She didn’t work into the slam, she delivered it straight out.
“I’ll give it a week.”
I went stock-still. I could feel practically everyone at the table shifting into bitch smackdown mode.
“It’s already been a week,” Ally butted in.
Cherry looked at Ally, then at me and I noticed two of her Barbie-esque girlfriends behind her, Brunette Barbie and African-American Barbie.
“Wow. Congratulations.” This was said by Cherry with extreme, catty surprise.
“Cherry, we’re trying to have a nice dinner.” I was going for diplomatic. I really did not want to have an incident. I needed a good night with friends, to relax, get drunk, pass out and face tomorrow’s horrors hungover. I’d only had one rum and diet, I needed at least six to facedown Cherry.
Cherry scanned the table and locked on Marianne, whose face was bright red.
“Marianne, lookin’ good,” she said.
I couldn’t help it, I slid my chair back threateningly.
“Cherry…” I began.
Cherry’s attention returned to me and her eyes were glittering cold.
“Just a little pointer, Indy, girl to girl, if you want that week with Lee to last into two. He likes it when you go down on him in the morning. He’s a f**king animal in bed but give him a morning BJ, he’ll return the favor and rock your world.”
Every muscle in my body froze solid.
“What did she just say?” Stevie asked.
“She did not just say that in front of me,” Kitty Sue said.
“Holy crap,” Dolores said.
“Oh… my… gawd,” Tod said.
“You f**king bitch,” Ally said.
“This is more like it,” Tex said.
I started to come out of my chair, intent on ripping Cherry’s face off, when the lady at the table behind us spoke.
“Excuse me, we’re trying to eat,” she told Cherry.
I looked at the lady. She was Kitty Sue’s age, hair died a stern brunette, petite and soft in the middle.
“Pipe down, you old bag. I’m having a conversation,” Cherry said to her.
Like I said, first class bitch.
The woman looked to her husband who was sitting across the table from her. “Did she just call me an old bag?”
He looked scared, Menopausal Martha had obviously been unleashed.
She looked back to Cherry. “You can’t call me an old bag. I’m only fifty-two. Fifty is the new forty,” she told Cherry.
“Old’s old, and you’re old,” Cherry told her and then turned to me. She opened her mouth to speak again when a pea flew through the air and settled in Cherry’s Farrah Fawcett locks.
Uh-oh.