Have you forgotten that? Did you leave those vows somewhere in New Mexico with Greg—Thor?”
“Jesus, is that where you left your sense of humor too? My God, I was totally kidding. I’m not going to hit on husbands. What the Hell?” I asked, glaring at her.
“I don’t know what you’ll do—or what you’ve done,” she shrugged, nonchalantly. “Was Greg married? Or did you not bother to ask him that?” she jabbed.
“Enough! You didn’t want to hear about Greg before—stop bringing him up,” I replied, not even glancing her way. “You lost that right; you don’t get to know anything. Not one damn thing,” I said, gunning the engine.
“I don’t want to know anything. I know enough already,” she grumbled. “Anyway, you can’t possibly hit on Jack Wilder. Everyone says that Jasinda is the nicest person they’ve ever met. That wouldn’t be very kind.”
“Well, if she’s so nice and friendly, then maybe she wouldn’t mind sharing,” I tried to joke, but was met with the deadliest death stare this side of the galaxy.
“Worst. Driver. Ever,” Christine groaned, as we walked into the Venetian.
“Whatever. It was a small curb; anyone would’ve driven over it,” I argued.
“I’m not talking about the curb. I’m talking about almost running over the bellman,” she stated, with the same smug little smirk that I’ve wanted to punch off her face for the last month.
“Not my fault either. Dude stands right in front of where they direct you to go,” I countered. “How was I supposed to know he wasn’t going to move—like ever?”
As we walked into the hotel, Christine spun and gawked at all of its exquisiteness. “My God, it’s gorgeous.”
“Yep, Matt and I come here once a year,” I said looking around, relishing the memories of the hotel, the gondola ride, even those late nights and lazy mornings in our bi-level room. The tan and black marble brought back a slew of memories—memories that warmed me and reminded me of all that we once shared.
Clearing my throat, I added, “When I walk into this lobby, I feel like it’s my second home,” I admit, swallowing down all the pain and regret I’ve been carrying around with me. “The first time he brought me here, he—”
“He what?”
“Nothing, just forget it,” I said, following her to the check-in counter, “it’s in the past, anyway.”
“Zolendz,” Christine said to the check-in clerk.
“Umm by the way, I think I’m going to get my own room for the week,” I said, staring at the woman behind the desk, not daring to make eye contact with Chris. “Can I get a room with one king-sized bed?”
Slowly, Christine turned to me, her eyes a sliver of hatred and disdain. “Suddenly, you want your own room?” Christine asked, glaring daggers at me. “What? Greg planning to join you?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind,” I growled, rolling my eyes at her. “Who knows? Maybe Greg and someone else—I might even be the meat in some married-man sandwich.”
“Sounds about right,” Christine mumbled.
“Excuse me, ladies,” the clerk interrupted, her eyes wide with curiosity. If I were she, then I’d bust right in and want to know exactly what was going on. I’m so nosy—I’d come right out and just ask. “I’m sorry, but we’re booked for the week. We have no availabilities. Not one.”
Christine and I both turned away from each other and huffed out an airy, “fine.”
“However, Ms. Zolendz, I do see you’ve been upgraded to a penthouse suite,” the lady smiled, suddenly treating us like royalty. “There will be plenty of space for both of you… and any guests you may want to bring back to the suite.”
“I’m sorry. That’s probably some glitch in the system. We reserved one non-smoking room with two queen-sized beds,” Christine explained.
“You did. But two days ago, you upgraded to the penthouse suite… and by the looks of it, it’s already been paid for,” she smiled, falsely. “Excuse me for one second,” she turned away and disappeared behind a door.
“What the Hell? Did you do this?” Christine asked, staring at me.
“Yeah right, my teacher’s salary pays for penthouse suites at the freaking Venetian. And did you not just hear me ask for my own room? Talk about never using your brain,” I quipped.
