Page 1 of The Seven Month Itch
Chapter 1
Justice
Thethwapmy head makes startles me awake. I wince at the sting and peel myself off the cold, hard glass that offers zero protection from a throbbing jaw or the stream of light aimed at my eyes, ready to burn my retinas. So this is the life of a crash test dummy on the verge of blindness.
Christmas on a cracker, thathurt. At least there’s no drool.
Snow-covered pines race past the shuttle in a blur. My breath paints a fog across the window when I lean in for a closer look. I’d smile if it didn’t hurt.
On any other day, a winter wonderland would excite me. I’m a sucker for Hallmark, and this view has all the ingredients for a movie set in a scenic small town with nosy townspeople and a feel-good ending.
But today is a nightmare. I’m not in a holiday movie, escaping the big city to save my family’s tree farm—nor in my childhood home, in front of the fireplace with a book, hot cocoa, and afrosty view of our yard, which is covered in a fresh blanket of snow. Heck, I’m not in the comfortable bed I left in Texas this morning.
I’m…where are we?
Emma, my captor, shakes me like an exorcist from my attempt to go back to sleep. This is the bowels of Hell. Everything hurts. My face. My eyes. The shoulder her manicured talons grip to keep me in place.
She’s one glossy fingernail away from getting tossed out of this fancy Sprinter to become one with nature. Unless she has a hot shower and a warm bed in that bottomless designer bag she calls a purse, we have nothing to discuss. I’ve never been to Kansas, but the urge to click my heels together three times to wake up from this bad dream masked as a getaway wrapped in “good intentions” is tempting.
Verytempting.
Regret isn’t a third wheel on our annual girls’ trip, but after our plane touched down in Denver three hours ago, she is present and accounted for today. And do you know what she thinks? This singles’ retreat is a big mistake. The kind that requires holy water and a tetanus shot.
Asingles’ retreat.
My enthusiasm is right up there with a rectal exam. What does one do at a singles’ retreat anyway, besides act single and retreat when necessary?
How Emma convinced me to come remains an unsolved mystery. Oh, that’s right—I had no choice.
The artist formerly known as my best friend forced me to step away from work and go on vacation. Not by gunpoint, thank God, but to reclaim my time from the mess that’s become my life.
Sounds good, right? It was, until I read the fine print that included random men with unlimited access to this awkwardBlack girl in the middle of the woods for a week. Em thinks we’ll have an unforgettable time. I think black-and-white photos of our younger selves will pan across a screen as a narrator describes the events that led to our deaths.
Two best friends dared to have the adventure of a lifetime. But little did they know their snow-filled escapade would end in a bloodbath and their heads mounted on snowmen.
Can’t wait!
My chest tightens at the driver’s alert. We’re ten minutes away from our destination, which might as well be a murder cabin with no cell reception. I stare out the window and scowl at the grin in the reflection. Spoiler: it’s not me.
Heifer.
It’s all fun and games until we find ourselves in some sex dungeon with leather head harnesses, greasy granddaddies, and a steel door to mask our screams. A singles’ retreat isnotwhat I had in mind when I told Em I wouldthinkabout life as a single woman.
A blind date? Doable, if there’s a swipe left function that teleports me back home and drops me in a pair of sweats.
One of those Christian dating apps so I can try out the username @PsalmLikeItHot? Sure, why not?
What happened to meeting someone in the grocery store bread aisle or at the post office? We share a “hello” and a laugh over jams and stamps. That’s more my speed. Baby steps that lead to coffee weeks later,nota singles’ retreat. But, you give an inch, and your overbearing friend signs you up to run a marathon in heels that rub your baby toes raw.
Emma threatened to stage an intervention if I didn’t get on the plane. I questioned her sanity and asked if an air marshal was on board. This wasaftershe posted an ad online for a Good Samaritan to escort me to the airport. An ad. As if human trafficking and serial killers aren’t a real thing. Thank BabyJesus someone—me—had the sense to remove “Operation Save Her Coochie” before I landed in the back of an unmarked van, or she ended up in a federal prison.
But did that stop her? Not a chance.
She booked flights to our snowy retreat behind my back and flew to Austin from Malibu to make sure my butt was on the plane. She even worked with my assistant to guarantee I had this week off so I could make the trip. In the forest, in the middle of winter, God knows where.
Was there no place available on the beach? Bikinis and mai tais got Stella her groove back. Why not me?
I pull myself up from the cocoon of my reclined leather seat. These windows do nothing to block out the sun. “You should be thankful this little stunt didn’t pan out like aLaw & Order: SVUepisode, Madam Kidnapper.”
