Ambrosia

Work feels weird Monday morning. And not just because I’m ridiculously, wonderfully sore in all the places I’m not supposed to talk about at work, or because I spent the majority of Sunday having wild monkey sex with the boss.

After hating Chase most of my life, liking him—and admitting it—has me off-kilter.

Maybe we’re going too fast. Maybe we’re delusional.

Maybe there’s a part of me terrified that he’s still playing me.

Whatever the case, I didn’t think about the Bratwurst Wagon or Vassar for most of the day, and I’m working on convincing myself that I can forgive and forget.

My body has.

My mind isn’t completely on board.

Probably because it’s the rational, logical part of me pointing out that while sex is great—and more of it with a sex god like Chase is even better—we have a history we’re ignoring in favor of setting new boinking records.

Thankfully, things are almost normal in the office. Madison and April and I have a brainstorming meeting where we discuss fall vegetables, spicing up chicken, and a local cheese campaign. If anyone’s still whispering about my sex life, they’re being subtle enough that I don’t notice. April mentioned seeing the write-up about our band and my brothers on Page Six, but didn’t mention Chase at all.

My favorite snack bar lady let me pay for my own lunch—though she did offer a wink and insisted on sliding me a protein bar—and now it’s nearly four, and I’m positive things here are getting back to normal.

Excluding the forty-seven times an hour that I’ve wondered if Chase was in the building, or if he was thinking about me, or if he was serious about that thing with the Empire State Building and the bottle of champagne and the blindfold, or if he’s been barely resisting coming down here—heh, coming—to clear the floor out and make it our personal sex room.

I’m debating the wisdom of sending him a dirty text asking when he’s getting off tonight—heh, getting off—when Madison suddenly says, “Whoa.” She’s standing by the window, peering down and groping for her camera. “I haven’t seen that since I was a kid.”

April pops up next to her. “Oh my god!” she squeals. “The Bratwurst Wagon!”

Every cell in my body goes into full-on catatonic seizure.

The.

Bratwurst.

Wagon.

I hold my breath. It’s just driving by. Thirty seconds from now, this will be a distant memory, forever suppressed by my coping mechanisms. It’s a coincidence. It’s an evil trick of the light. It’s not Chase pulling the ultimate prank by proving that he not only has all the money and power, he also has my pussy wrapped around his balls.

“Why’s it parked in front of the building?” Madison says.

“Maybe Mr. Jett’s buying us all dinner,” April suggests. “Remember last week, he sent us all bratwurst for lunch?”

Parker’s at my side, shoving my head between my knees, which is really awkward in a beanbag chair. “Breathe, Sia, breathe,” she whispers.

My phone dings.

I fumble for it, and see a message from Chase. Got you a surprise. Look outside.

Oh, no, he didn’t.

But I make myself climb to my feet, cross the room, and stare out the window.

There it is. Twenty feet of brown, wrinkled bratwurst and tan bun on wheels, parked right there under my window.

The bratwurst is taunting me. And so is—

“That fucking douche-shit,” I gasp.

“Okay, honey, that’s not a thing.” Parker’s using that soothing voice moms use to calm irrational overtired toddlers. She wraps an arm around me and steers me away from the window. “I’m sure it’s a mistake. You know we don’t let non-organic bratwurst in the building.”

Logically, I know she’s right.

But he fucking brought up Vassar.

Then he fucked my brains out.

He pretended he liked me.

And then he got me a surprise.

Why would he stop there? Why not call in the Bratwurst Wagon? Maybe he’s bought the whole fucking fleet and he’s converting them to Crunchymobiles. Does the restraining order still hold if it’s the same bratwurst in a different bun?

“Sia, stop talking,” Parker hisses.

I’m talking? Oh my god, I’m babbling. I slap my hand over my mouth, but then I can’t breathe.

“What’s she talking about?” Madison whispers.

“Is she crazy?”

“It’s just the Bratwurst Wagon.”

“Chase Jett fucked me in the Bratwurst Wagon,” I blurt.

Parker tugs me toward the door. “She had some bad shrimp at lunch,” she tells our coworkers.

“I did not.” I shake her off. “He took my virginity on the floor between the cabinets where they store the buns and the fridge where they keep the sausages. And then the cops showed up, and he told me to drive and he ran like a lily-livered dog turd, and I got arrested for stealing a giant bratwurst on wheels while he got to be a billionaire.” I fling a finger at the window. “And now he’s taunting me.”

Every last one of my coworkers is staring at me like I’m two buns short of a pack. Like I got some sausage and now I’ve lost my marbles.

The hot prick of tears stabs me in the eyeballs, and I’m mortified to realize I’m about to cry.

Over a Bratwurst Wagon.

And Chase Jett.

And I’m not sure which one makes me more mad.

I grab my purse and storm out. I need to call my brothers. I need air.

I need to use the back exit so I don’t break my fucking restraining order.

And then I need to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.