Returning with a basket, the clerk handed it to Christine, along with two cards, “This is your hospitality basket. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the items inside. A new one will be delivered each morning,” she explained. “Here are your VIP cards. You have access to all areas of the hotel that are exclusive to our VIPs only.”
“Holy shit,” I mumbled, taking the cards and handling them like priceless treasures.
“The cards also give you access to our spa. And with your platinum upgrade, all amenities in the spa are included.”
Christine and I mirrored each other with dropped jaws and wide eyes. “Ummm, thank you,” Chris whispered. Walking away, Christine was baffled as she stared at the basket. “I just don’t get it.”
“What’s to get? Someone screwed some shit up, and we get to reap the benefits… and now you can take that bath you’ve been bitching about since Colorado,” I added, hoping to ease some of the tension that had been thick between us since New Mexico.
“Holy shit! I think that’s Deena Bright,” Christine squealed, her face full of excitement.
“It is,” I nodded, turning my head.
“Let’s go talk to her. Shit, I wish I had Schooled 4.0 with me. I’d have her sign it right now,” she lamented. “I hate that I have to wait until the signing tomorrow to get it signed.”
“Dude, we’re not going over there,” I stated, grabbing her arm and pulling her back.
“Why not? She’s freaking hysterical,” Christine argued. “We should totally hook up and party with her tonight.”
“Are you kidding me? I heard she’s a total nut job,” I whispered, walking into the elevator. “She makes up all these different pen names and can’t figure out who she is—like she totally tries to become that author. She’s a nutcase—should be institutionalized.”
“Shit, I didn’t know that,” Christine said, shocked, pressing the button to our floor. “Yeah, let’s not go anywhere near her then.”
“I heard she even talks to the other pen names—like they’re real people too,” I explained.
“Uhhh psycho much?”
The elevator door stopped a few floors before ours. When it opened, Kelli Maine stepped inside, and I almost had a heart attack. I never wanted to run into Kelli—especially with Christine around. Christine immediately ducked behind me—terror splayed all over her face. I dropped my head, hoping Kelli didn’t notice us.
“Christine? Christine Zolendz?” Kelli said, looking around me to see Christine.
“Ummm yeah.” Christine stood up and faced Kelli.
“Bitch, I told you that I’d kick your ass if I ever saw you,” Kelli said, nose-to-nose with Christine.
Stepping between them, I said, “Whoa, whoa… in Christine’s defense, she offered to change that cover. She didn’t know you had it.”
“First of all, I don’t need you to defend me,” Christine said, shoving me out of the way.
“The cover for Taken was plastered all over everything. How
could you possibly not have known?” Kelli questioned in disbelief.
“It’s a freaking stock photo. Get over it,” Christine snarled, rolling her eyes.
“Get over it? Get over it? I’ll get over it just as soon as I do this—”
In a split second, Christine was flat on her ass, grabbing her nose. Blood soaked her hands, seeping through her fingers. For someone who acted so tough, she wailed like a wounded animal. I was torn between helping Chris and avenging my friend by kneeing Kelli in the crotch. Thankfully, the elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Christine crawled out while I grabbed our luggage. Just as the doors were beginning to close, I grabbed a handful of Kelli’s hair and let it close in the door. Kelli’s screech echoed through the rising elevator—as I held her hair tightly in my hand. Finally, I let go, and a wad of her hair disappeared into the hotel ceiling.
Our room was exquisite, minus all the blood that Christine was dripping all over the cream-colored marble floors. The two-level suite was something out of a movie, something I never dreamed I’d stay in. I looked around in awe and wondered why people ever went into education when there were professions out there that could allow you to get rooms like this on a regular basis. But then again, those professions didn’t get “I love English” mugs filled with Hershey kisses at Christmastime. Hell, who was I kidding? If I had that kind of money, I’d buy a Hershey house and eat my way through it. Screw the mugs.
“Stop gawking,” Christine cried. “Get me some ice.”
“For someone crying and bleeding all over the place, you sure are bitchy,” I stated, opening the fridge. “Sorry dearie, no freezer—no ice!”
