by Alexa Martin
I narrow my eyes at Sadie before turning to both Vonnie and Charli. “I don’t have a stalker.” I try to calm them down. “I know you just met her, but Sadie is very dramatic. Always keep that in mind when listening to one of her stories.”
“I do have a certain flair for the dramatics,” Sadie agrees. Then, as if to prove my point, she raises a fist above her head before opening it and letting glitter rain down on her. I roll my eyes, thinking about how much longer it’s going to take me to sweep up tonight. Vonnie and Charli, however, stare at her with wide-eyed wonder, like a child seeing Santa Claus . . . or me if I ever meet Beyoncé. “But, and correct me if I’m wrong here, Poppy, but someone who is not TK did drop off a giant bouquet of flowers on your doorstep, right?”
“Well, yeah but—” I say, but Sadie cuts me off before I can continue.
“And the note in the flowers didn’t have a name, right?” she asks even though she already knows the damn answer.
“People forget to write their names all the time!” I defend the creep.
“That’s true,” Sadie agrees, swiveling her chair to face Vonnie and Charli. “But do they also say things like, ‘You’ll be mine. I’ll make sure of it.’? And mention your real name as well as the alias you used at the club?”
After getting the job at HERS, it was easier to tell Vonnie and Charli about my past employment at the Emerald Cabaret. When I did spill, they didn’t balk, instead, their reaction was much like Brynn’s. I guess they had both gone with Justin and Shawn after TK introduced the club to the team. Obviously, I wasn’t working the night they went. But in a crazy twist of events, Sadie was and they loved her. So merging my friends ended up being easier than I ever expected.
“But—” I try and fail to defend myself.
“Tsk tsk tsk,” Sadie says, cutting me off. “I’m asking Vonnie and Charli, not you.”
I give her my best stink eye and stick out my tongue. I don’t know why I introduced them.
“Girl.” Vonnie looks at me, concern written all over her face. “Why didn’t you tell us about this?”
“Wait, wait, wait. And here’s the kicker,” Sadie says before I can answer . . . again. “Whoever left the note took out the lightbulb from her porch light.”
Welp.
I guess I can cross Sadie off my Christmas list this year . . . and forever.
Freaking traitor.
“What the fuck, Poppy?” Charli asks, her face a little paler than it was a few minutes ago. “This is really scary. Did you call the police?”
“No.” I avoid eye contact, focusing on putting the finishing touches on Sadie’s cotton candy martini.
“I’m just going to put it out there,” Vonnie announces in the no-nonsense tone I’ve come to know her for. “When I was in law school, I studied some scary-ass cases. Stalkers always escalate. You need to report this. They might not be able to make an arrest, but you want this on record if something else does happen.”
I set the pink, sickly sweet martini in front of Sadie instead of throwing it on her like I really want to. Sadie picks it up, taking a small sip before aiming a gleeful smirk my way. “But tell me again how dramatic I am, Pops.”
I roll my eyes and turn to Vonnie, not giving Sadie the satisfaction of admitting she’s right.
“I know. TK’s been saying the same thing.” My shoulders sag under the weight of defeat. I hate being wrong almost as much as I hate TK and Sadie being right. “But nothing else has happened and I’m hoping I can just ignore it away.”
“’Mmmkay,” Vonnie says over the rim of her French martini (with a splash of champagne, ’cause she’s classy AF). “Why don’t you go watch a Law & Order: SVU marathon and tell me how all the women who ignore hypermasculine men with stalker tendencies end up?”
“Gah.” I fall onto the bar, which is probably in the employee handbook under “Things Not to Do.” “Fine. If something else happens, I call the police.”
“That’s all we ask,” Charli chimes in, looking like her bronzed goddess self again. “Now to a slightly less terrifying topic, did Jane e-mail you about the Lady Mustangs meetings?”
“The third Wednesday of every month,” I say at the same time Sadie asks, “What the hell is a Lady Mustang?”
