Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Yelena laughed so hard her cheeks turned bright red.
“You know—this is like a scene from a book I read,” she said, when she finally caught her breath. “Cupcakes and Catastrophes.”
“Oh, I read that!” Mari exclaimed. “Did you read the next one in the series, Crimes and Cocktails?”
“I love that book!” I exclaimed. “But I like The Saucy Sisters Society even more.”
And we were off again. It turned out we all loved to read. I think a lot of curvy girls do. I know I read a lot in high school because I didn’t get asked on many dates. Of course, that’s not always the case—plenty of full-figured goddesses out there have lots of male attention. I’m just not one of them. Not that I really want to be, as I said before.
So we dropped the TOPS meetings and started a book club instead.
The only rules of The Curvy Girls Smut Club are that we only read trashy books with plenty of smut and we only bring tasty snacks. No cardboard diet crackers and celery sticks and yogurt dip for us. We adore carbs, sweets, and smut and we love and support each other fiercely.
And now, five years later, we’re still going strong. You’d think in all that time, someone would have moved away but no—I think none of us wanted to go. Sophia even confided to me that she turned down a good job in Georgia to stay here, (she’s a vet tech) because she would have missed the Smut Club too much.
I feel the same way. I’d love to get away from the Florida heat. My dream has been to move to someplace with four seasons for as long as I can remember. But I just can’t leave my girls.
As we laugh and chat about our latest book—a Mafia romance called, The Devil’s Consort—I feel a warm glow of love and happiness and connection.
I have no idea that this is going to be my last Book Club meeting for a long time…possibly forever.
6
Jules
I hug each of the girls goodbye reluctantly. Book Club is the highlight of my week and I hate to see it end. I step outside and Yelena’s big circular driveway spreads out in front of me, glossy stone tiles reflecting the golden glow of her mansion. She’s the kind of woman who just has a circular driveway—like it came standard with her life, but I know that’s not true.
She told me once that she grew up poor and married rich on purpose because of it. I think she might have been some kind of mail-order-bride, though I’m not sure about that. I do know that her husband was thirty years older than her and that he died early in their marriage, leaving her very well off.
With a sigh, I head to my car. My dusty little Honda Civic sits wedged between Yelli’s gleaming black Escalade and Naomi’s Lexus LX like a kid at the grown-ups’ table. The thing is ten years old and has more quirks than a toddler on a sugar high, but it gets me where I need to go. Usually.
Sliding behind the wheel, I crank the engine, which coughs like a chain-smoker before catching. The dashboard lights flicker, then hold steady. I let out a relieved sigh. It’s always a gamble with my car—one day it’s just going to refuse to start, and I’ll be stranded somewhere with no Plan B. But since I don’t have any money in my budget for fancy things like car tune-ups, that’s a problem for Future Jules.
Tonight’s problem is the gnawing anxiety in my stomach. Because now that the high of Book Club is over, I’m back to worrying about my job. The drive back to my apartment near USF is pretty far and traffic lights stretch the trip. Which gives me too much time to think.
I love Book Club. I love the girls—my people—my Curvy Girls Smut Club. They’re the only part of my life that feels fun, that feels mine. But as soon as I leave Yelena’s glittering palace, reality comes crashing back in. Tomorrow it’s work again at Sutherland & Sons. Boredom interspersed with the fear of getting into trouble with my manager. Endless spreadsheets…staring at the clock on the wall until my eyes cross…
And hanging over all of it, the looming shadow of that drug test.
Why the hell did I even get called in for one? I don’t do drugs. I barely drink. The wildest thing I put in my body is Cuban bread, and even then I feel guilty about the carbs.
Lucia promised she’d help me fight it if they tried to screw me over.
“We’ll get a lawyer,” she said, her voice fierce, like she was ready to march into HR with her stilettos and a subpoena. That gave me some comfort, but still—who reported me? Who decided I looked like a junkie in need of testing?