“And how do you know that? Was she like a cold fish? Did she tell you that?” Alicia demanded.
No. She was perfect. It was like she knew my body for years.
“Do you think everyone she dates is announced to the public?” Alicia asked. “I mean, think about it. Her brother didn’t even confirm he was dating Princess Ingrid until they were basically engaged.”
“How do you know that?” Clarice asked.
“I am a royal watcher and, believe it or not, everyone in Scandinavia has royals except for Iceland,” Alicia said proudly.
I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Iceland is not in Scandinavia. For the umpteenth?—”
“You’ve angered the Viking,” Barry teased.
“You should at leastaskher what her situation is. Wouldn’t it make sense to be like, ‘are you for real’ rather than judging it?”
“It’s over now,” I said.
A face I didn’t want to see appeared in my periphery.
“Not if you don’t want it to be,” Alicia said. “You could grovel.”
Max Mixxon—née Mikkelson—appeared with his group, all smiles, like he fucking owned the place.
“Cunt,” Barry muttered.
“Ignore them,” Alicia said. “We got this.”
“4låt in da house!” Max shouted as if he wasn’t a sixty-something corporate shill.
“As if anyone fucking cares,” Clarice murmured.
Max practically pulled a tiny teenaged Alia around. But within an inch of her was always the DJ who made her famous, Jason K. Watching the way he hovered predatorily sent a shiver down my spine.
“Are they together?” Alicia whispered. “What is he? Thirty?”
“Twenty-nine, according to his wiki,” Clarice answered. “Jason K likes younger ladies. Eleven years. Ick.”
I looked at Betty, the woman I had almost a decade and a half on.
“Oh, c’mon, she’s a grown up,” Alicia read my mind. “Just remind yourself that if you were a dude, this would be the expectation. You’re good, babes. But you need to grovel.”
Chapter 16
Where’s your head at?
BETTY
“Wrong!” Hank called, voice sharp. “I told you to do it in three, Bets!”
I was about to give up. We did the same line three times and every time I tried to put in four strides like a short stirrup rider in remedial math. A simple bit of gymnastics over some unimpressive fences made me look like a weekend amateur.
“She doesn’t have Jane’s stride!” I protested.
“She isn’t a pony, either. Cross your irons, Bets.”
I groaned. “No.”
“Are you really telling me no?”
