Chapter One
Maddie
I have very few regrets in my short twenty-six years of life on this cursed planet. In fact, I have so few that I can name them with only the fingers on one hand. That’s right. I have only five regrets that span my whole existence. Let me list them for you.
One, appointing myself as my own hairdresser when I was at the ripe age of five.
It went as badly as anyone could have imagined.
Mom screamed. I screamed. The cat screamed.
Dad had a laughing fit that almost punctured a lung.
You get the picture. The great cut of the year two thousand caused trauma my mother and I have still not yet moved past. In fact, Mom still has the photos to prove it.
That woman uses those things against me every chance she gets because apparently embarrassing her only daughter is her favorite pastime.
I mean, it is funny, but there are only so many times I can be reminded about the stupidly short and uneven bangs I gave myself before I start plotting ways to set the evidence on fire.
At least I go to the salon to get my hair done now, so a lesson was learned, I guess.
Two, taking the high road and not pummeling my fists into Brad Anderson’s face after he cheated on one of my best friends, Ashton, at the naive age of sixteen.
This one I regret deeply, because I know it would have been hella satisfying and would have made a great story later down the line.
As it was, karma had our backs. Brad is now suffering from the dreaded receding hairline at only twenty-seven, has a beer belly that would put Homer Simpson to shame, and got knocked the fuck out by a baseball on live television.
My fists might not have broken the teeth they craved, but that baseball sure did.
Though the loss of a great story hits hard, it’s a regret that I live with peacefully.
Three, letting Zelda, Henley, and Ashton talk me into getting drunk off my ass on one particular day in college, resulting in some scarring flashbacks and a fucking tattoo I am now stuck with for the rest of my years.
From what I gather, there was entirely too much drinking, I’m pretty sure I flashed a random guy my tits in passing, and I vomited more than I ever have in my life.
I’m sketchy on the details, but the night ended with my back getting a tramp stamp that looks like it was done by a five-year-old, hair-cutting, scissor-wielding me.
It’s not cute, and I’m not one hundred percent sure what the fuck it actually is.
I don’t want to think about it.
Let’s move on to number four.
And this is a doozy.
Four, getting into a relationship with a power-hungry, money-grabbing, small-dicked, four-minute-lasting asshole that I lost four years of my life to.
Story of many people’s lives, huh? Consider me a statistic, because my dumb ass didn’t see Toby Moore for what he really was until I found him pube-deep in another woman in the house we shared.
The considerate prick had the decency to pound his little sausage into the woman in our guest room, but it was enough for me to cut ties and kick his sorry ass to the curb.
I sold the house, moved to my swanky apartment in the building I had built and own, and wiped the slate clean of anything that was Toby.
I’d like to say I left it at that, but I’ve made one “high road” regret once.
So, your girl burned all of his clothing with the help of my very loving and supportive best friends.
We might have also made a meme of his stubby chode.
And called his mother and told her exactly what her precious son had done. That, I don’t regret.
Four months later, I’m single, dodging phone calls from Tobe the Chode and his mother, and on FaceTime with the three leading ladies in my life, Mom excluded, at eight in the morning.
“That Tobe the Chode calling again?” Ashton, or AJ as we like to call her, asks while she rolls her gorgeous blue eyes so hard that I’m almost worried they might get stuck at the back of her head.
Snorting at the nickname that is yet to grow old, I answer while trying to tear off my hoodie. “You betcha. Fucker won’t leave me alone. I’m fairly certain I’m going to have to change my number again.”
“Looks like it, babe. Third time’s the charm, right?” my English blond bombshell, Henley, enthuses, her mouth pulled up into a teasing smile that lights up her pixie-like face.
Finally ridding my body of the constricting yellow hoodie, my icy-blue hair sticking up from the static, I throw it onto the barstool in my open-plan kitchen and straighten my white cropped shirt before flashing the girls my…
well, other girls. I’m left in nothing but my white shirt and panties combo, but the girls don’t care.
They’ve seen me nude enough as it is through our long and rock-solid friendships.
