I should’ve had a more serious discussion then, before photos of his “trophy box” were leaked online by a disgruntled, assumedly panty-less lover.
But by the time I awoke from my weekend of playing Sleeping Beauty—completely refreshed for the first time in ages—the tiny window in which I might’ve controlled the narrative on his latest scandal hadn’t just closed, it’d shattered. With the superstar athlete losing millions in endorsement deals and his team more than a little upset, my boss had wanted an explanation, one I didn’t have.
What happened after that is…I got fired.
How could one mistake—from someone whowasn’t even me—turn my life into such a dumpster fire? Why was I being punished along with the man who kept discarded panties from the women he bedded as trophies?
My thoughts flip sides, causing a lump to form in my throat and guilt to gnaw on my insides. I failed my client and my boss, along with the entire team. It’s no surprise that after six weeks of applying to every publicity firm in Miami, nobody wanted to hire the publicist from #PantyGate.
I jig in my seat, glancing from the road to the directions on my phone.
Three more minutes to the clubhouse.
Tiny little increments are how I measure my time now, each hour, each day, and each week overflowing with could’ves, should’ves, and anxiety.
Despite the circumstances that’ve brought me to the southwest coast of our most phallic-shaped state, excitement tingles through my veins as I catch sight of the tall line of palm trees.
Upon my initial visit to Florida from rural Indiana where my mom, stepdad, and three out of four siblings still live, I mocked the trees for having all that trunk for such a tiny spray of green. They didn’t make sense or even provide proper shade, yet they’ve come to symbolize home.
As I drive farther into the community, I see the landscape’s slightly overgrown and a few of the buildings are in need of a power washing or fresh coat of paint. Nothing that can’t be amended fairly quickly, and my mind’s already accumulating a task list.
A section of my flat-ironed bob falls forward as I roll down my window and let in the breeze, and I tuck the brown strands, freshly chopped and tinted in cinnamon, behind my ear.
“Main office.” I read the sign aloud as a robotic voice tells me to turn in five-hundred feet.
I take the left without having to wait for traffic, as hardly anyone drives cars around the neighborhood. Rather, dozens of blinged-out golf carts putter around the sidewalks, trails, and streets.
A cluster of them ring their bells and wave at one another just up ahead and, since they don’t seem to be paying any attention to me, I give them an extra wide berth. Hanging from atop the mini vehicles, I catch a string of colorful…
Are those loofahs?The puffballs sure look like what I pour my bodywash on every morning, anyway.
I’ve gone from sports cars to golf carts.It feels horribly accurate, that downgrade in my life from the fast lane. As my pulse rises and my lungs constrict, I assure myself it’s only temporary.
Once I’ve recovered and proved myself—again—I’ll return to my overachieving ways and my life in Miami. The next time a big opportunity comes along, I won’t mess it up. And if I ever find myself in need of another nap, I’ll tape open my eyelids and pound another energy drink instead.
With my bladder about to burst, I stifle thoughts of liquids as I screech into a parking space and bolt for the glass double doors.
Right as two men are coming out of them.
Ooh, maybe they can tell me if I’m in the right place.
“Excuse me,” I say, stutter-stepping to snag hold of the door, even though the man exiting the building hasn’t let go. My fingers tighten, flexing on impulse as I get an eyeful of firm pec muscles, rounded shoulders, and rugged features that place him in his early thirties.
Blond and burly isn’t my usual type, but my throat goes completely dry as he fully steps outside, his body propping the door I’m continuing to grip like a lifeline. Sunlight caresses his whiskered jaw, and when his blue eyes flash to me, I can’t remember my name, much less my question.
They return to the older gentleman at his side as quickly, which reengages the gears in my brain, but they’re still wonky enough that I blurt, “Where am I?”
“You think I like dragging you down here?” Blond and Burly asks, so hopefully he didn’t hear me, but the frustration he aims at the stocky man with the receding gray hairline prevents me from celebrating. “That I don’t have better things to do?”
“You’re the one who comes running every time,” the older man mutters under his breath, and the handsome grump drags an exasperated hand down his face. Insinuating myself into situations so I can resolve them happens to be my specialty, but I’m here to start my job, not get in the middle of other people’s business.
The younger of the two men pinches the bridge of his nose and asks, “Can we not do this again?”
“You’re at the most expensive retirement village my wife could find,” the older man tells me abruptly. “Not sure what a woman who never goes swimming is gonna do with three pools within walking distance, but evidently, I’m the one paying for it.”
Looks like the surliness is a two-way street and, deciding I have plenty of problems of my own to deal with, I duck my head to charge through the open gap.
It’s a tighter squeeze than expected, given the guy’s enough of a gentleman to continue holding the door. The line of his forearm flexes mere inches from my eyeballs, the nip of air conditioning from inside the building contrasting the heat at my back.
