Ice (Regulators MC 1)
Texting back, I tell my best friend I will be at her house after work with takeout. Working in a bank, I have every weekend off. Casey’s career path is far different than mine, though, and it is one that requires weekend time; as a result, this is the first Friday she has had off in a while.
My day drags on as I review current investment portfolios and market changes. I have the best job ever. I get paid to spend other people’s money as an investment broker here in South Beach. My life is sun, sand, and dollar bills.
Before going to Casey’s, I stop by my condo and change clothes. The down side to my job is the stuffy suits I have to wear: reasonable, past knee-length skirts, reasonable women’s dress pants, and reasonable button up shirts. I might hate them; yet, in a sad way, the dress code fits my life—reasonable.
It is not long into girl’s night before the difference in our lifestyle’s show.
“Damn, we’re not even halfway through the first movie, and you’re ready for bed? What the hell? Grandparents stay up later than you,” My best friend wakes me out of my doze.
“Sorry, some of us keep normal business hours.”
“Yeah, your hours scream forty-two, not twenty-four, as does everything else in your life.”
“I’m not that bad,” I protest half-heartedly. However, that voice of doubt says “maybe I am.” Maybe my stiff upbringing has rubbed off on me more than I care to admit.
My parents raised me to be an example. As the oldest of three, I had to be the light to guide my younger sisters, Madyson and Mallory. Everything with my parents was about fitting the mold, keeping up appearances. Their brainwashing worked to some degree. Going away to college did nothing for me in my attempt to escape my overbearing parents, either. No, they live in my head, every rule engraved into my brain matter. Too bad no one warned me there is no cure and no escape once they get those rules engrained into my very being.
Morgan Ann Powell: pathetic, stiff, borderline pseudo-old lady, and a college educated, suit wearing, have my shit together prude—that is me. I am, quite possibly, the only woman in her twenties who can count on one hand how many guys she has kissed. I am also a twenty-four-year-old virgin. I wouldn’t know what to do with a penis if it was given to me gift wrapped in Christmas paper and topped with a bow. I am not cut out for parties, guys, or any wild times, either. My destiny is to be the old lady who lives alone, feeding all the stray cats in the neighborhood.
“I’m a loser.” Sighing, I look over to my best friend. “Sorry for ruining your night off.”
“Stop it! You aren’t a loser, and nothing is ruined. I was dozing off, too.”
“Yeah, but it’s not often you get a Friday night off. Spending it on the couch with your socially inept friend isn’t an ideal night.”
Slapping my thigh, she laughs. “With everything I see at the club, a night in is heaven.”
Aside from being my drop-dead gorgeous best friend, Casey also happens to be a headlining stripper at a local club, After Midnight. Her perky, full breasts, tiny waist, and hips give her the picture-perfect, hourglass figure. Her long, black hair is streaked in purple and teal, adding to the illusion of the wild woman she portrays on the stage. Her curves fall in all the right places, suiting her perfectly and making for optimal tips in her chosen profession. “Work with what you have been given,” she always says. And boy, does she work. Inside, Casey is as calm and happy to stay at home as me.
That is basically all we have in common, though. I could never have the sort of confidence she has. My parents raised me to be reserved in appearances. Where Casey dares to flash her pin-up body in tight clothes, I hide my own curves behind much more conservative attire. I also keep my make-up minimal, only using enough to naturally accentuate my creamy skin and moss green eyes.
Casey often lets her long, gorgeous hair down in wild curls. I, generally, keep my straight shoulder length, russet brown hair in a bun or a ponytail. I cannot count how many times I have wished I had her confidence. However, every time I try to push myself to be more daring with my appearance, I hear one of my mother’s many lectures in the back of my head. There are days I wonder if I need to have a priest do an exorcism to cleanse me of her unrealistic ideals.
My best friend and I also had two completely different childhoods. While I grew up with strict parents and an overly structured life, she grew up with an ailing grandmother. Her dad is unknown and her mom overdosed when she was six, leaving a young Casey with her grandmother. When Nana died, while we were teens, Casey ended up in foster care.