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I carefully put down my drink and trot away from the ocean, leaving Eric and Chase to talk about whatever they talk about if I’m not around.
By the time I get far away enough for some privacy, my phone’s no longer doing its beeping thing. I still need to check it. I mean, I trotted all the way out here.
I dig out my phone, expecting to see a text from Holly-Anne with some question about the ceremony. Instead, I’m greeted with one of my old modeling photos, just like the ones all over my fucking dressing room at the pageant.
It takes a moment to realize what the hell happened, that someone texted me the photo. I also realize that there’s a message attached to it.
It’s from Evian, because of course it fucking is.
Hi, Kara, I’m sorry to bother you, but a client of mine is expanding a plus-size brand and launching a new campaign. They would like to use this photo, with your permission of course.
&nb
sp; There’s nothing malicious there—it’s all business. I look at the photo, which was not something I expected to look at today, or ever again.
That’s me in the photo, though. Granted, it’s not the happiest me there is, nor the happiest time in my life. But it’s me there, and if that photo didn’t exist, and that time in my life never happened, I wouldn’t be where I am right now.
And, as we’ve established, right here, right now is pretty fucking great—perfect, in fact.
Permission granted.
I send the text and drop my phone back into my tote where it belongs. Chase and Eric sense when I’m walking back towards them, stopping their conversation to watch me.
It’s perfect. But, apart from a Mai Tai, I know of at least one way to improve on perfection—sex on the beach.
And no, I’m not talking about the fucking drink.
Brittney vs. Banker
A Naughty Angel Tale
By Alexis Angel
Copyright 2017 by Naughty Angel Publishing
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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Brittney
I stumble out into the cold night air, giggling. Wow, I feel good. The world pitches slightly to the left and it takes me a minute to swing my gaze around, back to my besties, Erica, Lisa, and Ashley. They whoosh in and out of focus and I grin drunkenly at them. "Wow. It’s cold out here," I slur. But the temperature doesn’t affect me; my blood is running hot from the alcohol running through it. I’ve probably got more alcohol than blood in my veins at this point.
Lisa jabs at her phone. "There’s no Uber anywhere around," she says, her forehead knotting with worry. She drank less than I did, and thus seems to care more than I do. I figure hell, one will show up at some point. We should just start walking…somewhere. Like home?
Do I want to go home? Suddenly, that decision seems, like, super complicated. I could just crash on Lisa’s couch. Or Ashley’s. Or Erica’s.
So...
Many...
Choices...
The deadbolt in the front doors of Bungalow 8 slides into place, reminding me that no matter where I decide to go, back inside isn’t one of the options. At four in the morning – I stare at my iPhone, trying to bring my eyes into focus – okay, 4:12 in the morning, they’re done with us. As the bouncers like to say, "You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here."
