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“Seems to be how they work. I’m not sure of the dynamics,” Jenna admitted.
“Ummm,” I had no idea what to say to that.
“No comment necessary,” Layla said. “I can’t think of one either.”
“But they’re happy,” Jenna shrugged. “And they keepherhappy,” she said, nodding in Gabby’s general direction.
“And that’s the point,” Layla tacked on, emphasizing with the butcher knife in her hand.
And about that time, the introductory strains of Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” echoed through the house.
Holly and Gabby skidded into the kitchen grinning like maniacs.
“Found it!” Gabby said.
The blender whirred to life, and Jenna managed glassware while Layla poured, and, somehow, we all ended up by the pool, French doors open, the music following us outside.
“Now, this, my chicas, is a party,” Layla said, toasting us with her glass.
“Do you need a blanket or something?” I asked Jenna as she settled into a wrought iron chair.
“Hell, no. I’m hot all the time.” She waved a hand, “Fresh air feels good.”
I pulled my own Sand Cloud blanket tighter around my shoulders and sipped my drink.
Light, fruity, and smooth.
“You’re a fantastic bartender, Layla,” I said.
“Thank you, my dear. Much practice,” Layla grinned over the rim of her glass.
“Shedancedher way through college,” Jenna supplied, throwing air quotes.
“Did not,” Layla argued.
“Did too,” Jenna went on. “She was the hottest thing on the strip.”
“And you two were roommates?” I asked, nearly choking on my drink.
Jenna snorted, “We were a helluva pair.”
“But I thought you….” I trailed off, not quite certain where to go with my observation.
“Had a trust fund?” Jenna finished for me.
“She did,” Layla said.
“I did,” Jenna shrugged. “But we met freshman year, English 101, and that was all she wrote.”
“That must’ve been something,” I said, wondering at the history these women shared.
“Jen’s parents were always cool,” Layla said.
“They’re not pretentious twats,” Jenna nodded. “I’ll give them that.” She nudged her friend’s shoe with her own. “And my dad thought you were a smoking businesswoman.” Jenna turned to me and went on, “So, Layla’s been stripping for four years, about to graduate with an art degree, and she approaches my dad with this business plan, lays out the whole thing, charts, diagrams, floor plans, and asks the man for a startup.”
“What happened?” I asked, eyes wide. I couldn’t imagine any conversation in the same stratosphere ever taking place with my father. Who had been, come to think of it, a pretentious twat.
“He offered some suggestions, gave some advice, and you know Abigail Rose Gallery at City Market?”
