As we laugh and chat about our latest book—a Mafia romance called, The Devil’s Consort—I feel a warm glow of love and happiness and connection.
I have no idea that this is going to be my last Book Club meeting for a long time…possibly forever.
6
Jules
I hug each of the girls goodbye reluctantly. Book Club is the highlight of my week and I hate to see it end. I step outside and Yelena’s big circular driveway spreads out in front of me, glossy stone tiles reflecting the golden glow of her mansion. She’s the kind of woman who just has a circular driveway—like it came standard with her life, but I know that’s not true.
She told me once that she grew up poor and married rich on purpose because of it. I think she might have been some kind of mail-order-bride, though I’m not sure about that. I do know that her husband was thirty years older than her and that he died early in their marriage, leaving her very well off.
With a sigh, I head to my car. My dusty little Honda Civic sits wedged between Yelli’s gleaming black Escalade and Naomi’s Lexus LX like a kid at the grown-ups’ table. The thing is ten years old and has more quirks than a toddler on a sugar high, but it gets me where I need to go. Usually.
Sliding behind the wheel, I crank the engine, which coughs like a chain-smoker before catching. The dashboard lights flicker, then hold steady. I let out a relieved sigh. It’s always a gamble with my car—one day it’s just going to refuse to start, and I’ll be stranded somewhere with no Plan B. But since I don’t have any money in my budget for fancy things like car tune-ups, that’s a problem for Future Jules.
Tonight’s problem is the gnawing anxiety in my stomach. Because now that the high of Book Club is over, I’m back to worrying about my job. The drive back to my apartment near USF is pretty far and traffic lights stretch the trip. Which gives me too much time to think.
I love Book Club. I love the girls—my people—my Curvy Girls Smut Club. They’re the only part of my life that feels fun, that feels mine. But as soon as I leave Yelena’s glittering palace, reality comes crashing back in. Tomorrow it’s work again at Sutherland & Sons. Boredom interspersed with the fear of getting into trouble with my manager. Endless spreadsheets…staring at the clock on the wall until my eyes cross…
And hanging over all of it, the looming shadow of that drug test.
Why the hell did I even get called in for one? I don’t do drugs. I barely drink. The wildest thing I put in my body is Cuban bread, and even then I feel guilty about the carbs.
Lucia promised she’d help me fight it if they tried to screw me over.
“We’ll get a lawyer,” she said, her voice fierce, like she was ready to march into HR with her stilettos and a subpoena. That gave me some comfort, but still—who reported me? Who decided I looked like a junkie in need of testing?
Donald Pugh. The name slithers into my mind like something slimy. He’s exactly the type of creep to do it. The guy has been making passes at me since day one, and every time I shut him down, he gets that little twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like he’s keeping score. Like he’s waiting for his chance to get even.
If anyone in that office would make up lies about me, it’s Donald—that asshole!
I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache. Maybe I should feel scared about my job…about paying bills…about rent that keeps climbing higher and higher. But right now? I just feel angry. Like life as a single woman isn’t hard enough without this kind of complication.
By the time I pull into my apartment complex, the muscles in my shoulders are bunched tight, like I’ve been carrying bricks instead of thoughts. The building looms over me, big and boxy and crammed with students who attend the nearby University of South Florida. It’s cheap, which is the only reason I can afford it in Tampa’s nightmare housing market.
Tampa used to be affordable. Now, it’s like every influencer and their dog decided this was the place to be, and people like me are stuck with whatever scraps are left. The huge influx of newbies has pushed both rent and housing costs sky-high, not to mention the rising price of groceries. I swear I can barely afford to breathe anymore.
Tonight, the complex is buzzing. Music thumps from somewhere nearby, and two drunk sorority girls giggle their way across the parking lot, holding each other up like newborn foals.
“He’s sush a jerk,” I hear one sluring to the other. “You shuldn’ havta put up wi’ that.”
“Yeah, he’s a jerk,” the other agrees and they both giggle as though they’re in on the joke together.
I avoid them and drag myself up the stairs to the second floor where I nearly gag. A puddle of puke gleams wetly under the harsh fluorescent light, and sprawled beside it is a massive college football player, face-down, completely out cold. His jersey is smeared, his shoes untied, his entire body radiating Eau de Bad Decisions.
Lovely. Just lovely.
Dodging both puddle and player, I finally make it to my apartment. I unlock the door and step into the one place that’s supposed to be mine.
It’s really small, I admit that—the kind of place people might sneer at on Instagram. But I’ve worked hard to make it home.
A sagging loveseat sits against one wall, draped with a colorful crocheted afghan my Grandma made me before she died. A coffee table with one wobbly leg I scored on Facebook Marketplace holds a stack of romance novels and a pretty vase I found for cheap at a garage sale. The bookshelves are mismatched rescues from curbside giveaways, crammed so full of my TBR list they bow under the weight. Candles and fairy lights disguise the shabbiness, throwing a soft glow that makes the room look warmer than it really is. It’s imperfect but cozy—it’s just me.
“Mmmrrrow?” The trilling purr let’s me know the man in my life is coming to greet me.
“Hey, baby,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips. No matter how bad things get, my cat always cheers me up.
Mr. Mittens trots out from the bedroom, his black-and-white fur glossy, his tail held high. He weaves between my legs, purring so loudly it almost drowns out the bass thumping through the walls of the party going on next door. He’s what they call a “tuxedo” cat with a black body and a creamy white chest. He even has a little black marking under his chin that looks kind of like a bow tie.
