by Tami Anthony
The
BACHELORETTE
Project
By
Tami Anthony
AMAZON KINDLE EDITION
~~~~~~~~
PUBLISHED BY:
Pink Butterfly Publications
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
The BACHELORETTE Project
Copyright © 2012
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or author.
ADULT READING MATERIAL: Contains adult language and adult content
Chapter One
A woman’s timeline of life is simple. First, we conquer the trials and tribulations of our confusing childhoods questioning horrible hair-dos and don’ts (i.e. the overly frizzy, dried-out perm, and pigtails … PIGTAILS!), the mystery of the dreaded menstrual cycle (why oh why does it happen to us and not the boys?), and of course, the struggles of being a “lady” … whatever that means. During this time, we experience our first kiss which is often sloppy and disgusting, and may or may not hold the characteristics of a Hoover vacuum (because let’s face facts … boys at this age have absolutely no idea what romance is nor that the French kiss does not necessarily mean “I’m going to shove my tongue down your throat to your esophagus.”). And then there’s the dreaded high school prom where you search months on end for the perfect dress which in twenty years—that perfect dress will be something that you live to regret—a dress that you may have lost your virginity in or it’s just the simple symbol of a fashion disaster.
Ah, yes, childhood in all its glory. In just 17 or 18 short years, we as women learn many of life’s important lessons and just how shitty it actually is to be female (God, are you listening? Womanhood sucks!). Anyway, we graduate high school, go on to live the college life (massive drinking, the dreaded “Freshmen 15” weight gain regimen, far too much nudity, the almost uncountable boyfriend mistakes, 20 page research papers, etc.), we then graduate college, dive into our respected careers (or whatever employment we can find after graduation), and then we move on to our ultimate task which can be spelled out in four little letters: L.O.V.E.
Love! What can I say about it? After finding the perfect job post-college years, we strive to find that perfect love. I’m not talking about the love that you get from your parents or your brother or sister or the way your dog may lick your face out of admiration and affection or something. I’m talking about the ULTIMATE love: marriage! The love that we dreamt about when we were little girls. You know, when we would dress up our Barbie dolls for Barbie and Ken’s wedding day, put a napkin on our heads and pretended that within that moment we have also found Mr. Right (even though at that time he could’ve very well have been our magical, invisible friend). It’s precious, it’s perfect, but sadly it’s pretend because when you’re in your twenties looking for a mate, it is by far easier said than done. Fortunately for me, I got lucky … oh-so incredibly lucky!
I met ‘Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome, Wealthy, and Refined’ at a benefit two years ago. Sadly, I don’t remember what the benefit was for, but more than likely my law firm was donating to ill children (great for advertising and personal imagery by the way because not all lawyers and paralegals are the parasites that we are made out to be). Anyway, I wouldn’t exactly say it was love at first sight. The fact that he accidentally spilled a drink on my Dolce & Gabbana evening gown was definitely a not-so-romantic way of meeting someone, but in some weird and crazy universe it actually worked for us. His clumsiness was the icebreaker, and the fact that he bought me another drink and offered to pay for my dress was the tip of the iceberg. Not love at first sight, but surely the beginning of something wonderful, something special, something that has lasted for two years, and for the past six months we’ve been cohabitating. Isn’t life great?
Victor is his name, by the way. Victor Repetto. Hotshot news anchor with the mind of a genius and the body of a god. I … LOVE … HIM! Everything about him is just so intriguing and attractive—and damn sexy! His perfect olive skin, his movie star smile, his out-of-this-world physique, and the sex? Oh, the sex! Mind blowing sex! The type of sex you see in movies that makes you sweat and orgasm in your seat. Yeah … it’s that good. Out. Of. Control.
So, here we are once again, another benefit. I’m escorting my boyfriend—excuse me, my BEAU (can I call him that?)—to another charity event because those who are wealthy and successful like Victor come to these events to donate for the cause, whatever the cause may be (sadly, we’ve been to so many benefits this year that I don’t even know what this one is for either), and more often than not, the men tend to flaunt their money … and their women. I am the quintessential trophy girlfriend and my guilty pleasure, which is sometimes shameful to admit, is that I absolutely love it. I am the beautiful girl hanging on the arm of one of New York City’s most successful young men. God, I am lucky.
“Oh, Leslee! Is that Versace you’re wearing?” an older woman at my table asks me, the wife of a successful Wall Street man, a Park Avenue wife with two rugrats at home and nannies working around the clock. I nod. You can’t just come to events like these wearing just anything. You have to look classy and sophisticated. If there’s anything that I’ve learned from my New York City lifestyle, it’s that keeping up with the Joneses is the only way to survive. Speaking of Jones …
“Yes, so I hear that the Dow Jones is looking quite good this quarter,” another woman says at my table. Another Park Avenue wife, another trophy of sorts she is. You know, it’s actually kind of funny how these wives are so much like their husbands except they all lack one thing: employment. They are the stay-at-home and shop-till-you-drop women. The I’m-spending-all-my-husband’s-money-and-staying-beautiful women. Most of the time, I can’t relate to them. I’m a 27-year-old paralegal who works my ass off in order to pay for my addictive designer fashion habit. I know I don’t have to work because Victor makes enough money to support him, me, and probably half the population of Hoboken, but I can’t see myself not working. It almost seems so gold diggerish not to, but then again who am I to judge? Another thing that annoys me is this whole Dow Jones thing. I’ve wondered for years who or what the hell Dow Jones is and why is this person or thing so significant to our lives. Maybe it’s just something that the Wall Street wives know. Maybe it’s some sort of secret. Like I said, I’m a paralegal. There hasn’t been any reason for me to know who Dow Jones is unless my bosses are representing this person in court.
