Bea started training as a security guard two weeks ago, and it’s been nonstop with this shit ever since.
“I just think there are more secure places in Chicago, is all,” Bea argues.
“Too late for that, babe.”
I turn to look at my freshly purchased penthouse with pride. “This place is mine—theoretical balcony climbing creepers and all.”
I can’t help but feel a fierce sense of achievement. This is everything I’ve been working so hard for.
While my friends were out partying and taking selfies on Friday nights, I was working with clients and following up on paperwork.
Sure, it didn’t leave a lot of time for things like dating, but who the fuck even cares about that? The whole time-wasting, hook-up scene is all about seeing and being seen, and I’ve never had time for that.
What I do have time for, right now, is enjoying the fruits of my hard labor—and hanging out with my baby sis, of course. I smile at her as I refill our glasses with some very expensive bubbly. I pluck a strawberry off the gourmet platter and offer it to Bea with a wink.
“Can I tempt you?”
“Consider me tempted!” Bea bites into the strawberry and moans in delight. “Oh my God. Amazing! Where did you get these?”
Bea’s a real foodie, so, of course, she wants to hone in o
n where I’m getting my delicacies these days.
“That deli just down the road. You know, the one that has that hot waiter?”
“The one with the biceps like footballs?”
“That one. And the old guy behind the counter really knows his salami.”
“I’d like to try some salami.” Bea chuckled, sipping the bubbly and munching on a handful of biscuit and cheese.
“Time to break out the hard stuff.” I grin, pulling out a gorgeous bottle of whiskey as we sit down around my glass coffee table. Bea gasps.
“Where did you get that?”
“A gift from my new boss. His favorite, apparently, at like, two grand a bottle.”
“I know, jeez! I’ve been salivating over that stuff since I saw it. I still have that subscription to cocktails.”
Laughing, I crack the seal, pouring two not-so-cautious nips. Bea couldn’t decide if she was a foodie or a bodybuilder. I keep telling her it doesn’t work.
“The important thing, my dear Bea, is to enjoy the spoils. The spoils of war.”
“Not the spoils of love,” she snaps, rolling her eyes as she gulps the whiskey down.
I toss a chocolate-covered strawberry at her, and it bounces off her shoulder and plops onto the mushroom fabric of my designer lounge. I want to gasp, but instead I just burst out laughing.
“There goes five grand!” I announce. I’m laughing so hard, I can’t keep my lying-down position and hold my whiskey at the same time, so I sit up and sip it. “Oh, jeez, this is hard stuff.”
“Yes! Let’s talk about hard stuff!”
I give Bea the look.
“I have limited interest in that kind of hard stuff. In my experience, it’s not that hard.”
She snorts. “Maybe because you scare the fuck out of them,” she adds and bites another strawberry.
Drips of dark chocolate shower over my new lounge. Being rich is proving rather stressful.