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“What’s happening right now?” I asked suspiciously.
“Always so distrusting,” she murmured.
“I’m sorry, are you not the woman who got me drunk on my favorite pinot and waited until I was three sheets past shit-faced before you asked me about a certain prince, then used what I told you to seduce him and share a weekend in Monaco.”
Yes. Friend-sometimes-underhanded-enemy.
Frenemy.
“Ah, yes, Prince Chester the kitty killer. Too bad he was such an asshole. The man had skills in the bedroom that were mind-bending.”
I wouldn’t know anything about mind-bending bedroom skills. The only thing I used my bedroom for was sleeping. And the few times I’d used it for other things the sex was total crap. I couldn’t understand what the big deal was about.
I guess sex was like chocolate-covered cherries—the appeal was subjective.
“If I wasn’t happy to see his demise I would’ve been pissed.”
“Listen, I did you a favor. I knew you wanted to tell me about the twat but couldn’t. And don’t bullshit me and tell me you didn’t want to see him put down. So I bought you your favorite wine and gave you something to blame your loose lips on. It was a win-win. You’re welcome. Now promise me you’ll make time for me.”
It had been a win-win; again, that’s why I wasn’t angry at her. She’d used what I told her to stop Prince Chester from poaching large cats. The asshole had twenty-five mounts of different varieties of cats, most of them on the verge of extinction, in his monstrosity of a home that was too small to be called a castle, too big to be called a mansion, and nowhere near just the right size.
There was something off in Stella’s tone. Either that or my ears were still clogged from the flight and now filling with sweat from the soupy air.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I feel like you’re lying.”
“Seeing as I lie seventy-five percent of the time I understand that. But you’re not a job, and I try my very best not to lie to my friends.”
“So we’re friends today.”
“I’m wounded.”
That was a lie.
It would take more than a few words to offend or wound Stella.
Where the hell was my Uber? I hadn’t been outside for more than five minutes and already my bra was saturated in sweat.
“Cut the crap, Stel, and tell me the truth. Are you in trouble?” I paused before I changed my question. “Let me rephrase, since trouble is relative. Are you in danger?”
“Nope. Just want some face time so I can slap some sense into you until your head is screwed back on straight.”
My neck tightened at her threat of bodily harm. With Stella one never knew if she was joking or if she was serious.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Another lie, I had a pretty good idea. “And if you think I’m going to promise to make time to be on the receiving end of a bitch slap, you think wrong.”
“I don’t bitch slap. That’s for prissy girls. I slap-slap.”
“Was that a Missy Elliot quote?” I asked as a white Honda Accord muscled its way to the curb. I checked my app and sure enough that was my Uber.
Perfect timing.
“What?”
“Never mind. My ride’s here. I have to go.”