I point to Sadie, who, I hate to admit it, looks like the Little Mermaid with the bar lights bouncing off the glitter in her red hair, and say, “Also, what she said.”
I don’t see her coming, but when I look over my shoulder, Brynn is behind me with three bottles of vodka in her arms, a shit-eating grin on her face and a twinkle in her eyes. “Did I just hear Lady Mustangs?”
“Ummm . . .” I hesitate, not understanding her enthusiasm. “Yeah.”
She shoves the vodka on the shelf, causing the other bottles to wobble dangerously around it. Once her hands are free, she unties my bedazzled (courtesy of Sadie) money pouch and directs me to the other side of the bar. “You’re off.” She pushes my ass into the empty seat next to Charli. “Because one needs no responsibility and lots of alcohol when first learning about the Lady Mustangs.”
“Oh shit.” Sadie drains the rest of her martini. “I think I’m gonna need another one, too.”
Brynn reaches for the red wine Charli’s been sipping but stops short. “Nope,” she says to nobody. She walks down the bar, her long legs crossing the distance in record time, grabs a bottle off the top shelf and a shot glass off the counter. When she’s back in front of me, she slams them both on the bar top. “This calls for tequila.”
“Oh lord.” I stare at the shot glass only half an ounce away from being a tumbler and watch with wide eyes as Brynn fills it to the rim. “It can’t be that bad!”
I don’t know if I’m telling her or trying to speak it into existence, but when Vonnie stays silent—not common—and Charli pushes the shot closer to me, I know I’m in for a hell of a story.
But upside! At least we aren’t talking about me anymore.
Twenty-seven
The tequila gods hath sent Brynn to earth to punish me.
It’s the only plausible reason I can come up with as to why she not only let me, but encouraged me, to drink five monster shots of tequila followed by three Skinnygirl margaritas.
After learning about Marlee Pope’s induction into the Lady Mustangs, which resulted in the Mustangs organization hiring Jane and creating the Family Programs department, aka the WAGS babysitters and liaisons, I couldn’t have been more thankful my reunion with TK happened three years AM (After Marlee). And while I was shocked to learn about the wives leaking information to the press and spreading nasty rumors about girlfriends, I was not shocked to find out Dixie was front and center in all the drama.
You just can’t trust someone with hair as big as hers.
No.
That’s a lie. Her big hair is both mysterious—how the hell does she get it so high?—and fabulous. We’ve all seen Dolly, right?
It’s the unmoving forehead that really freaks me out. I mean, what’s the point? Nobody is telling George Clooney to fill his wrinkles. Just another bullshit, unrealistic standard we hold women to. Anyway, sorry, not the point. The point is Dixie seems like a bitch and I was happy to learn my bitch-o-meter wasn’t broken.
A plus for me, Brynn is so into the Lady Mustangs and all that comes with them, she closes down HERS every third Wednesday of the month during football season and lets them meet there. This way she can stay in the know without relying on anybody’s faulty memory—her words, not mine.
So while it might end up being awful, at least it’s convenient.
Once the tequila fully invaded my system, Charli and Vonnie volunteered to see me home and Sadie called an Uber to pick her up.
Sadie might make questionable life decisions almost daily, but she doesn’t ever drive if she’s had so much as a single glass of wine.
Once she threw herself
into the front seat, her boobs damn near falling out of her scoop-neck tank and causing her Uber driver to turn bright red and stutter for almost a minute straight, they took off and so did we. Luckily Vonnie stopped drinking when the Lady Mustangs story began, saying she needed to be sober to insure the quality of the information I was being fed.
When we pulled up to my house, the porch light was on and TK was standing in the doorway before I was out of the car.
Now, this part is kind of a blur—I can’t remember if Vonnie and Charli hit on or threatened him. I’m pretty positive he ended up carrying me to bed. In fact, considering the not-at-all-sober state I was in, me lying in my bed and not sprawled out on the floor is all the proof I need that TK deposited me here.
