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Belle and Cindy stare at me with wide, shocked eyes, and I’m thankful that at least they aren’t looking at me with anger and betrayal written all over their faces.
“Does this have anything to do with why you’ve been putting off dancing on stage at Charming’s so you can finally start booking your own stripping parties?” Belle asks softly.
“Pshaw, no!” I scoff with a nervous laugh. “I already told you this a hundred times. I’m letting you two assholes have your shining moment after living like nuns for so long. You deserve the spotlight for a little while. You should be thanking me because I’m so giving.”
Jesus, I sound like a moron.
“So, let me get this straight: The Naughty Princess Club was all your idea—which turned out to be amazing, by the way—and yet ever since it started taking off, you’ve been giving us one excuse after another about why you don’t want to dance yet, and you’re saying it has absolutely nothing to do with your ex-husband, who we suddenly find out was never gay, and everything to do with you letting me and Belle have our moment?” Cindy asks skeptically.
“Fine. We all know I’m an asshole. The truth is, like the wise Beyoncé once said, I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly. Once they get a piece of me, your pickings for parties are gonna be slim.”
For fuck’s sake, why can’t I stop talking out of my ass?
I try to keep a confident smile on my face, but it’s no use. Not when I’ve got my ex swirling around in my brain, refusing to go the fuck away. This is why I kept everything from them. This is why I’ve held on to the lie for so long. I’ve spent too many years building myself back up after what he did. And since one stupid phone call from him a few weeks ago, I’ve done nothing but relive every moment of my marriage.
“Chéri, do you really think a donut is wise for breakfast? You know what carbs do to you.”
“Mon amour, that dress is a little tight, no? I think it’s time for the next size up.”
My vision clouds with tears and I curse under my breath, squeezing my eyes closed before those damn things even think about falling.
As much as I hate to admit it, just hearing that asshole’s voice through the phone line reverted me back to the woman I swore I’d never be again. One who would let a man break her and kill any confidence she’d ever had in herself. I haven’t resisted stripping because I want my friends to get all the glory for a little while, although it’s a nice thought. I haven’t started stripping because for the first time since I signed those fucking divorce papers two years ago, all I hear is his voice in my head telling me I’m not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not good enough.
“We’re gonna need alcohol for this, aren’t we?” Cindy asks after a few quiet minutes.
I open my eyes and nod my head, knowing it’s time my friends knew the truth.
“Oh yeah. A whole fucking shit ton of alcohol.”
Chapter 7: Panty Dropper
“This bar is amazing! It’s stocked with literally everything you’d need to make any drink you want,” Belle says excitedly, easily twirling a bottle of raspberry vodka in her hand before pouring some into the cocktail shaker on the bar in front of her.
Cindy and I sit side-by-side on the high stools across the bar, staring at her in shock when she adds a scoopful of ice to the shaker, smacks the lid on it, and shakes, the ice cubes rattling loudly.
“Can we talk about why you suddenly look like Tom Cruise in Cocktail right now? When the hell did you learn to mix drinks like that?” Cindy asks while Belle uncaps the lid from the shaker, using it as a strainer to evenly fill three highball glasses, finishing off the drinks with a splash of cranberry juice in each.
“Vincent has been teaching me,” she explains with a shrug, pushing two of the glasses across the bar towards me and Cindy.
“Is this explanation going to end with a visual of the two of you naked, covered in grenadine and maraschino cherries?” I ask, pausing with the drink halfway to my mouth with a grimace on my face.
“No,” she huffs with a roll of her eyes as I take a sip. “Well, unless you count that time he ate a cherry out of my vag—”
I start choking on the mouthful of drink I’ve just tried to swallow, hacking and coughing until Cindy reaches over and pats me on the back.
“For the love of God, Belle!” I complain when I can finally breathe again. “Your vagina is not a fruit storage bin!”
“Seriously!” Cindy complains, before lowering her voice and leaning across the bar closer to Belle. “But was it hot?”
