by Meghan Quinn
“You betcha, boss man.” The minute I said it, I heard it. Not the best response.
“None of that shit in there either.”
“Yup, that was bad. I’m just a little on edge. I’ve got this, though.”
“Eric, Henry, come in,” Darlene said, motioning us to join everyone.
I straightened my tie and followed Eric into the room, shutting the glass door behind me. A long, oak table ran the length of the conference room with brown leather upholstered office chairs lining the perimeter. There was a large TV on one side for video calls and a whiteboard on the other side, which was never used anymore due to the use of technology now, and the fact that Eric was the guy who loved drawing ideas on the glass walls. He enjoyed pointing out that if Google could do it, so could we.
To my left was the president of the board, Darlene, and the vice president, Danielle. To my right stood the new hire and three other board members, all men, of course. I had my work cut out for me.
“Henry, it’s good to see you.” Darlene held out her hand.
“Darlene, always a pleasure. How are the twins? Still playing soccer?”
“Aren’t they always? I need to start investing in some stock of Tide Stain Remover because the amount of grass stains I have to battle every night is overwhelming.”
“I can’t imagine.” I chuckled and shook my head. Yes, I was good at this. “At least they’re still focused on sports and not girls. Be grateful for that.”
Darlene laughed and shook her finger. “Such a smart man.” She then turned to Danielle and said, “Danielle, you remember Henry, right? Eric’s right-hand man.”
“Yes, Henry, how are you?”
“I’m great, Danielle. Thank you for asking. Last time we spoke, you were headed to Europe for a backpacking trip. Please tell me you made it to Greece.”
“It was incredibly hard to return. If it wasn’t for my husband, I would still be out there feasting on baklava and soaking up the sun.”
“I don’t blame you,” I replied. “Greece is on my bucket list. I’ll make it there one day.”
Darlene pointed behind me and said, “Henry, you remember Dale, Walter, and Steve?”
“I do,” I answered, turning around to shake their hands and start up some more small talk, but the minute I turned around, my breath was completely knocked out of me by the new hire.
Not because she was pretty.
Not because she was smiling brightly at me.
But because . . .
“And, Henry, this is Tasha, our new hire.”
“Henry!” Tasha smiled brightly, reaching for my hand and pulling me in for a hug. “What’s it been, two months since we last saw each other? How’s the new apartment?”
Tasha: the girl I dated in college; the girl I called on when my heart broke the minute after we’d had sex for the first time: Tasha, the girl who shattered Rosie’s beautiful soul to pieces, leaving it scattered across the apartment we used to share with Delaney.
That Tasha.
Fuck. Shit. Fucking. Shit.
“Um, apartment is good,” I answered, bewildered, caught off guard . . . royally and utterly fucked.
“Great to hear. Gosh, I totally forgot you worked at this firm. What a coincidence.”
By the look in her eyes, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence; I was fucking confident this wasn’t a coincidence at all. This was revenge at its finest, a battle of retribution, and from the way she quirked her lip to the side, this was going to be a bloodbath.
“Yeah, ever since I graduated. Bentley Advertising Agency has been really good to me.”
“That’s great. I’m glad I can be a part of the team.”
“So, you know each other?” Darlene asked.
I went to answer, but before I could Tasha said, “We dated in college for a little bit and talked about moving in with each other a little while ago, but he dumped me for his roommate. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
I shouldn’t have expected anything less from her. Bringing this into the workplace though? Not cool. Unprofessional. How the fuck do I resurrect this?
Let the battle begin.
Adjusting my tie, since it felt like it was closing in on my throat, I answered honestly, “I was in love with someone else, and I didn’t handle it properly. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
There was absolute silence as our dirty laundry was aired for everyone to see. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about the downfall of the pitiful relationship we used to have, a relationship not even worthy of talking about.
This was awkward.
Awkward as fuck.
More awkward than if Freddy really did send Tasha his cock-mail. I would pretty much pay him anything right now to make a speedy delivery.
Darlene cut the tension. “Well, good thing we hired you for your professional experience and your ability to sell any product that comes your way rather than for your mistrials in your personal life.”
“Yes, if that was the case, Freddy would have been fired the first day on the job,” Danielle added. “But that boy is good at what he does. Such an odd bird, that one.”
Everyone but Tasha laughed. Thank God for Freddy being an idiot.
“Now that we all know each other, let’s get down to business. Shall we take our seats?”
Listening to Darlene, the group sat. I made sure to stay as far away from Tasha as possible, avoiding all eye contact as well. The more I mentally denied what was happening, the more I avoided melting into a pool of my own sweat. I knew Tasha; she could be ruthless when it came to what she wanted. I had no doubt the claws were coming out for this.
Walter passed around folders with Legacy’s label pressed on the front of them. The folder was on the higher end and I made a note of it. This was a simple folder, but if Legacy took pride in small items like folders, then they’d want the same representation for their product. Flipping to the first page, I took in the table of contents and let out a deep sigh. This was going to be one long meeting.
