Addicted to Santino - Amarie Avant Page 0,55

smorgasbord that contained enough ice cream to get me through winter. But she didn’t stay. I checked into a hotel that boasted a world-renowned chef and ate my weight in overpriced room service.

I made use of a personal shopper application and never left my room for five days straight.

Now, crystals fall on my slick ponytail. I stroll along the airport exit with cheerful holiday travelers. The she-alpha balls I once owned are snipped, so I didn’t commission Thomas. Didn’t have the strength to look into his sympathetic gaze and watch him put the miserable puzzle together again.

I glare at Shanda. From the driver seat of a pearl-white Benz, she waves and honks. Forget faking the funk. I’m not smiling.

“Hey, hon,” she says as I place my new luggage in the backseat.

I slide into the front seat, close my eyes, and pull out of my jacket. The heater blasts air, thawing my frozen shell though my core is solid ice.

“Hey, thanks,” I mutter as the car edges from the curb and slides into holiday traffic.

“How are you holding up?”

“We’re not doing that, Shanda. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in days.” The only voicemail I returned. I deleted all the messages from Santino. Hadn’t listened to a single one.

“Gina, your mom asked me to ask you to give her a call. Please, with whip cream and sprinkles.”

Whip cream and sprinkles. Had Santino lined whip cream and sprinkles on his—

At the light, her Benz settles behind a grocery store truck. Sweet treats disappear as I glance at the trailer’s image of a humongous steak sizzling on a grill. The grocer’s brand is larger than life.

“Gina, I don’t think my sister knew that he was your . . .”

“You don’t think what? Cora had a party, and her closest friends fucked my boyfriend. I guess I should be glad Gabby’s no longer amongst the Housewives of Hoe York?”

“Gina,” Shanda mumbles.

“Why did I do this?” Just as the light turns green, I slide the passenger door open. Taking a tentative step up the icy sidewalk, I hook my purse over my shoulder. “Shanda, I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

“Honey, wait, please.”

Cars behind her begin to honk.

“I’ll circle the block,” is the last thing I hear from Shanda as she turns the corner.

The entire area has signs for no stopping any time. I jab my finger against the crosswalk sign, praying to God that I’ve disappeared by the time my best friend returns. I’m running a hand along the sleeve of my silk blouse, lips trembling as I glance across the way. Along a line of shops festooned for Christmas is the lounge where Shanda and I had really scrumptious drinks a while back. Score!

A few minutes later, a man holds the door open, looking back at me. I offer the death glare.

“It’s the holiday season, sweetheart. You could say thanks,” he mutters as I step inside.

“You can kiss all this ass,” I snarl, glancing over my shoulder while smacking my derriere. As the doors swoosh shut, I notice Shanda’s Mercedes on the opposite side of the street. She’s creeping, attempting to find me.

Strutting toward the packed-out bar, I wave a hundred dollar bill around. Big money has always garnered attention.

“I got this.” A blond bartender looks me up and down, licking his lips. He stalks over, though further away than the BBW Shanda and I met a while back. A belt cinches her belly, and with the curves God gave her, everything else is on display.

“I’m gay, go away,” I tell the guy.

“You’re a lesbian now?” The woman smiles at me, pouring a double shot of my favorite black label.

“I should be.” I groan. “Justice, is it?”

“You remembered.”

“How did you remember my drink? It’s been months. Keep it coming, by the way.” A ‘feel good’ warmth creeps over me so easily. I had the alcohol limit of miniature bottles on the flight.

“Hey, you’re already giggling. How much . . .”

“Not enough. Justice, since the other guy seems so interested in stealing all the customers, you should serve me exclusively? I can pay.”

“He’s the bar manager,” she says under her breath. “But yeah, he’s also a bit stingy when reading designer labels. Chic blouse. Now, put that money away, girl.”

She pours another shot for me. The second the liquid stops spilling inside the glass, I have it to my lips. “Can women break hearts as expertly as the asshole species?”

“I’m strictly dickly.”

I’m laughing with her, shaking my head. “Whatever, girl. I haven’t heard that