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Then again, Amanda, or Amoeba as Mason keeps calling her, shouldn’t discard invitations that I’ve worked really hard on, and mess with an event that benefits sick children.
That’s how I justify pausing in the hallway outside Amoeba’s—I mean Amanda’s, damn it. — partially closed doorway when I hear her talking—because she’s mentioning our event.
“Night with the Rovers star players, my ass,” she says. “It’ll be the Hindenburg when I’m done with it. And Cecelia will finally see who the real power player is at this agency.”
There’s a pause, then a trill of laughter. “I know, mother, I know. What can I tell you? I’ve never liked to lose.”
That forking beeyotch.
“I mean, it would be terrible if the caterers didn’t show up, wouldn’t it? Or if they delivered ice sculptures shaped like a dick?” Another pause. “Of course, I’d use a burner phone and a voice disguiser. Mama didn’t raise no amateur.”
She wants to sabotage, and possibly send obscene material, to a children’s party—one with my name attached to it, of course.
I picture myself putting Nair in her shampoo bottle and watching her hair sizzle away on her head. That’s the least of what she deserves. She deserves a case of full-body herpes with a side helping of head lice. She deserves explosive diarrhea during the most intimate of moments.
She deserves—
No, thinking like this is not productive.
I need to do exactly what I advised Mason to do two nights ago—gather intel and always be two steps ahead of the game—right before we moved from the couch to the floor.
Mason got his appetite back and discovered some creative uses for ice cream. Then we both discovered that ice cream is very, very sticky, and we moved to the shower. That was my first ever four-orgasm night. Mason high-fived himself afterwards, and I laughed so hard I nearly peed myself. Laughing with Mason is almost as good as the sex, but I don’t know if there’s anything as good as sex with Mason Raker, not even the Rovers brand of chocolates.
Maybe we should use the chocolates in ridiculously dirty ways the next time I see him.
My God, what that man can do with his tongue ...
My whole body is hot now. Can a woman in her twenties have hot flashes? Is this what menopause feels like?
I start fanning myself with my hand, while craning to hear what Amoeba—I mean Amanda. — is saying.
“Rowan? What are you doing?” Cecelia’s voice, coming from right behind me, startles me so much I stumble back a step.
Amanda leaps to her feet and hurries over.
“What are you doing lurking in the hallway outside of my office?” she cries, suspicion written all over her face. It’s funny how the guilty are always the most suspicious.
“Well, I do have to pass your office to get to my office,” I say mildly.
“Now, Amanda, we’ve talked about this,” Cecelia says reprovingly. “She works here. I’d hardly call it lurking.” Interesting. So Amanda’s complained to her about me, and Cecelia told her to back off.
Unfortunately, since Cecelia doesn’t want to be seen as playing favorites, that means I can’t bring any of my very legitimate complaints to Cecelia either. Amanda would furiously deny it, and I can’t prove anything.
However, Amanda has already just unknowingly revealed the kinds of things she might do to sabotage the event. I’m going to have to check in with every single vendor who will be serving us that evening and let them know that if anyone tries to change the plans in any way, they need to contact me immediately. I’m also going to have to do regular check-ins with the invitees that I know well, to make sure that nobody tries to tell them that the event has been cancelled. And I’m going to have to make sure all of the security guards don’t let anyone uninvited in.
Wow. I’m really going to have to keep my ear to the ground on this one. I’m going to have to think like Amanda—which is going to be like taking a refreshing dip in a sewer jacuzzi—to forestall anything that she might try to do.
I’m going to have to recruit my friends and Mason to help me anticipate every dirty trick Amanda could pull.
My biggest hope is that Amanda will get caught trying to sabotage the event—not because I’m being spiteful, but because her behavior is truly, genuinely rotten and she should not be in public relations.
“Actually, I’m really glad you’re here. I’d like to review how things are going for the event,” I say to Cecelia, before Amanda has the chance to lob any more accusations at me.
She bobs her head in agreement, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Certainly, dear. Give me fifteen minutes; my coochie waxer is waiting for me.”
“She comes to your office?” I say in astonishment.
“Doesn’t everyone’s?” Cecelia looks genuinely puzzled. “Like, where else would you meet up with your coochie waxer? In a dark alley?”