“Come on, go to the one in the hallway then,” she begged. “Please.”
I strolled down the hallway, not rushing at all. She could bleed to death—for all I cared. Well, that wasn’t true. I loved her like crazy, but, man, ever since New Mexico she was putting the “end” in friend.
After I filled the ice bucket and left the vending room, I heard loud squeals, but I couldn’t distinguish if they were squeals of delight or fear. I bolted back to the room. Barging in, a small pig, the cutest pig ever, was snuggling up to Christine.
“Look at this! Look how cute this little guy is!” Christine squealed.
“Holy crap! That’s no little guy—it’s a girl!” I screamed. “That’s Sailor!”
“Uhhh how in the world would you know this pig’s name—or gender?” she asked, baffled.
“You moron, that’s Sailor, Colleen Hoover’s pig!” I said, going over to pet her.
“That means… holy shit… that means that…”
“Colleen Hoover’s on our floor!” We both yelled excitedly.
“Yes, we have a way into her room. We get to return her beloved little piggy. She’ll love us. I bet she even blurbs our books every time we publish now,” I stated hopefully. “Oh my God, what if we get to start hanging out with her?”
“Better yet,” Christine plotted, “we can steal her laptop while we’re in there and publish all of her manuscripts as our own—or just take her laptop as ransom.”
“So stealing husbands is off limits, but stealing people’s work is perfectly acceptable in your world?” I questioned, shaking my head. I needed a break from this hypocritical wench.
Colleen was so nice. She bawled when we returned Sailor. Going into her suite, we thought Colleen was the sweetest, most gracious author in the world. Leaving, we knew it for sure. After she snuggled her pig and calmed back down, we sat with her and talked, drinking Diet Pepsis and laughing like long-lost friends. Colleen even helped Chris smooth out the choppy parts of her next book. Christine finally seemed like her old self.
“Wait a second, I missed something here,” the judge interrupts, looking back over her notes. “I thought you two made up in that bookstore. Why was there still so much animosity?”
“Ummm…”
“Yeah, you go ahead and ‘ummm’ all you want,” I reply. “The animosity was still there, because Christine can’t separate her life from other people’s lives.”
“Now wait a minute. That’s not fair—” Christine starts.
“Uhhh, I think I have every right to say that—and you can’t even try to deny it,” I state, turning my head away from her and crossing my arms. “Your Honor, we’re almost to the end of our story here—about thirty-six hours away from our fountain fun… fiasco… fountain fiasco. If you just let us finish, then it’ll all make sense in the end.”
“Oh my God, it was only thirty-six hours—total. Damn, a lot, a freaking lot happened in those thirty-six hours,” Christine states, amazed.
“I know, right?” I agree, smiling confidently.
“Will you just let us get to the end—this is what you’ve been waiting for the entire time. I promise,” Chris says, nodding emphatically.
“By all means, do what you want. Apparently, you both do anyway,” the judge sighs, leaning her head on her hand. “Before you do though, do they really allow pigs in the Venetian?”
I shrug, “Don’t know for sure. I do know that they frown upon letting pigs in the hot tubs,” I admit, as Christine giggles.
“Hey Chris, what’re these?” I asked, holding up four glow sticks, a fake moustache, and a tube of Bengay that were laying on our suite’s coffee table. They were definitely not there before my two-hour champagne bubble bath.
“Ummm… don’t be mad, okay?”
Glaring at her, “Any sentence that starts with ‘don’t be mad’ usually ends with the other person getting mad… so tell me.”
“Can we just call them ‘souvenirs’ and leave it at that?” Christine asked, grinning guiltily.
“Spill it,” I ordered, plopping down on the couch in my giant white fluffy robe and slippers.
“I had to take something. I mean; it was Colleen Hoover’s room. I just had to swipe something,” Christine admitted.
