8. Denise
Chapter eight
Denise
T iffany rushes breathlessly past me and heads straight to my fridge. Madame Purrington yawns from her perch on the cat tree by the window, thoroughly disinterested.
"I'm so glad you still wanted to do a 'Binge I can tell she's dying to gossip. One of the downsides of girlfriends is they always want to be in your business.
"Since you wanna be nosy," I say with a smirk, "I'll tell you it was not a bust. We hooked up again a few nights ago, and we now have…an arrangement."
Tiffany playfully hits my shoulder and my hand slips on the remote, inadvertently starting the movie, "No Strings Attached". I snort at the coincidence.
"Oooh! And you weren't even going to tell me?! Who is he? Do I get to meet him?"
"Since I don't introduce you to every vibrator in my drawer, no, you don't get to meet him. He's just a booty call. And before you even try it," I already see the puppy dog eyes coming, "I'm not telling you anything else, so don't bother."
She harrumphs and folds her arms like a kid throwing a tantrum, but I won't budge. The only way a secret relationship works out is if it stays secret.
"You're no fun," she pouts, then settles back to enjoy the movie.
Tiffany is snoring lightly—and drooling—against one of my decorative throw pillows. She looks peaceful, the worry from hours ago forgotten after two fairytale endings and another bottle of wine. The last time we spoke, she was all blushes and giggles, riding a post-hook-up high. Then this Monica chick had to go and ruin things by trying to lock her down after a couple good dates. It's for precisely this reason I keep men at arm's length. I don't need them fucking with my energy.
I open the ottoman for an afghan to cover Tiff and consider putting on another movie. We usually stick with rom-coms for girls' night, but I'm a horror and true crime fanatic at heart. Should I watch a scorned woman take her revenge, or an axe murderer terrorizing some teens by the lake?
Ugh. Neither , I grouse . I walk over to my drafting table and pull out my sketches instead; I've been procrastinating long enough.
Working on a design team has its advantages—more collaboration and feedback, better materials, shared workload—but lately, I've been itching to focus on my own designs. Although more and more designers are catering to women above a size 12, too many of the mainstream brands think we all have the same body type: big boobs, big butt, big waist, big everything .
That might work for some women, but not for me. I'm an hourglass—well, more like a three -hour glass—with a small waist in between a sizeable butt and DDD boobs. I have to tailor most ready-made clothes to fit me.
Plenty of large women aren't as full in the chest, something I sometimes envy when it's time to spend another $60 on a bra. Other women are big on top, but have no butt to speak of. We're all different .
Someday, I'm finally going to strike out on my own and make a line for each curvy body type: hourglass, pear, apple, banana, and even strawberry. I sigh heavily and flip to the argyle sweater dress design I've been fussing over for the past week. My dream line sounds like a fucking fruit salad.
A sharp ding thankfully cuts my brooding short. I reach into the pocket of my "That's So Raven" pajama pants for my phone.
Columbus
Columbus: U up?
I snort out a laugh, then cover my mouth when Tiffany shifts on the couch.
Columbus
Very original. Did it take you long to come up with that?
Columbus: If it ain't broke…
Columbus: Can you come over?
I smile like the cat who got the cream. I'm surprised it took him this long to text. He's admittedly clingier than my usual late night link, but the man's dick game is undeniable. Hopefully he's not about to invite me to join a throuple.
Columbus
I can't. It's girls' night out.
Technically, it's girls' night in , but he doesn't need to know that. You never accept the first opportunity to link up unless you want to look thirsty as hell. Keep them chasing you, let them catch you, and when things get too heavy, kick them to the curb.
Columbus
Columbus: Bummer. Have fun.
"Who's Columbus and why is he texting you at," Tiffany looks dramatically at her wrist, which is bare of a watch, "1:13 in the morning?"
I shriek and almost jump out of my skin like a cartoon.
"What are you, part leopard? I didn't even hear you get up. And why are you reading over my shoulder?" I accuse. Thank God Cory's saved in my phone by location, otherwise this sneaky link would be over before it started.
She shrugs, completely unrepentant.
"You just looked too happy. I had to see which one of your gentlemen callers was hitting you up. Was it Derek?" she asks as she pulls up a chair to sit next to me at my desk.
I roll my eyes.
"Derek is long gone, I'm afraid."
She rears back in mock outrage.
"What? No! But he was like… scary attractive. Like, demigod attractive. If he had an OnlyFans, it might be worth the subscription."
I giggle and shove her shoulder on my way back to the couch. Guess my late night work session is done.
"He might've been pleasing to look at, but he was just so dull in bed. By our fifth time together, I realized he had the same four moves." I count each on my fingers. "Doggy with one booty slap. Missionary while biting my neck. Fingering with three nipple pinches. He even always ate my pussy in counterclockwise circles. I'm surprised I didn't fall asleep."
Tiffany slides from the chair to the floor, holding her sides laughing.
"Oh my God! Not counterclockwise, girl! Did he at least get the job done?"
I suck my teeth.
"Please! Only because I literally held his hand where I needed it. I thought it might click after a few times together, but I'm going to have to institute a strike system or something."
Thank God Cory doesn't have that problem. Maybe tomorrow night's the night…
"Tell me your new arrangement is better, at least?" Tiffany asks, struggling to control her cackles. My eyes almost bug out of my head. Did she just read my mind?
"It's only been the one time," that I can remembe r, "but so far, so good."
Tiff comes to sit next to me on the couch.
"In Denise-speak, that's practically a Michelin star."
"Whatever, chick," I grumble. So I'm hard on guys. It's not like they take it so easy on us.
She bumps her shoulder against mine.
"No judgement. I wish I played it closer to the vest sometimes. Then maybe I wouldn't be in my current mess."
Agreeing too enthusiastically feels like kicking her while she's down. Instead, I put on another movie and say a silent prayer for continued drama-free dick.