One of Us Is Dead(60)

“It’s Olivia. She wants you to join the girls for a night out with Jenny.”

Letting out a groan, I started separating invoices into paid piles and unpaid piles. I still had a party to plan, and after yesterday’s dinner with Dean and Olivia, she was the last person I wanted to see. I was exhausted just thinking about how draining she could be.

“You should go. It’ll be fun.” Bryce poured himself a glass of scotch.

“I think we have different definitions of fun.” I rolled my eyes.

He walked over to me and set his drink on the island. He put his hands around my waist and nuzzled my neck. I giggled as his five o’clock shadow brushed against my skin.

“Come on. That’s nice of Olivia to plan a night out with Jenny. She needs it.”

“I don’t know about that.”

He spun me around to face him. “What do you mean?” Bryce kissed my forehead.

“From what I’ve learned about Olivia, she doesn’t do anything to be nice,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

He lifted my chin with his hand and kissed my cheek and the tip of my nose. “Oh, stop. This isn’t a Disney movie, sweetheart. Someone doesn’t always have to be the villain.” He gave a coy smile.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Bryce frowned at me—not a real frown, but a frown he made when he wanted to get his way. I rolled my eyes again and turned back toward the counter, sorting through all the papers and making a checklist of things that still needed to be done.

“Please,” he whispered in my ear as he gently kissed my neck. I tried to resist but that was the thing about Bryce, he was hard to say no to.

“Please,” he said again.

He slipped his hand in between the opening flaps of my robe. His fingertips grazed my bare thighs, making their way to the center of me. He swirled his fingers on my sensitive skin.

“It’ll feel good to say yes. I promise,” he whispered.

His fingers ventured farther. I let out a gasp.

“Is that a yes?” he asked while he kissed my neck.

I shook my head. My breath quickened. He kissed my neck harder, sucking and biting.

“Is that a yes?”

I gasped louder and louder. My back arched. My pelvis rocked. My gasps turned to screams. My body tensed all the way up like a marionette with its strings pulled taut. Then all at once, I erupted, and my body relaxed.

“Yes?” he questioned.

I nodded.

“That’s my girl.” He pulled his hand from my robe, kissed my cheek, grabbed his glass of scotch, and left the kitchen. Like I said, Bryce was a hard man to say no to. He was going to be the death of me.





50

Shannon


After spritzing a few sprays of Tom Ford’s Fucking Fabulous on my neck, wrist, and cleavage, I waved my hands to dry the perfume and rubbed my wrists together. I sprayed a little extra between my legs . . . just in case. I took a second look at myself in the mirror. This was me now, a fortysomething divorcée. Keisha had made a house call earlier to do my hair and makeup for the evening. She did a classy updo, wrapped up so well I couldn’t tell where it ended or started. She was careful to amplify my best features, and by that I mean the features Dr. Richardson had done his fair share of work on. A light smoky eye, red lips, peach blush, and highlights on my cheeks, tip of my nose, and brow bone. I was dressed in a brand-new little black Givenchy dress, accessorized with a Tiffany & Co. pearl necklace and a Saint Laurent clutch. I was going on my first date since Bryce made the worst decision of his life—leaving me.

“His loss,” I said out loud as I turned from side to side, admiring the curves of my body.

I wasn’t sure if I was seriously looking for a partner, but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to see what was out there. Plus, what a crime it would be to deprive the world of me! I had already wasted far too much time lying around my apartment feeling sorry for myself. It was time I put myself out there. Just because I was divorced didn’t mean I was about to roll over and die. It was time to build myself back up. Then everything else would fall into place. I pulled out my phone and double-checked the last email I had received from Jonathan. We had met online a few weeks ago, chatting on and off. He was quite the charmer, saying all the things a woman wants to hear. Earlier this week, I finally accepted his invitation to meet in person.

I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder, checking the time on my phone once more. The driver would be here any minute. I hadn’t been on a first date in over fifteen years. Had anything changed? Did the men still pay? Or had the progressive females of the world ruined that for the rest of us? Women had to deal with periods, childbirth, and menopause. The least we could get is the occasional free meal. I had been all for being an independent woman. I even attended the Women’s March, but personally, I rather enjoyed being wined and dined.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from the driver announcing his arrival. I took a deep breath and smoothed out my dress. This was it.

“Time to meet my future ex-husband,” I said with a laugh.





51

Jenny


I walked in through the back of the salon, dressed in a pale-pink midi dress and nude heels. My hair had soft waves throughout, and I had lightly accessorized with a thin silver necklace and stud earrings. At my station, I finished off my look by applying mascara, blush, eyeliner, and light-pink lip gloss. The bruises around my neck had faded enough that a heavy foundation completely covered them. The same went for my eye. It was almost like it never happened . . . almost. Even though I didn’t want to go out, I figured I’d at least look the part. I poured myself a vodka soda, and before I finished capping the bottle, the front door chimed.