"That I have to share with two other people."
"Any they're paying for meals."
"Which you are already partaking in," Willow replied.
"I honestly can't believe you're doing marketing work for Svensson PharmaTech of all places," I told my friend as I poured more of the rich chocolate fudge sauce onto my ice cream. "You always wanted to work for a nonprofit."
"Funny thing about that. All those charities think you should be glad to work for free since you're doing something noble. Unfortunately you can't pay student loans with good intentions, heartwarming feelings, and exposure. And I didn't win that position at the Holbrook Foundation, which is one of the few well-paying nonprofits."
"It's going to be fine," I told her. "It's a fresh start for both of us."
"I just wish it wasn't pharmaceuticals," Willow complained. "They're the worst. The marketing material is so dry, and all the commercials are the same."
"Do you have feelings of dread, no money, and a general sense that your life is a waste?" I said in my best commercial-narrator voice. "Try biggus dickialus. Guaranteed to relax you. Side effects include a delicious soreness and a man in your bed."
We shrieked in laugher. The blond-haired guy turned around to glower at us.
"I wouldn't mind his biggus dickialus," I whispered. The words came out louder than I intended. The frown on the guy's face went deeper.
"Shhh!" Willow said, giggling. I poured more wine. Alcohol and sugar were pretty much my main food groups at this point.
Willow looked at him critically. "He's probably too tight-laced for you."
I thought about that for a moment as I studied the guy. The gray suit fit him well. It was perfectly tailored to accentuate all the nice bits.
"He does seem very uptight, and I don't have a lot of patience for the stick-in-the-mud types, but you know me—I'll try anything once. Why, look at this vegan ice cream. Most people think vegan food is gross. And I'll admit it is a little grainy, but I'll eat anything if it's fried and covered in chocolate!" I said as I reached for the spoon in the little pot of vegan fudge.
But instead of daintily picking up the spoon, clumsy, drunk me ended up slamming it. In a haze, I watched the spoon and the pot fly though the air… and cover the uptight corporate guy in chocolate. It streaked all down his face, dripping on his light-gray suit.
"Fudge," I said as he stood in front of me, his gray eyes wide in horror. "Though you do look amazing covered in chocolate. I bet you taste good too."
"What iswrongwith you?" he shouted.
I pushed off the wooden stool, landing unsteadily on my feet. "Calm down. I didn't dump a vat of acid on you," I slurred as I dabbed at him with a napkin.
He batted my hand away. "Don't touch it! You're ruining my suit."
"Lighten up! Too much stress isn't good for you. Why don't you sit down, and we'll buy you some ice cream to go with that fudge on your suit?" I snickered to myself at the joke. Drunk me was very easily amused.
"Willow here has an expense account." My friend waved to him from the counter. "You can get sloshed, and maybe later I'll lick all the chocolate off you." I waggled my eyebrows suggestively to let him know I was kidding. Partially.
"I have responsibilities, and people relying on me. You already put me off my schedule," he said irritably. Then he grabbed the white box from the countertop, turned on his heel, and left.
"That went poorly," Willow snickered as she watched me drain my wine glass. The room looked wobbly; I definitely drank more than my fair share of the wine.
"The worst of it is," I said, "all the chocolate is gone."
2
Mace
Discipline separates successful people from the ineffective people. I ran a multibillion-dollar pharmaceutical company. I was accountable for the financial and professional well-being of my employees. I was also responsible for my younger brothers—all two dozen of them.
Both my business and family lives were complicated entities, and I lived and died by my schedule. I had planned on picking up the vegan nut loaves at 8:30 p.m. I called ahead, but of course the bakery did not have them ready for me when I arrived. However, I had built a contingency into my schedule. I could wait up to five minutes for them to package the bread. The baker put the loaves on the counter at 8:34 p.m., leaving me plenty of time to arrive home at 8:55 p.m.
Except that girl had spilled chocolate sauce all over my suit, causing me to spend too long in the bathroom trying to clean out the worst of it even though I knew it was most likely ruined and I should cut my losses.
I checked my watch. I was supposed to be home seven minutes ago. I sat in my car, at the intersection in front of the bakery, mentally recalculating my evening when the back passenger door was wrenched open and someone crawled inside.
