CHAPTER 1
POPPY
I feel evil.
Not in a serial killer “it puts the lotion on its skin” way, but more in a cartoon villain twirling his mustache and cackling maniacally way.
Just, you know, deliciously bad.
The soon-to-be-divorced couple sitting across the conference table from me are currently screaming at each other over who gets custody of a Peloton and a timeshare in Florida, and all I can think is,“I know something you don’t know”in an incredibly ridiculous school-yard chant way.
That, and“you miserable people are so about to not be my problem.”
The last thought has me hiding a smile. At least, I think I’m hiding a smile.
My client, a man who has made marital pettiness his entire personality for the last six months along with so many red flags it’s possible his soon-to-be ex-wife is completely colorblind, pauses mid-rant to frown at me. “You’re in a remarkably good mood today, Ms. Harrington.”
“Because I was just looking over your financial disclosures, Gary,” I whisper, batting my eyelashes with faux sincerity. “AndI can already picture how beautifully this settlement is going to turn out for you. A clean slate and an unforgettable victory.”
Gary smiles, looking momentarily assuaged by my faux-optimism, and leans back in his leather chair. I gently tap his opposing counsel’s stack of motions. “We’re taking the Peloton, for sure. Gary paid for the custom calibration, and frankly, your client doesn’t even use the subscription. Plus… everyone knows Gary needs the cardio for his blood pressure. He has several doctors’ notes. It’s a non-negotiable.”
Honestly, I think the world would be better off if we left Gary’s blood pressure unchecked, his poor wife certainly would be, too.
Gary nods officiously, matching my energy, and my phone buzzes against my thigh under the table.
Hell yeah.
That’s the sound of my nefarious plans very much under way.
Plans that have absolutely nothing to do with dividing up mutual funds, or arguing over who gets the velvet sofa, or listening to human men talk about their feelings—which, after three years in family law, I can confidently say are often trash.
Nope. This plan is for me.
And for my girls, of course. Because let’s face it, the human dating pool post-Roth-invasion is a at best, a biohazard. At worst, a cess pool.
My friend group? We’re all miserable.
Ellison is drowning in insurance pivot tables, Lily is losing her mind, and Lucy is practically a saint for not throwing her blender at her wall. They need a push.
A reality TV-sized push.
With wings and big dicks.
And I’m just the one to give it to them. The push, I mean. Not the wings and huge dicks. I have neither of those.
I slide my phone out beneath the mahogany table, keeping my face perfectly locked in a professional "lawyer face" while my thumbs fly across the screen.
Lily:I’m bringing so much tequila
Notification: Lily has changed the group name from Reality Hussies to Drunk To Escape Reality Hussies
A quiet snort escapes my nose, and I quickly mask it with a delicate cough into my hand.
Poppy: ha
Poppy:I’m making brownies right now
Poppy:And I have a crockpot with queso going
