Page 61 of Thick

She raised her flattened hand in the air.

Tate slapped his palm against hers.

“Glad you’re back,” she said. “For what it’s worth, book six made me cry, asshole.”

He shrugged. “Sorry.”

She glanced at me. After looking me up and down, her eyes shot to Tate for answers.

“Sorry,” he said. “Peyton, this is Bobbi.”

She gripped my hand firmly and shook it. “Peyton. Nice to meet you,” she said, speaking almost faster than my mind could discern.

I smiled. In the book, Taylor was a fast talker.

Holy crap. It was her.

In book one, she proved to be the strongest female character I’d ever read. At least at that point. I later decided Chico’s Ol’ Lady, Leddy, took the trophy.

“I like your Jeep,” I said. “It’s awesome.”

She nodded toward my car. “Is that yours?”

I nodded. “It is.”

“1971 or 1972? I can’t tell them apart.”

I was surprised she knew as much as she did. “1971.”

“It’s awesome.”

“Thanks, my dad built it for me.”

She looked the car over, and then met my curious gaze. “He did an awesome job.”

“Thank you. I’ll let him know you like it.”

“So, how do you know Meathead?”

I scrunched my nose, and leaned toward her. “I was his prison guard,” I whispered.

She coughed a laugh. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“That’s funny.”

It was my opportunity to find out if I was jumping to conclusions, or if my thoughts were on track.

“What do you do?”

“For work?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m a reporter. Journalist. I write articles about Southern California violence. It’s not for everyone, but I like it. I might want to interview you some time. See what it’s like behind the walls.”

I tried to hide my excitement. Not about being interviewed, but about her being who I hoped she was. The thought of everything I’d read being real – or close to it – was