THIRTY
LUCY
The Monday after our visit with B in his office—two weeks after the giant sex scandal— the heiress in question releases a statement on her official website, her Facebook, and her Twitter. She says that sex is natural and that if anyone wants to argue her on that, they can go fuck themselves. Naturally, the media has a field day with her comment, but I quickly learn from Daisy that Victoria has forgiven Jace and it’s all because Mr. B used his charms to convince her to own her sexuality.
“After all,” Daisy tells me over the sound of something printing in the background. “It’s not illegal to have sex. It’s not like he was running a brothel. Theo says he’ll probably get more clients just because of it.”
“I’m glad,” I whisper, feeling a sliver of the pressure weighing me down lift from my shoulders. “Is—is he doing okay?”
“Jace?”
“Yes. Is he okay?”
“Ehh.” She makes a noise that doesn't seem too convincing. “It was really touch and go for a while, but I mean business is booming now. A reporter from some smut site asked Victoria where she gets all her fun toys, so she told them about EXtreme. The woman and her implants are like marketing cocaine.”
When I suck in a breath, Daisy starts to apologize, but I rush to assure her she hasn’t offended me. “No, it’s fine. I'm just glad to hear I haven’t bankrupted the company. God knows I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I had,” I explain as I dash out the front door and climb into my car.
Daisy begins telling me about the date she and Theo have set for their wedding, but when I start the ignition and the sound of John Mayer blasts from the radio, she lets out a feral-sounding growl.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Sunshine? You spend two weeks—two weeks—away from me and you're already listening to “Your Body is a Wonderland” again?”
“It’s a classic,” I inform her hotly, and she snorts.
“So is “Achy, Breaky Heart,” and I’d give you hell for listening to that too.”
I talk to Daisy for the next 15 minutes, until I reach my destination, and when I tell her I have an interview, I can hear the grin in her voice.
“What are you promoting now?”
“I'm trying to promote bras, but I’m not sure how that’ll go when they check my references. I have a shitty track record with my last two employers.” Although, my friend Andi had sent me an article about Java-Org’s latest announcement—they’re closing shop, effective the first of June.
I had hoped to feel pleased that the bitch called Karma was finally biting Tom in the ass, but I’d stared at my laptop screen for a long time, a bitter pain in the back of my throat.
“Bras?” Daisy squeals, cutting into my thoughts.
“Not the silky lingerie you're thinking about. Workout bras and clothes like that.”
“Pshh, what kind of girl do you think I am? I was thinking exactly what you’re thinking. Believe it or not, I like my fun sports bras just as much as I love my leggings—too bad my nephews use my bras to launch my cooking into my neighbor’s yard whenever they’re at my place.” After I tell her how sadistic her nephews are, and she agrees, she says, “If you get the job, you better send me something good. I’ve gotten smart, so now I hide my unmentionables whenever the little bastards come over. My neighbor’s appreciate that.”
I promise her I will, and when we hang up and I walk into the giant office building, I'm smiling.
To my delight—and total disbelief—I am hired on the spot for the marketing position at the new company whose goal is to launch a line of fitness wear targeted toward women of all shapes and sizes. The pay is a lot less than what I would have made at EXtreme, but I like the owner—Naomi. I also love the fact her clothes are quite literally for every woman, so I immediately accept. Though I was honest with her during the interview, and she’s fully aware that my face was front and center in the photo that broke the internet for a few days, I spend the next few days terrified. Wondering if, at any moment, Naomi will contact me and retract the offer.
That doesn’t happen.
When she finally calls, she tells me that my background check came back squeaky clean and that I start on Monday. She also lets me know how impressed she was that I used to work at WLC. One of the clothing lines that we helped promote in my earlier days at the company had been my new boss’s motivation for creating her brand. While she hated that none of their clothes worked for her body type, she’d admired the marketing campaign. Because I spearheaded it, she said she had no other choice but to hire me.
When Naomi mentions that, while she hadn’t been able to get in touch with Tom, both EXtreme and WLC had incredible things to say about me, I’m floored. So, as I sit in the bathtub soaking after a long workout, I text Jace to thank him.
Because it can’t hurt any worse than it already does.
At first, I don’t think he’ll respond back. My text history shows that he read it almost immediately, just like all the others I’ve sent. But just as I drain the water, preparing to shower off, a new alert startles me. I sit in the bathtub for a long time, letting the water disappear, and not caring as I read and re-read his text.
7:32 PM: You’re welcome, Williams. I’m sorry it didn’t work out here. Thank you for what you did with Bailon. I mean it.
Finally, the tears start again.
And this time, they don’t stop so easily.
To celebrate my new job before I start on Monday, I go out to drinks with Jamie at the end of the week. “You're drinking tequila tonight,” she points out waggling her eyebrows at the full shot glass on the bar counter. “Let me guess, you’ve been researching test groups and spending all your time working before you actually start working is wearing you out.”
“I haven’t been researching test groups, thank you very much.” That will come in a few months, and to be honest, I’m anticipating women’s positive reactions to Naomi’s product. The sports bra she gifted me at my interview is the most comfortable thing I’ve ever slipped into. “I figured I would do something besides my usual mojito. Besides, you drink tequila every time we go out.”
“But you don’t,” she says, her gaze leaving mine for just a moment to follow a guy with the face and body of a Greek god as he walks by. He’s wearing a leather jacket and there are tattoos covering his neck. When she checks out his ass and releases a low whistle, I cock my eyebrows.
“And speaking of trying something besides the usual…” I say, earning a shrug from my best friend. “Changing your type from lab coats and business suits?”
“Not changing my type, per se, but expanding my options.”
“You never did tell me what Mr. B said to you in his office.” I’d tried to remember his exact words once I was in my car—to run them through Google Translate—but that was a bust. “Care to share?”
“Nope.” Flushing, she grabs my shot and tosses it back, ignoring my dark glare. “I’ll be thirty in two years, Luce.”
“Now who’s changing the subject. By the way, you owe me a drink and—” I start, but my phone begins vibrating on the counter beside my empty glass. I consider powering it off, but since my mother worries so much, I pick it up to make sure she isn’t checking up on me, even though she’s supposed to be on a date with her friend tonight. My heart slams to a stop when I see another number that I know like the back of my hand.
Jace.
9:18 PM: Do you have a few minutes tonight? To talk in person?
I stare at the words on the screen until my vision blurs and I feel thin fingers on my shoulder shaking me back to reality. I meet Jamie’s concerned stare and swallow hard. “Are you okay?”
I return my phone to the counter and face her with a numb expression. “Jace just texted me.”
Her brown eyes bulge. “Wait, what?”
“Jace just texted asking if he can see me.”
“Then text him back.”
I shake my head, running my hand over my face. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you kidding me, Luce? You tell him that you’re sorry. You tell him that you fucked up. You tell him that you’re pissed off he didn’t have the decency to listen to you when you tried to apologize to him. Hell, you can tell him that you love him, but message him back.”
The laughter that bubbles from my chest is borderline hysterical. “What if he just shoots all that down?”
“Then at least you can say you tried.”