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No, it wasn’t. The first six months were fun. Tristan had reveled in my body. We’d had sex in the shower, on the couch, in the kitchen — all the time. He’d said I was the sexiest woman he’d ever known. That he’d had a crush on me since the day in first grade when I punched Greta Smalls for teasing him.
He’d said being with me was the happiest time of his life. Considering we’d known each other for eighteen years, and I knew what a shitty childhood he’d had, those words meant a helluva lot.
But things had slowly changed. He stopped seeing his therapist and taking his meds. His phone became more interesting than talking or screwing or doing anything with me. Slowly he reverted to the angry guy I remembered from school. The guy who didn’t want to love or be loved.
Frank interrupted my dark thoughts with an insistent meow. I glanced at my cellphone. October seventh. Seven forty-five a.m. New day, but same time I always woke. Or rather, same time the little fink got my ass out of bed to feed him and Lulu every morning.
Some things never changed.
Flinging off the covers again, I said, “Okay, okay. I hear ya.” I peed then grabbed a heavy, curved hair clip and, with a few deft twists, had my long chestnut hair secured in a bun atop my head. It was wavy and wild, but I liked it long. People always remarked on how lovely my hair was, and my voice, and my face.
What no one talked about was my figure. Except the weird pervy guys — you know, the ones youdon’twant noticing you? I was insanely careful about my eating and ran daily, but genetics made me tall and curvy. I had big tits, full hips, and hadn’t had a thigh gap sinceever.
The fashion industry called me plus size.
My mom called me voluptuous.
And Tristan had just called me Zaftig.
“What a dick.”
Was I obese? For my height, not really. But I definitely wasn’t what society called slender.
I dragged on a pair of burgundy sleep pants and a black T-shirt, shoved my feet into old shearling boots, and followed the cats downstairs to the kitchen.
Three stories and less than ten years old, the townhouse was my sanctuary. I’d bought it with my own hard-earned money, proof of my success after only a few years in the audiobook business. The wood trim, cabinets, and carpet were shades of gray, and the kitchen, living room, and dining room floors were hand-scraped hickory planks. Color popped in the artwork on the crisp, white walls and on my bedding and throws. I especially loved my blue sofa and loveseat.
After breakfast, I showered and dressed then went down to the office, powered up my computer, and opened my current job file. If I wasn’t going to get off, I could at least enjoy telling the story of someone who would.
With headphones on, I lounged on the loveseat and listened to what I’d recorded the previous day. Four chapters awaited editing. I ran the files through proofing software, then listened to the problems it flagged. Most were pickups I needed to edit, but one section had too much mouth noise, so I decided to rerecord it.
If the townhouse was my sanctuary, the ventilated vocal booth in my office was my pride and joy. Covered in dark-gray fabric, it measured six feet by four feet and stood almost to the ceiling. A small table with an adjustable stand for my tablet reader and a comfortable office chair took up most of the interior. Blue pyramid-shaped acoustic foam covered the inside — sound-dampening material to deaden ambient noise. Headphones and a selection of mics hung from wall pegs, and strip lights illuminated the space. I used a separate monitor and mouse to control my computer, which remained outside the booth to prevent fan noise from ruining my audio files.
Inside the booth, silence reigned. The real world slipped away, replaced by the fictional world of Juno Galore, heroine of the fourteenth novel in a reverse harem science fiction series by Drew Katterman. He was prolific and campy and his characters were a hell of a lot of fun to narrate.Stars and Stripperswas the latest title of his bestsellingStarship Steamseries.
Drew’s books had introduced me to reverse harem, and I’d fallen in love with the genre’s feisty female characters. These women had multiple lovers and said, “Why the fuck should I choose one man over the rest? If a man can have a harem, so can I.” Drew’s Juno Galore expected her guys to put her first. If they didn’t, she kicked them to the curb.
I closed the vocal booth door and sat at the table. Donning headphones, I pulled up the passage to rerecord on my tablet and turned on the monitor. My digital audio workstation appeared on it. I adjusted my mic, pressed the RECORD button, and returned to Juno’s world.
“If Neutron Jon thinks one good shagging will send me head-over-heels, he’s a dip-shit.” Juno crouched as blaster bolts hit the walls around her, sizzling the wallpaper and frying the green plasteen carpet. Smoke obscured the hallway, but that didn’t stop the morons from firing at her. Apparently, seeing what they were shooting at didn’t matter. “Quality over quantity, bitches.” Juno blinked her viz implants over to infrared. Spying a dozen heat signatures, she grinned, aimed, and picked off her enemies.
No, Jon needed to fuck her a lot harder than that if he wanted to keep his place in her harem. She holstered the blaster and made a run for the exit.
Of course, she might just fry the fucker and move on. After all, he’d screwed her over after he’d screwed her this morning. That was just plain rude.
“At least buy a girl dinner.” Juno exited the Solaris Science Center into a half-circle of blasters pointing right at her heaving chest.
“Well, fuck me.” She started shooting again.
Four hours later, I saved the edited audio files and sent them to Drew for approval, then quit the application and took off my headphones. Only two chapters remained to finish the book. Stretching, I looked through the glass slider to the patio. Seattle remained under dark-gray clouds, but the rain had stopped. Water dripped from red and gold autumn leaves and drops shimmered on the screen door.
I stowed my computer, then went outside for the mail. Orange and purple Halloween lights glowed in the front window of the townhouse opposite mine. A black wreath with white skulls and orange bows adorned another neighbor’s front door. Wind whooshed between the two rows of facing townhomes, making me shiver.
A package waited on my front doormat. Picking it up, I smiled when I saw the return address. I’d waited a week for this. The rest of the mail was junk and got tossed in the office recycling bin, then I headed for the master bedroom.
Plastic crinkled as I pulled two items from the package and unwrapped them.
One was a pink wiggle dress with a flared skirt — flirty and a little risqué.
