Page 40 of The Bad Girl
Seated across from Samuel Johnson and his wife, Rebecca, makes me grateful I’ve put off marriage for so long. They haven’t looked at each other once throughout the entire dinner, and if I’m not mistaken, they’re both making eyes at the same waiter.
“And by God, we were flying so low we damn near crashed into those Alps,” Dickson Pullman said with wide eyes, lettuce sticking out from his teeth.
My phone vibrates with a message from Stacey.
Stacey:Taking Nadine to Blazers!
A picture of Nadine is attached to the message. In it, she’s wearing a red bra with a sheer black undershirt over it and a black leather skirt.
It takes every bit of concentration I have not to go hard at what is supposed to be a professional business dinner.
“Straight after we landed, the spicy food didn’t sit right with me. I was on the—”
I rise from my seat, preferring the company of two beautiful women at a strip club than these rich boneheads that think talking about their IBS is good conversation.
“I’m sorry, but something’s come up. Johnson, I’ll see you in a couple days, the rest of you, hopefully, we’ll cross paths again soon.”
I don’t wait for their reactions or goodbyes; instead, I head straight for the door, cellphone in hand.
Maxwell:I’ll meet you there.