Noise coming from outside my closed door sends my pounding headache into overdrive. I’m not a doctor, so I don’t know the technicalities about what happens during a migraine, but when I close my eyes, I can almost see my expanding brain thrashing against my skull.
I’d cry out in pain, but my mouth is so dry, I think my tongue might be stuck to the roof of my mouth.
I thought leaving a club and working at a respectable establishment would prevent events like last night from happening.
Guess I was wrong.
I crack open my eyes, but the sun pouring in through the bargain blinds I ordered from Groupon sends a shooting pain through my head so sharp I have to swallow back the bile threatening to ruin my favorite sheets.
I try to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but the noise inside my house has steadily been rising in volume. There are multiple voices, two I recognize, others I do not.
I hide my head under my pillows, determined to sleep until I feel human again, when the pounding in my head hits even harder.
Wait.
Not in my head.
Actual pounding outside my window. Followed by the unmistakable and never more unwelcome sound of a power drill.
“What the hell?” I say into my pillows.
This time, when I open my eyes, the sun is blocked out, thanks to the pillow barrier over my head. I lift it off my head at a snail’s pace, and even though I’d rather be surrounded by a cloak of darkness, I’m supergrateful to see a tall glass of water and a bottle of Advil on my nightstand.
Maybe this living-with-TK thing will work out after all.
I sit up, clenching my eyes shut to try and combat the pulsating torture I’ve inflicted upon myself, and reach blindly for the medicine that—fingers crossed—will return me to my human state. I crack open one eye, count out four pills, and toss them in my mouth. I gulp the water, washing down the pills, then keep chugging until the very last drop is gone.
Too bad for me, they really are just pain relief and not a magic potion to quiet the world around me and let me recover in peace. I know this because all the noise still hasn’t stopped. In fact, it might be even louder.
Because why the hell wouldn’t it be?
I roll out of bed.
Literally.
I put out my arms, trying to catch myself so my face doesn’t slam into the floor, and I guess I’m semisuccessful. Only semi because my lower body moves with the grace of a dead fish and my knees hit the ground so hard, I’m sure they’ll be a lovely shade of purple tomorrow.
I grab my nightstand and pull myself up, mentally preparing to start my day and power out of my room before I can change my mind.
What I had envisioned as me barging out of my room, demanding to know what nonsense was taking place in my house, ends up being more of a hobble into my living room filled with people I don’t know, being ordered around by my nine-year-old son.
I almost call it a day and go back into my room until I can wake up tomorrow, calling for a redo. But Ace sees me and ruins my plans.
“Mom!” he shouts, unaware not only that I’m suffering from the worst hangover of my life but also what a hangover is in the first place. “Isn’t this awesome?” He’s bouncing up and down, his arms spread wide, motioning to the strangers dotting my house.
I don’t think it’s awesome. I also have no idea what is going on. But I don’t tell him that. “Yeah, dude. So awesome,” I say, trying to force as much pep as possible into my otherwise hoarse and miserable voice. “Where’s TK?”
“He’s outside.” He points through the open front door, his gap-toothed smile so wide I can see his molars. “We fixed the gate and now he’s painting it.”
“He’s what?” My eyes open wide for the first time all morning and my jaw falls to the dusty floor beneath me.
Ace just points out the open door to TK sitting on the pavement, painting the fence that’s been on my to-do list for at least a year—probably three.
And dammit, even hungover, my insides melt and I feel all the freaking feels.
I slip on my flip-flops, which never leave my entryway, and make my way to the hottest handyman on the planet.
Yup.
The entire mother-effing planet.
He’s so focused on the job at hand, he doesn’t notice me approaching, and I take my time admiring him in peace. His hair is falling out of the bun on top of his head, a few paint-coated pieces framing his paint-splattered face. And lucky for me, it’s hot outside. So the shirt he must’ve been wearing is now tucked into the back pocket of his old, holed-up jeans and his chest is glittering like freaking gold under a thin sheen of sweat.
Yum-my.
“You didn’t have to do this.” I pull his attention away from the fence. He jerks his head back and more paint splashes onto his jeans.
