Page 13 of Playing the Player

“Shit, Liv. I gotta go.” I hang up the phone as Larry storms over to my desk. His skin is flushed red, his nostrils flaring.

“I told you to do those emails.” He seethes, spit flying from his mouth. Thank fuck he’s not close enough to get it on me because that would be so gross. “I sent them ages ago and instead of doing your job, you're over here talking into your phone.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you had sent them.” I immediately turn back to my computer, opening and refreshing my emails in a fluster.

“What am I paying you for?” He growls as he walks back into his office and slamming the door shut.

I would like to point out that I don’t start getting paid again for another minute, but I would never say that to him.

His email address pops up on my screen, along with all the documents I need to look through. I check the time that the email was sent: 1:28pm. I glance at the time on my computer screen just as it changes to 1:30. Did he seriously send the email, wait for one minute, and then come out here all guns blazing? Of course he did.

Like I said before, he’s a prick.

5

Sasha

It’s finally Saturday and that can only mean one thing. Shopping!

I have my boring as hell weekday routine, but I also have my Saturday one. Breakfast with Liv and Bella at Buttons and Books, a few hours shopping, and then I usually let Jesus take the wheel while I just tag along for the ride. Whatever he has planned for the rest of the day is none of my business.

Right now though, I’m standing outside my favorite little boutique that sells the cutest shoes ever made. The familiar, rich leather scent envelopes me as I walk through the door.

I swear, these shoes must have been made in heaven, each one meticulously crafted by angels. They are the best heels I have ever walked in. So what if they cost most of my weekly paycheck? They’re worth it.

And yes, I know I have too many bills to pay and yes I know my credit card cries every time I tap it against the machine, but do I care? Nope. When it comes to a new pair of heels, financial responsibility simply doesn’t exist.

I take in all the different kinds of heels in the store, my eyes searching for the perfect pair. They have every shoe in every color. Some are plain, some have designs. There are stilettos, kitten heels, cone heels and… Oh. My. Freaking. God. I make a beeline towards the most gorgeous pair of shoes I have ever seen. Silver, crystal-covered stilettos sit in the center of the room and every rational thought leaves my body. These babies are to die for!

“Excuse me!”

A sales assistant glides over to me. She’s tall, toned and polished, with white blonde hair that falls to her ass. Her smile is sickly sweet, the kind that comes with the uniform. It’s not a genuine smile. It’s just for show given the fact that I watched her roll her eyes in the mirror before turning towards me. “Do you have these in a seven and a half?”

She eyes me up and down, sizing me up with an almost disgusted look on her face. Is this dress really ugly or something? Does it make me look extra bloated? Oh Lord. “I’ll go check in the back.” She says in a patronizing kind of way before she saunters off, moving her hips in such a sexy way that I can’t help but watch her. I bet she has all the guys falling for her. Too bad she seems like a bitch.

A few moments later, the woman comes out with a box and my whole face lights up. She doesn't say anything as she holds it out to me while I thank her multiple times, sitting on the spongy pink stool and pulling out the most gorgeous heels I have ever had the pleasure of touching. They slip on my feet with ease and suddenly I’m having my very own Cinderella moment…minus the prince. But who cares about that when I’m about to own these shoes? There’s a high-pitched squeal of happiness happening inside my head right now.

I stand up from the stool and the heels instantly pinch my feet. It hurts in the best way because, as they say in French, Il faut souffrir pour être belle, which translates to ‘one must suffer to be beautiful’. It’s not the best way to look at things, but right now it works.

The sharp clicking of the heels against the marble floor is music to my ears as I glide around the store, testing them out. They feel amazing! Comfortable, elegant, sexy. Pure perfection in shoe form.

And when I stop in front of the mirror… Jesus. My legs look toned as fuck.

Reluctantly, I take the shoes off my feet, delicately setting them back into the box so I don’t hurt them, and then take them to the counter. I pull my card out of my purse as the bitchy woman rings them up through the till.

“That’ll be $500, please.”

What in the actual fuck? “Excuse me?”

“$500.” She says with a bored expression.

“I’m sorry but there must be some kind of mistake.”

“No, there’s not.”

“But they’re not even Prada!” Scratch what I said earlier, I cannot justify spending a month’s paycheck on shoes. Dammit! If I had all the money in the world, I would definitely buy these shoes right here, right now, but I don’t. I’d have to sell my left tit to afford these. “Never mind, then. Thanks anyway.”

I leave the store as fast as my non-sparkly, heeled clad feet take me. God, that was so embarrassing! This is why they need to display the prices. I should have known they were way out of my budget.