“The Legacy account, home of condoms, lubes, and a small department of vibrators,” Darlene started, a presentation popping up on the TV. “This is the biggest account out on the market right now, and we are going to make sure Bentley Advertising Agency wins the bid. They are looking for some fresh branding, something to make them pop on the shelves. They want to cater toward men, but also women, while using the power of social media, something they’ve never done before. That’s why we brought in Tasha. We feel she can give us a perspective on the product we might not have thought of before.”
I couldn’t help but smirk. Darlene should have said, “Tasha has used a lot of condoms in her life and can give us great knowledge on what they feel like for women.” She was a little loose in college; she should be able to offer an in-depth perspective on condom usage.
“We have a month to come up with fresh and innovative ideas. This is an account we will win; do not let me down. Danielle, go through the details for us.”
Danielle went over Legacy’s sales figures, their current branding, their social media and advertising, as well as their presence in the market. They weren’t catering to the young crowd, something I knew I could assist with, and they weren’t catering to women either, something I knew I could help them improve as well, despite the penis that resided in my pants. And I could, because I was fucking good at my job. But it wasn’t simply that. I had to ensure I knew Legacy inside out and pitched a plan that blew their mind. Something that would supersede the board’s misconception that gender usurped skill and experience. Something better than Tasha.
Fuck.
Could this nightmare get any worse?
It could, actually . . .
If Rosie found out.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Moist
ROSIE
“Delaney, can I ask you a question?”
“Always,” she said.
I was lying across the couch, twirling the water sprayer in my hand, pointing it at Sir Licks-a-
Lot- occasionally, just daring him to do something wrong while I talked to Delaney on the phone.
Working from home was probably the best thing that had ever happened to me, besides Henry of course. I completed my actual work in the morning and was able to spend the rest of the afternoon—when I wasn’t battling demon cat—baking cookies, moving furniture around so it was more functional for the space we were living in, and even painting my toenails. I’d just finished, which was why I still had cotton balls smashed between my toesies and Sir Licks-a-Lot was eyeing my foot, as if he were a child staring at a decorated foot of cotton candy.
Casually, I asked Delaney, “You’ve had lots of sex, right?”
“How is that a question? You know the answer to that.” The preposterous tone in her voice made me giggle. Yup, I knew in great detail how much sex she’d had.
Sharing a dorm room and an apartment with the girl since college had educated me on the amount of sex she had, especially with Derk. I needed to segue into my actual question. I might not be a virgin anymore, but I was still very shy when it came to talking about private parts and whatnot. That’s why we called them private parts, because our parts were supposed to remain private. At least that’s what my mother had told me.
“I mean, do you have a lot of sex, like . . . during the day?”
“I don’t typically fuck under my desk when I’m at work, but when I get home, yeah. What are you getting at?”
I cleared my throat, trying to get the words out, but all it did was draw Sir Licks-a-Lot’s attention back to my foot. If he clawed my toe again, he would be making a new friend called The Fire Escape, because that’s where he would be living from now on. He was the master clawer of toes in the middle of the night to unsuspecting dreaming angels, aka, myself. If one single piggy made it outside the blankets, he knew about it, and he reminded me who the toe master was. The worst part, he knew what he was doing because last night, when he got my pinky, I yelped and looked down at him, only to see him smiling that toothy white grin of his.
Bastard!
Turning back to the conversation, I said, “Lately, Henry and I have been having a lot of the sex.”
“It’s just sex, Rosie. You don’t have to put a ‘the’ in the front of it. But yes, you two have been going at it like porn stars on their first shoot. Animals. Grrrawwwlll.”
“Ew, stop, stop that now.” I shuddered just thinking of Henry and me as porn stars. “Please don’t refer to us as porn stars. Do I make him have sex with me in different positions for my book? Of course—”
“How’s that coming, by the way?”
“The book?”
“No, your pussy. Of course the book,” Delaney answered, exasperated with me.
“It’s doing well. The love story is coming along nicely, but I think it needs more. It needs more of a niche, you know?”
“I don’t know, actually, but let’s not get into that. Back to lots of sex.”
And that was that. Delaney loved talking to me about the sex scenes in my book, but when I started to discuss the plot, or the antagonist, she immediately clammed up and changed the subject. She said she had no interest in plotting with me, and she meant that with love. What I really needed was a writing group, a place where I could go and discuss my ideas and struggles when it came to writing; they would understand me. I made a mental note to look one up in the city, because there had to be a romance writing group in this giant urban jungle.
“Okay, um, so we’ve been doing it a lot, and it’s been amazing. I mean, he stuck his fingers inside me this morning—”
“Nope, no, no, no, no. We are not going into details. I love you, Rosie, but you and Henry are like siblings to me; I don’t want to know about fingers going up anyone. Gah, gross. He knows he has a dick, right, and he can use it on you?”
“It was foreplay. He was getting me all . . . juicy.”
“Again, no. Do not say juicy.”
“Moist?”
Delaney made a disgusted noise on the other side of the phone. “Rosie! Have you not learned one thing from all those groups we participate in on Facebook?”