“And this… this… junk is what you chose?” I asked, looking at the used tube of Bengay. Colleen probably needed Bengay to soothe her aching muscles after carrying in all of her books that she undoubtedly would sell out of at the signing.
“I didn’t want to go through her stuff, and it was just on the counter in the bathroom,” she confessed.
“That’s why you went to the bathroom—ya damn klepto,” I mumbled, shaking my head. “And you think I’m the nutjob? Your house must be missing some mirrors; you’re a crazy-ass who can’t see what’s right in front of you,” I said, sipping cucumber water. Who knew I’d ever like cucumber water? Amazing what a little change and a lot of confidence can do. “But I digress. You’re as whacked as they come, but I really do need to thank you.”
“Thank me? For what?” She sat on the adjacent couch, curling her legs under her.
“Everything. This. Our trip. The fact that a ‘one size fits all’ robe finally wraps around me—and actually closes,” I confided, honestly.
“So—you think that everything that happened on this trip is because of me?” Christine asked, cautiously.
“Absolutely. Without a doubt. If it weren’t for you, then I’d be sitting at home writing lesson plans for next year, eating ice cream until it seeped out of my pores,” I confirmed.
“And the change in you… is… is… because of me?”
“Oh my God—100% because of you. I owe it all to you,” I smiled, pulling my robe tightly around me.
“That’s precisely what I was afraid of,” Christine whispered.
Twitter: Someone needs to punch me in the face repeatedly if I ever mention anything referring to Brazil. And breakfast should always be wine. #HomeWrecker #WaxThis #Baldilocks #WritingSexScenes
Everything that happened on this trip was because of me. Everything. She said so. She absolutely positively believed I was the reason, the cause, the catalyst for her to cheat on a loving, decent man.
I was a home wrecker.
Christine Home Wrecker Zolendz.
Someone should write one of those God-awful country songs
about what a horrible friend I was. I was finding myself on this trip, but it was costing my friend her marriage. The guilt tore at my gut, and tears stung painfully in my eyes.
Shoving the soft plush hotel pillows over my face, I cried for the rest of the night. Snot-nosed, guilt-ridden crying, because I was the reason her marriage was going to end. So what could a friend possibly do to make up for screwing up someone’s life so badly?
I called in for a total spa day.
As soon as we woke that next morning, we were pampered with mimosas and a decadent tropical fruit breakfast. Massages, manicures, pedicures, and some sort of mud bath and cucumber crap to soften our skin. Seaweed detox, hot stone full body massages and some sort of herbal relaxation capsule. All the relaxing girlie stuff that Angelisa loved. And I barely tolerated, but Hell, it was the least, the very least, I could do.
Then they led us into the waxing room.
This was a bit of virgin territory for me, so I was a moderately concerned, but the massages and all the cucumber-mud-seaweed crap had relaxed me into a melty mess of soft liquidy bones, so I said what the Hell and followed behind Angelisa into a soft white room with creamy white leather couches to sit on.
A handful of soft-spoken white clad women tiptoed around the room and handed us glasses of white wine. The taste of sweet fruit burst in my mouth at the first sip, and I swore a purr rolled out of my mouth. Next to me, Angelisa hummed in response. Yet, somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind was a free-floating thought that in a moment one of the angelically dressed tiptoeing creatures would be calling my name into one of the small cubicle shaped rooms and would soon know more about my vagina than my gynecologist and my ex-husband put together. (I’d begun to refer to him as my ‘ex-husband’ to get my go-get-‘em game face on.)
Now, don’t get me wrong; I don’t grow my own jungle in the nether regions of Zolendzland. I thought I did what most women did, you know, stand in the shower, one leg up leaning heavily on the edge of the bathtub carefully holding some girly named pastel razor against my skin, hoping to not end up on the nightly news in one of those horribly tragic, yet bizarre death-by-shaving stories. I always gambled being one of those news headlines instead of facing the utter embarrassment of visiting a wax salon.
#TripleX Page 21