With my cell propped up against the cookie jar on the counter, I tiptoe on the dark wooden floor that’s entirely too cold for my liking and open the fridge door while I say, “Third time’s the charm, my ass.
He’s been trying to message me through every means possible.
I had a payment come through on PayPal for a dollar with a note attached begging me to call him.
Who wants to bet that sad sack of meat will find my number again? ”
“I’m not taking that bet,” Zelda, our Scottish redhead, snickers, pushing her oversized glasses up her nose before stretching her back out with an audible crack. “I’m surprised he’s still trying to get in touch after the meme went viral.”
I almost choke on the mouthful of tropical juice I take just as she reminds us all about that genius piece of art that has been seen by thousands.
Even his mother. Coughing and laughing at the same time, I put the juice back in the fridge before returning to my phone.
Before I can make the joke that had been on the tip of my tongue, Henley casually comments, “Nice tits.”
Looking down instinctively, I find my hardened nipples trying to cut through the material of my shirt after being exposed to the cool air from the fridge. Grinning at my besties, I accept the compliment graciously. “Thanks. Grew them myself.”
“Incredible work,” AJ snickers, looking down at her smaller but perky boobs with a shake of her head. “What are you doing, anyway? Didn’t you have a client booked in today?”
Shaking my head and popping a cookie in my mouth, strategically placing the lid back on the jar without disrupting my cell, I chew and talk at the same time.
Gross, I know, but we all have our faults, right?
“They had to cancel and reschedule. The mom-to-be I was going to photograph today went into labor. Rather than the baby bump photos I was set to do, we’re going to do newborn shots instead. ”
“I thought you didn’t do maternity photos,” AJ wonders out loud, dropping her head into her palm as she peers at me through the screen.
I shrug. “Normally, I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to photograph Lila Larone.
She personally sought me out after Mom bragged her ear off about me, and since she worked with my mom on that show last year, I couldn’t say no.
It was too good of an opportunity, snapping photos of a beautiful, pregnant celeb.
It was a no-brainer. But since her little nugget is arriving two weeks early, we agreed on newborn shots instead. ”
“Fair enough. What are you going to do with your day instead?” Zelda questions, pulling a controller into her hands just before the telltale sound of her game console turning on rings through the phone.
Five more minutes and we’ll lose her concentration and this conversation will go to shit.
We’ve learned to adapt. After all, Zelda’s gaming obsession is what her whole empire is built on.
Our little nerd is the owner of Hangman, a company that contains two departments: Minix, a gaming department that creates, tests, and distributes the newest trending games, and ChipChat, an app-creating department.
The woman is a genius and is beyond dedicated to her work.
Which is why we often lose her during our FaceTime sessions when there’s a new game launch just around the corner.
“I don’t know. Any suggestions? I was thinking of going to the rink,” I answer, watching Zelda pull her lip between her teeth while she loses herself to her newest creation. Something about zombies? At least, I think that’s what it was.
“How about yoga? Or maybe watering the plants? Do some laundry and organize your wardrobe?” Henley suggests in quick succession, looking entirely too proud of herself.
“Those are chores, you melon,” I gripe, glaring at her through the phone. “Give me some fun ideas.”
There’s a pause while they think about it, only Zelda’s cursing coming through the speaker before AJ blurts, “Oh! I know! Why don’t you have some you time?”
“Me time?”
“You time! You know, some self-care? Maybe do a face mask, paint your nails, flick the bean, have a bath,” she spouts off with a smirk, putting an English accent on the word bath.
I blink rapidly, taking a moment to process what she just said. I did hear that, right? Frowning at my purple-haired bestie, I question, “Did you just suggest I flick my bean to pass the time? As in tickle my female pickle?”
“Oh, yeah! Get a bit of self-love going, babe,” Henley chimes in with a tinkling giggle.
“Bit of finger painting, if you catch my drift?” Ash follows, looking like she’s trying hard not to break out into fits of laughter.
Zelda jumps in while she shoots at the zombies on her screen, loud gunshots echoing through the speaker of my phone. “Have a girls’ night in. Fan the fur.”
Scoffing in outrage, I blurt, “She is bald, I’ll have you know. There is no fur to fan.”