Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Two weeks,” I mutter as the room begins chattering again excitedly, crowding around the contract table. “Guess I won’t have a chance at that bonus.”
I mean for it to be quiet, just to keep myself from getting my hopes up like the other women already spending the bonus on various things from school tuition to rent.
“Nonsense,” Kara says, grabbing a folder off the top for me. “I’ll help you look over the contract. There’s really nothing to it, just the usual to cover their bases. And as far as making a sales goal, you’ll have me to help you, and I can sell ice to a polar bear. Just follow my lead, and you’ll be a Gold Star seller in no time.” She chucks me in the elbow and winks at me. “Now grab a bag of dicks, and get out there and start making some money.”
I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard the term ‘bag of dicks’ used in a positive light.
CHAPTER 2
SAMANTHA
“Can I talk about something?” I ask slowly, not sure I want to do this. I sit back on my yoga mat and look at my study group buddies. Sara, Katie, Natasha, and Daphne are also sitting on mats in the rec room we use for our study sessions.
They’re also psychology graduate students, but our future focuses are as different as we are. Katie has plans for family counseling, Natasha for behavioral therapy. Sara specializes in PTSD, and Daphne hopes to be a school therapist. Somehow, our differences have never held us back from practicing a little therapy with each other, though we tend to drift off-topic and rant more than is standard in professional sessions. That’s what makes us friends, not just colleagues.
“Of course,” Katie answers, centering her full attention on me. Her bright blue eyes soften, and she pushes her blonde halo of curls behind her ears. “What’s up, buttercup?” As the words leave her mouth, she winces. The greeting is a verbal habit she’s trying to break after a professor told her it sounded flippant, but a lifetime of saying it hasn’t made it easy.
“I mean, what’s on your mind?”
I smile at her correction and pseudo-neutral tone, which makes her sound like a television version of a therapist. “I have a friend who invited me to a party. Well, not a party, exactly, more like an opportunity. But I’m not sure if it’s right for me. It’s . . .” I trail off, not sure how to describe Bedroom Heaven.
“Did you get tricked into a cult?” Natasha quips. She laughs at the absurdity, but she’s maybe not that far off. At my head tilt of uncertainty, she spins her denim-clad legs around, sitting back on her heels. “Tell us everything. Is it a religious thing? End of the world? Sex club?”
Despite working on my blank face, I must have a tell because Daphne’s interest piques. “Sex club? For real? Can I get an invite too?”
I shake my head at the sudden rapt attention all four women give me. Maybe Kara is right and sex is what sells, even if it’s just the promise of better sex.
I dive in, explaining about Bedroom Heaven and my worries about its implications, both positive and negative, in my future as an intimacy therapist. “I’ve looked through the contract with Bedroom Heaven and our code of conduct for the psychology program backward and forward and every way in between. I’m in the clear, but am I crazy for considering this?”
Sara, who’s been silent the whole time, finally speaks. “You’ve done your due diligence, already know what you’re going to do, and don’t need our permission to do it.”
She dips her chin, making sure I heard her loud and clear. Of all of us, she’s the most naturally gifted at therapy, but that skill has come at a price. She’s been in therapy herself since she was a kid after a traumatic childhood that was only made worse by therapists who didn’t know what they were doing. She now wears those scars inside and outside, which is why she wants to specialize in helping people with PTSD.
“Thanks,” I tell her, recognizing that she’s one hundred percent right.
Katie holds her hand up. “One question . . .” I look her way, and she grins widely, looking much less angelic than usual. “Can I see that catalog? A girl needs a little variety, and my Little Bunny Foo-Foo is on his last hops.”
“Little. Bunny. Foo-Foo?” Daphne echoes. She shouldn’t judge considering she’s walking a thin line of being a Disney adult, wearing various character and park shirts almost daily. In fact, she has on a Thumper T-shirt right now, so it’s probably a good thing Katie didn’t name her vibrator after Bambi’s rabbity friend.
“Me too,” Natasha adds. “Not the Foo-Foo part, but the variety. I’ve sworn off men for a while after my last date.”