Page 8 of Knot Your Pucking Secret

“Traitor!” she shrieks, throwing a cushion at my head. Absolutely it was deserved. I barely manage to stifle a laugh.

“Wait…” Bronte breathes out, a grin spreading across her face. “Your middle name is Rocket? Oh that’s incredible!” I can’t keep it in any longer. Both Bronte and I dissolve into hysterical laughter. Not because it’s a bad name, it isn’t. But because Veronica despises it.

“I hate both of you.”

“Please…” Bronte wheezes between fits of laughter. “How does one happen upon a name as unique as Rocket and decide that this beautiful little baby would be the perfect candidate for such a perfect name?”

“She was destined for greatness,” I say with a solemn nod.

“She was destined for therapy,” Veronica deadpans, which only makes us laugh harder.

“Okay, cool. Alright you guys have had your fun. Keep laughing and I'll make a post about how you all piss your nests on the regular!”

After a beat, once we’ve managed to wipe the tears from our eyes, Bronte collapses back onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh.

“So, where did it come from?”

Veronica pinches the bridge of her nose. She had told me a little about her past before getting a job on the team, but nothing deep enough that would explain why she was on her own at such a young age. I hadn’t questioned it, not wanting to pry intobusiness that was not my own. I figured she’d tell me one day if she wanted to.

“My parents were always high. I’m just grateful it isn’t worse.” She shrugs. “It could have been Moonbeam or Sparkplug.” She points an accusing finger at both of us. “I hate this conversation.”

“You know,” Bronte says, pushing herself up onto one elbow to look at our best friend. “Veronica Rocket is like the ultimate stage name!” Veronica narrows her eyes. “Oh my God! Yes. If ever you decide to change occupations, girl. Ronnie Rocket is fantastic!”

“I’m begging you,” Veronica groans. “Please stop talking.”

“I’m not talking! I’m branding!”

“If it helps, my middle name is Constance,” Bronte admits, looking a little sheepish.

“Okay. Yeah. I can see that.”

“Wait. See what?” Bronte frowns, looking between the two of us, before fixing her questioning gaze on Veronica.

“You’re aconstantpain in the ass.”

I snort so hard it nearly chokes me. Bronte stares at us for a beat before clutching dramatically at her chest.

“I deserved that, so I’ll let it go. But you’re buying dinner.”

I needed this.

And a part of me knows they knew it. Neither of them had pushed me to talk about how heavy today was. They hadn’t offered empty platitudes or tried to convince me everything would be okay. Instead, they’d done what they always did. They’d found a way to make me laugh. For a little while, the boxes surrounding us, the heaviness of this whole ordeal, the weight of everything we’d uncovered and what we didn’t, they’ve managed to make this situation better somehow. Less suffocating. Easier to carry.

My joints complain as I climb to my feet, my body demanding I fold myself back into the pretzel shape it’d been trapped in all afternoon. “I mean. I wouldn’t say no to a hamburger.”

Bronte stands, a lot quicker than I did, brushing the dirt from her clothes.

“You and your burgers. Alright, fine. But I’m getting a Kebab.”

The shrill sound of my phone ringing tears me away from the contract that has become so painfully uninteresting that I have been reading the same paragraph for the better part of five minutes without absorbing a single word. I frown when I glance down at the assistant manager of the Cardinals’ caller ID. I don’t answer it straight away. Instead, I just watch it vibrate against my desk, its persistent buzzing filling the otherwise quiet room, for a few seconds before finally picking it up.

“Lennon speaking.”

“Miss Gilmore, it's Clive Roberts, how are you?”

I almost scoff at the question. Really, Clive? How the fuck do you think I am doing? Instead of being a smart ass like I really wish I could, I slip effortlessly into the polished businesswoman persona that years of meetings and negotiations have taught me to wear, feigning a professionalism I have absolutely no desire to offer him.

What I really want to do is to tell this spineless cunt exactly what I think of him, along with every ounce of cowardice he displayed during the months my legitimacy as Patrick’s heir was dragged through the mud while he stood back and watched it happen.