In my pursuit of being an author, I joined some book groups on Facebook. My goodness, did they like posting penis pictures. Delaney joined to “help me” after she saw me scrolling through my newsfeed and saw a butt shot of a sexy cover model. Such a horndog. But, in all honesty, I couldn’t blame her; the guy had a nice tush. Now she was a part of the same groups. It led to great conversations, but they mostly revolved around the uncircumcised dick she saw that morning. I was privileged to hear her talk about wanting to have sex with one just once, so she could give it a test run. Like we always said, it was for science.
Referring back to her question about those groups, I answered, “I’ve learned that penises come in all shapes and sizes and that the majority of the female population likes a good tattoo and appreciates a bad boy.”
“They also hate the word moist, Rosie. It makes them cringe, it makes them want to pick up their firstborn child and sell them on the sidewalk for five dollars or best offer, just to buy a razor blade so they can slice their ears off. Don’t you remember that one post, who was it . . . ugh, that crazy pink-haired author. She writes books about chocolate and dildos.”
“Oh, Tara Sivec. She’s a real delight. She likes meerkats and posts the funniest videos of herself dancing while basting turkeys. She wrote Seduction in Snacks. There’s actually a scene from her book, Passion and Ponies that I wanted to try with Henry. The hero and heroine try to eat food off each other, but all they have are gross things like olives and cheese wiz. What a hoot,” I replied, laughing a little too hard.
“Um, hey, stalk much? That’s creepy. You shouldn’t know that much about an author, but that’s beside the point. She asked readers to list their most hated words to be used in books, and do you know what the number one word was?”
“Anal seepage?”
“Fuck you. No, you’re disgusting. Jesus, Rosie. It was moist. They hate the word moist.”
“What’s so wrong with it? They also hate the word panties, but what else are we supposed to call them? Underwear? That doesn’t seem very sexy. Unless every character for the rest of their lives wears thongs, you have to call them something else. So what is it? Underwear or panties?”
“I can’t even handle you right now,” Delaney said, deflated.
“And what’s wrong with saying lady folds? I mean, that’s what they are. They are folds of skin on a lady’s body. Lady folds is way less vulgar than the P word. And I really don’t think I’m ready to use the term ‘sex’ to describe Virginia. Oh, and that’s another thing, apparently naming your private part isn’t wildly accepted either. What’s a writer to do?”
Delaney took a deep breath then let it out. “I don’t know, Rosie. Maybe ask your stalkee, Tara. Maybe she will take a break from her meerkat turkey basting and answer your questions.”
“Hmm, that’s a good idea. I think I just might.”
Questions ran through my mind about the proper terms for vagina and how I could address them to Tara, when Delaney said, “Are you going to ask me your question?”
I tried to remember what I was going to ask, where this conversation was leading. “Oh, yeah, so lots of sex. I know there are such things as yeast and bladder infections, but those are more of an itch to the vag more than anything, right?”
“Umm, is this a question for your gyno?”
“Maybe, but I don’t want to go there again, not for another year. Last time I went, I saw hot-man doctor, and this was before the red brick road incident. He said”—I cleared my throat from embarrassment—“he said he had to part my hair to get a good look.”
Silence.
Then, “I’m about one sentence away from hanging up this phone on you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “Yeast infections are itchy and bladder infections make it feel like you have to pee all the time, kind of a burning sensation, right?”
“Right
,” she drawled out.
“So what is it when your lady part feels heavy?”
More silence.
Too much silence.
Silence like she was no longer on the phone anymore kind of silence.
“Hello? Delaney? Are you still there?”
“I don’t—” Delaney started, but then stopped. “What do you mean by heavy?”
“Well, I don’t know. Just heavy. Like, your vagina is carrying around twenty-pound weights and really struggling to hold them up. Heavy that you feel like it’s really hanging low. Like, if something brushed up against my ankle, I wouldn’t even give it a second thought if I saw Virginia waving at me from down below.”
“I can honestly say, I’ve never experienced my pussy hanging low to the point of tying my shoelaces for me.”
“You know what I mean—”
“I really don’t, actually, Rosie. Please explain.”
“Ugh.” I shifted on the couch and looked around for Sir Licks-a-lot. He was nowhere to be found, so I set the water sprayer on the couch next to me, lifted my butt, and pulled my shorts and underwear down so I could see Virginia. I tucked my shirt in through the neck hole and then spread my legs to get a good look.
I played around, pulling things to the side and examining the inner parts of my entire sex machine. “It’s hard to explain. It almost feels like I’m allergic to Henry’s penis. Things are swollen; sometimes I feel like the folds—”
“Don’t say folds.” Gah.
“Like the folds are so large and mad that they’ve turned purple.” I put the phone on speaker, set it on the armrest, and dove in deeper to the ins and outs of my vagina. “Right now, it’s not as swollen as usual, but post-coitus, it’s usually more swollen. Is that something?”
“Why am I still listening to this conversation? You lost me at purple vagina and pushed me over the edge with post-coitus.”
“I’m not kidding, Delaney. I’m seriously concerned. Can vaginas be allergic to dicks?”
“How am I supposed to know? Search it on the Internet. Wait, actually . . . don’t.”