Page 2 of Sinful Blaze

She did you a favor.

I almost believe what I’m saying. Then the bane of my existence materializes in a cloud of sulfur, smooths her left hand on his chest, and leans into him. “Don’t let it bother you, baby. That’s probably all she has left after she had to leave in such a hurry this morning.” Brittany Cleary’s smile oozes venom. “Oh! Which reminds me, NeNe—do you still want those stud earrings from Cartier? Or did you leave those for me?”

I wince. Conrad gave me those earrings as an anniversary gift. Five years together. Five whole goddamn years, burned up and discarded like radioactive ash.

“Consider them a gift,” I croak through a painfully tight throat. “They’ll match your personality.”

A.k.a., a lumpy piece of nothing I want to squeeze to shit until something worthwhile pops out.

“Thank you!” she preens. “They’ll look better on me, anyway. You could barely see them behind all that dark hair of yours.”

Oh, fuck you sideways with a socket wrench.

Fuck him, too.

Fuck all of this and all of them and everyone who let it happen without batting an eye. Everyone who didn’t tell me the obvious: He’s cheating on you. He doesn’t love you. He never will.

I clear my throat. “If you’ll excuse me?—”

“Aww, don’t be like that.” Brittany purrs and nuzzles Conrad’s shoulder. “You can’t blame Conny for wanting better for himself.”

My vision goes red. “Excuse me?”

Brittany sighs and dramatically rolls her eyes. “We’ve talked about this, NeNe. Remember? Back in prep school? You have to put in more effort. Do better; be better. Dress better, if nothing else.” She eyes my wrinkled outfit with a matching wrinkle of her nose. “I mean, look at you. It’s no wonder you couldn’t keep your man interested.”

Once again, I remind myself that it’s good that I’m not allowed to drink on the job.

Or the broken stem of a champagne flute would be lodged in her throat right about now.

Instead, I feel a warm hand grab my elbow and pull me back from other fantasies of violent homicide. “Steady, girl,” my best friend Hazel whispers in my ear. “Just a few more hours, then you’re in the clear.”

Bless her for coming. It’s her night off, and she really didn’t have to show up. But Hazey is as ride-or-die as they come; she would never leave me alone in the trenches.

In fact, when I called her this morning and told her what Conrad had done, her first suggestion was that we take an X-Acto knife to every single one of his works-in-progress, pee on his couches, and steal the batteries from all the remotes in the house.

Hazel swears she has Viking blood in her veins. I doubt it less and less with every passing day.

“Oh, would you look at the time!” she crows over her shoulder to Brittany and Conrad as she steers me in the one direction I’ve been avoiding this whole time: the bar. “It’s drink o’clock.”

I try to dig my heels in. “Haze, I can’t. I’m on the job.”

“You can, and you will, and if anyone wants to argue, they can kiss between my booty cheeks. I dare The Tweedles to so much as try, because I am not in the mood for their brand of bullshit.”

The Tweedles is what Haze and I call our twin bosses, Todd and Keith Bloom, who run the gallery like a prison camp. A quick glance locates them in the corner, chatting up a rich heiress from Long Island.

I sigh and my shoulders slump. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Excellent.” Hazel turns to the bartender. “I need two double shots of absinthe, please.”

My eyes damn near bug out of my head. “Um, absolutely not! I have to work!”

“Oh! Right! Because dealing with Conrad and his floozy’s bullshit is best done sober.” She rolls her eyes sarcastically and hands me both shot glasses. “Knock these back. Leave no drop behind. Do yourself a favor and live a little—and then do us all a favor and consider them tranquilizers to stave off your murderous rampage. Not that I’m not here for it—believe me, I absolutely am—I just need to earn all my commission before the bloodbath ensues.”

I can’t help but laugh. Somehow, she knows just what to say and when I need to hear it. “Fine. You win. But I will not be held responsible for whatever happens after I consume these.”

She waves a hurry-up hand at me. “Say less. Drink more.”

Welp, alrighty then. Down the hatch we go. I knock the first shot back, then the second. Damn, that liquor hits hard. Absinthe is not a drink to toy with.

---