Page 98 of The Price of Scandal
“Tell us everything,” Cam insisted. “Be generous with your details.”
“I saw the pics from that gala Friday night,” Daisy said, emptying her champagne flute. “You looked divine. Everyone was too busy predicting wedding dates and pregnancy announcements to talk about that Merritt Van Bullshit garbage.”
“Your hair is so fucking fabulous I’m literally going to die.” Lady Raquel was our favorite server at Mordecai’s. She was six-feet-five in her favorite silver sparkle platforms. Today, her hair was Marilyn Monroe platinum with turquoise and purple highlights that perfectly matched the mermaid scale bodysuit and cape. She wore a three-inch thick faux diamond choker and chandelier earrings that weighed as much as barbells.
I fluffed my hair. Compliments on hair or makeup from a drag queen were serious business. “Thank you, Lady Raquel.”
“You didn’t compliment me on my pink extensions, Lady Raquel,” Daisy complained.
“Oh, honey. That’s because they looked like C-list club wear. I expect more from you,” Raquel said, flashing Daisy an imperious look from under her spider leg eyelashes. “Now, who’s ready for a round of drinks?”
We ordered and settled in for the standard catch-up. Even living in the same neighborhood on the same fallopian tube, our schedules were busy enough we sometimes got our news from gossip blogs and headlines.
DQBs were spent dispelling fiction from fact.
Luna filled us in on her latest dating escapades. She was sugary sweet beneath her flawless vegan exterior. But being busy and constantly on brand, she always seemed to attract six-packed, hemp-wearing yoga and surf instructors with names like Kale.
Cam gave us the non-specifics about a new government contract she’d landed. And Daisy told us about the yacht flotilla she was joining for a long weekend in the Bahamas.
“Enough about my fabulous single life,” Daisy said. “Tell us more about Sexy Pants Price.”
Ruby DeeLicious, a petite queen in a rainbow corset and fishnet stockings, led a group of women to the open table next to us.
“They’re here,” Luna hissed in delight.
There were three reasons we liked Mordecai’s. One, the omelets were perfection. Two, Lady Raquel and company were too fabulous for words. Three, the romance novelists.
Three women strolled past the table in the midst of a number of different conversations. The first, in turquoise glasses, was nearly bouncing out of her own skin. “So then, I was like of course a blow job is the answer!” she yelped at two times the appropriate decibel.
The next woman was taller and dressed in pajama pants that were in desperate need of laundering. She was swearing at her phone. “I told the kids that if they didn’t stop farting in each other’s faces I was going to take their Legos. Now they’re texting me sad selfies promising a fart-free weekend.”
“Don’t fall for it,” the third woman advised. She was wearing a Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death t-shirt. “They mean it now, but they’re just going to get hopped up on cereal, and all good judgment goes out the window.”
“How have you survived homeschooling?” The first woman asked.
“My kids are abnormally good. Like we’re actually concerned. Now, back to the blow job…”
They slid into the booth next to us, and we pretended not to eavesdrop on every word.
“Where’s my favorite?” I asked in a low voice. “I hope she’s not on deadline again.”
“Agh! Sorry I’m late. Apparently, I don’t know how clocks work.” Another woman still wearing sunglasses bounded up to the booth. Her sweaty workout tank was on inside out. She was pawing through her bag. “I think I lost my phone again.”
“It’s in your hand,” the first one pointed out.
“I’m so happy right now,” Luna sighed.
“Shh!” Daisy hissed. “I want to find out what happens to Salvio in book five.”
The night after we met six years ago, our hungover foursome had stumbled into Mordecai’s seeking sustenance and the hair of the dog. What we’d discovered was a kinship and four romance novelists in the next booth.
At first, we thought we were overhearing a murder plot.
“So then I thought, ‘Okay, maybe I can just stab him to death.’ You know? Like really violent because he deserves it, right?”
“Totally. He’s a dirtbag, and everyone is going to agree with that.”
“But then I was like, ‘How can there be sex immediately after this super violent stabbing.’”