Victor stands up from our table and taps a champagne glass with his fork. “Can I have everyone’s attention please?” he says then proceeds to clear his throat. Victor is the type to make those heartwarming announcements that you hear during charity events. Another thing that I looooove about him is how sensitive and thoughtful he can be, even though he’s secretly (but not so secretly) flaunting his money at the same time. I wonder exactly how genuine these speeches are to him, if he can actually relate to the hardship of others; then I remind myself what a nice ass he has. God, he’s so hot! I think to myself. Let’s go home!
“I would like to thank everyone for coming out tonight in order to support the children of Vietnam,” he says and everyone watches in awe. “Education is so important and we can not take that for granted. For those who are more fortunate, we must give to the less fortunate as a
symbol of pride and support.” Yeah, yeah, hurry up so we can go home and have sex, okay?! “We must never forget that the children are our future and that we owe it to them and ourselves to provide them with the best schooling possible. Every dollar earned from this benefit will assist in better education for our brother country.” Brother country? I totally missed that memo. “To the children of Vietnam and education.” Victor raises his glass as the onlookers make a toast to the children that they’ve never met and a country that they will more than likely never visit. We are all hypocrites. ALL OF US!
An older Park Avenue wife leans toward me and whispers. “Hey, aren’t you part Vietnam or something?” I sigh. Really? Did she just ask me that?
“No, I’m not Vietnamese,” I respond and correct her at the same time. “My mother is from Korea and my father is from … Philadelphia.”
“Oh,” the woman says plainly then continues to gawk at Victor. Education much?
“Onto other business, I would just like to announce that this is the second year in a row that I’ve been voted New York City’s favorite anchor person,” Victor says as the Wall Street wives and network executives clap as soft and elegantly as they can. “And I just want to say that these have been the best two years of my life and it only gets better from here.” Victor looks at me then lowers himself on one knee while pulling out a small velvet box from his pocket. He opens the box to reveal the most breathtaking diamond ring that I’ve ever seen in my life. Victor looks into my eyes, lovingly. “Leslee, I can’t picture my life without you. You are my best friend, my lover, and my support system.” This is it! I think to myself. The moment you’ve always dreamed of! “Leslee Marie Robinson, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
I gasp in my seat as tears begin to run from my eyes. I’m crying so much from the shock that I can barely breathe. I can’t believe that this is it, the final factor of making my womanhood complete. I can’t speak. I can’t answer. I’m choked up! What are you doing?! I ask myself. Say yes! Say yes! I begin to nod my head furiously as I place my left hand onto Victor’s hand. He gently places the ring on my finger and I sob in complete and utter happiness. The room is filled with applause and admiration. Victor lifts me in his arms and hugs me tight. “I love you, Leslee,” he whispers to me and I smile.
“I love you, too, Victor,” I whisper back with happiness. “I love you, too!”
Chapter Two
Mondays usually suck. I will survive work today. I will survive work today. I will survive work today … now that I have a big, shiny engagement ring to gawk at, I chant in my head. As I sit at my desk, I can not help but to just stare at my left hand. It’s so shiny. It’s so perfect. I’M ENGAGED! I’M ENGAGED! I want to scream in my office. I want to sing and dance on top of my desk like one of those Frank Sinatra movies, do a little tap number or something. But, in a civil attempt to be normal, all I can do is stare at my ring and smile. Life is almost too perfect.
“Leslee Robinson?” I hear the secretary say through my speakerphone but I ignore her. I’m too happy to respond. I begin to daydream of running through fields of grass in my beautifully beaded wedding gown. Not Frank Sinatra … more like The Sound of Music. I sigh and smile. I can see the budding lilacs in the grass already. Lilac … lilac … would that be a good bridesmaid color?
“Leslee, there’s a call for you on line one,” she says. I should’ve taken today off so I can just stare at the flawless diamond on my finger. Pink! Pink is a great bridesmaid color. Stop daydreaming!
I finally decide to take my call. “Leslee Robinson, how can I assist you?” I say.
“I miss you,” says the deep voice on the other end: Victor. So sexy, so suave … soooooo my fiancé. “Do you miss me?”
I laugh. “I saw you about three hours ago and you miss me already? Is that the effect that I had on you last night?” I ask him as I flirtatiously twirl my hair around my finger. Once again: mind blowing sex! We did it twice last night … and once this morning. I’m beginning to believe that this ring is turning me into quite the nymphomaniac. We’ve been engaged for three days and already we’re screwing like rabbits. It’s like Victor has become an addiction to me; a crazy sexual addiction.