“I know, I wanted to.” He smiles, looking mighty proud of himself. He drops the paintbrush on the paint tray and saunters—yes, saunters, because a topless handyman with holed-up jeans and abs of steel freaking saunters—my way. “Sorry if all this noise woke you up.”
“It’s fine.” I wave him off. “I don’t know what I was thinking bringing Vonnie, Charli, Sadie, and Brynn together. They’re terrible influences. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungover in my entire life. You probably think all I do is sleep.”
“Trust me, Sparks, that’s not what I think.” He drops his gaze and lets out an appreciative grunt. His hands follow his eyes and his fingers graze my thighs at the base of my shorts. “And if this is what you wear hungover, I’ll never complain.”
Suddenly, I don’t have a hangover anymore and I’m hyperaware that not only is my hair most likely a bird’s nest of curls crowning what I’m assuming is a mascara-stained face, I’m also standing outside in full view of my neighbors and my house full of strangers in satin cami pajamas with no bra.
Not the best look.
And apparently my nipples agree.
An embarrassing, high-pitched—and involuntary—scream shoots from my lips, drawing even more attention my way.
“Holy shit.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, turn, and run back into the house. Making the least discreet exit in the history of exits.
“You okay, Mom?” Ace asks when I come running through the living room he’s managing.
“Fine!” I throw over my shoulder as I keep running until I’m alone in my room with the door locked behind me.
“Keeping it classy,” I say to myself.
Because talking to myself seems like the natural progression of crazy I’m heading in today.
I slip off my pajamas, and if it wasn’t nearing ninety degrees already, I’d put on sweatpants and a turtleneck. But it is and my desire to hide every inch of skin is outweighed by my desire not to die of a heatstroke. I toss on a flowy sundress I found pretending I wasn’t well over the age of Forever 21’s target audience. I do, however, wear my most modest underwear in case a gust of wind teams up with everything else conspiring against me today . . . and yesterday . . . and the day before that . . .
I unlock my door and peek my head into the hallway, making sure the coa
st is clear before I venture out. When I deem it safe, I force my steps to slow as I tiptoe into the bathroom.
I flip on the lights, and even though I don’t want to, I look in the mirror.
My earlier assumptions about my appearance are right on point. Which sucks. I was hoping my Negative Nelly attitude would be wrong for once.
But no. I look a straight-up, hot-ass mess.
A bird’s nest is a generous description of the disaster topping my head. It’s more like a rat’s nest that’s home to eight rabid rats who spend their days fighting with one another. And my face looks like a raccoon who got pulled into the rat fight and was punched in its already black eyes, making the black eyes even worse.
I have to wash my face three times to erase all traces of mascara. And I don’t even wear much makeup!
With the faint taste of tequila still in my mouth, I double up on brushing my teeth. I make a promise to myself as I rinse in the sink never to drink again. Like ever.
Well . . . except for wine. Because it’s not really alcohol. It’s more like an adult-aimed grape juice. And grapes are my favorite fruit.
Okay.
Maybe not favorite, but they are in my top three.
Top ten.
Whatever.
I’m contemplating the benefits of concealer when a knock comes on the bathroom door.
“Yeah?”
“The security guys are done with the alarm,” Ace tells me from the hallway. “They want to show you how to work it.”
I open the door, hoping my zombie-like appearance doesn’t scare away the security people. “Oh . . . okay,” I say like I know what’s going on.
“Come on!” Ace yells, even though I am right behind him. “Wait until you see the doorbell!”
“The doorbell?”
What could be so special about a doorbell?
Twenty-eight
Doorbells can be really freaking fancy.
And TK has a lot of expendable income.
The first I know as fact, because the one attached to my modest, in-need-of-renovations home has a doorbell with more capabilities than my phone. And it’s the same doorbell twenty-two people on Forbes’s richest one hundred list have. No, really, that’s part of their pitch. And if I wasn’t sold by the security features already, that would’ve sold me for sure.