He laughs. “Last night and this morning were amazing,” Victor tells me and I laugh. Yeah, I can officially consider myself a good lay, can’t I? I’ve got moves in the bedroom that can boggle the mind. “Are we on for this weekend? Saturday night?”
“Hmm, Saturday night …” I think.
“Well, you know Valentine’s Day is coming up.”
“Ah, yes, Valentine’s Day,” I say. “My birthday. February 14. I’ll officially be striding out of the twenty-something zone.”
“You’ll be 28,” Victor reminds me.
“Yes, 28 years old,” I respond as I roll my eyes. “More reason to make my reservation for a pair of dentures and a cane. I’m getting old! What I would give to be 21 again.”
He laughs at my blatant exaggeration. “28 is not old. You’re perfect. So we’ll go out then on Saturday night. I’ll take you to a nice restaurant, then we will go home and watch a romantic movie, and then we can …”
“Practice some Kamasutra perhaps?” I suggest in the most seductive tone that I can say it in. “I’m going to show you exactly how flexible I can be, and then I’ll use my tongue to—” I hear an obvious loud cough in my office and see Minnie, the other paralegal, standing at the door. I’ve been caught. Damn. “Um, so I will see you when I get home? I have a client waiting in the lobby for me.”
Victor laughs again. “Yes, when you get home, then you can show me exactly what you plan on doing with that tongue.”
I giggle nervously and embarrassedly. “Okay, I love you. Bye!” I say and hang up the phone quickly. I look at Minnie and smile. “Good morning, Minnie.”
“Morning, Leslee,” she says depressingly. Minnie is not a morning person. In fact, she’s one of the most unpleasant people I know. She’s frumpy, frizzy-looking, and just plain miserable. You would think that she hates her job or something, but she doesn’t. She actually lives for the law, and she’s also one of the top paralegals at Thomas and Thomas. I wish she were a little bit more … happy, perhaps?
“So, how much of my conversation did you hear?” I ask her, smiling.
Minnie fake grins. “Just enough to vomit up my breakfast,” she responds. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” I say as I pull out the paperwork from my file cabinet. I look at Minnie. She wants to say something. I know she does because she has that look on her face that says, ‘I know something, and I want to tell you, but I won’t.’ So I’ll just ask. “What is it, Minnie?”
She tries to avoid the question. “Oh, nothing,” she says in a singsong voice. “I just heard some office gossip that I’m sure you don’t care about.”
Office gossip. You can’t get enough of it. I will act like I don’t care, but I really do care. I want to know! I need to know! This office is usually boring, but gossiping makes it fun … well, sometimes. I’ll play it cool. “I’m sure it’s nothing important,” I reply and Minnie shrugs her shoulders. “It doesn’t affect me, does it?”
“Maybe…” she says then turns the other way.
“Okay, I’m listening. Tell me what’s going on.”
"Okay, so today while I was in the break room," Minnie starts, "I overheard Amy, our senior paralegal, tell Maya, the human resources lady, that she was leaving here." At this point I stop to look at Minnie because now I'm definitely listening! "Turns out that Amy was offered this crazy, over-the-top salary at Rochester and Lincoln Law Office on 23rd Street and she supposedly starts there next week!"
"What?!" I exclaim not even really knowing what to say. How in the world are we gonna hold up without Amy? She’s like the backbone of our office, our very own Obama in a Caucasian woman’s body—but then again she is known for having a shitty attitude. Maybe this will be good for all of us; a blessing in disguise. "So, wait! Who's replacing her?" A big
smile erupts over Minnie's face.
"I don't know," Minnie replies, "but I'm so glad the bitch will be gone. God, how I hate Amy!" Minnie begins to walk toward the door with her coffee cup. "I'll be back. This will be break number one of ten." As Minnie opens the door, Amy is on the other side with a disgusted look on her face. Minnie laughs mischievously. "I guess we need an office babysitter, Leslee," she says sarcastically.
"Good morning, Minnie," Amy replies with an obviously fake smile. "Going on break already? Didn't I just see you getting coffee about fifteen minutes ago?"
"Yeah," Minnie says. "I was preparing myself for the ridiculous amount of work that you left me this morning." Amy rolls her eyes and Minnie walks past her. "Feel free to leave me some more work. It's quite challenging compared to the shit work that you give everybody else, but you know me. I love a challenge." Minnie smirks then walks away.
It’s kinda funny actually because Minnie is right. Amy is always piling most of the work on Minnie and there are two reasons for this:
1. Amy cannot stand Minnie as far as she can throw her.
2. Minnie is the smartest paralegal in the office and gets the most work done in the shortest time, period.
As nasty as her attitude is toward Amy, the lawyers would never fire Minnie because she takes a lot of slack off of them, too. Minnie is a favorite in the office, as am I.
"Um, hey Amy," I casually say pretending to be so involved in my work that I'm not lifting my head up … Key word: pretending! I have no idea what I should say to her. Amy's intimidating. She's like an alpha male in Manolo Blahnik heels!
Amy closes the door of my office. "We have to talk, Les." She sits at the edge of my desk and takes a deep breath. I hope I'm not getting fired, I think to myself. Please, dude-lady with heels, don’t fire me.