Page 10 of Some Sort of Happy (Happy Crazy Love 1)
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I was seated in front of Joan Klein’s desk, staring at her in disbelief. “Maybe I misunderstood.”
Joan, a former beauty queen herself, had a blonde beehive hairdo that might have been shellacked in 1975 and eyebrows penciled in way too dark. She cleared her throat. “Corporate feels, Ms. Nixon, that your current reputation is at odds with the qualities we look for in a Cherry Queen. We do not believe you would be an asset to the pageant at this time, and in fact we feel you have violated your contract.”
“Violated my contract? Are you joking?” I blinked a few times, but her pursed mouth did not ease into a smile.
“No. I am quite serious. If you look at your contract, which I have a copy of here, you will see that you agreed to refrain from engaging in any public behaviors that would discredit the Queen or the pageant.”
“But—but that was seven years ago!” I sputtered.
“The contract has no end date. Once a queen, always a queen,” she said dramatically.
“Oh my God. So now what?”
“Your crown and title are being revoked, and we’d like you to sign right here.” She set another contract in front of me, the page full of tiny black print. “This says that you understand your title is being forfeited due to breach of contract and you will no longer refer to yourself as a former Queen, advertise yourself as such, or appear at any functions claiming to be such.”
“Seriously? I made a mistake! Don’t we all make mistakes sometimes?”
“Yours were very public, Ms. Nixon. Too public.”
“It was just a TV show!” But in my head I heard Miranda Rivard’s voice: Perception is reality, Skylar.
“It was a reality show. You played yourself,” Joan pointed out. “We would appreciate it if you did not speak to the press about this or mention it on any social media. We’ll handle it.”
“Speak to the press? Are you kidding? Why would I want to call attention to this?” I scribbled my name on the contract without even reading it. Didn’t matter what it said, I no longer cared.
“Leave the crown, please. It’s pageant property.”
My jaw dropped and I hugged the crown to my stomach. “You can’t have my crown.”
“Yes, I can.” She tapped my signature with the pen. “You just agreed to return it.”
I wanted to throw it at her, but I mustered my pride and managed to set it down gently on the desk—right after I bent that stupid fucking rhinestone-studded piece of shit in half with my bare hands.
After the episode at the beach, I went straight to the gym. In college I’d learned that working out helped me stay mindful of the present moment and stop “fearcasting” about the future. When I was running or lifting or hitting the heavy bag, all I thought about was my body getting stronger, my muscles working harder, my heart pumping faster. It forced me to stay in the moment, helped me work off the tension and anger I carried, and had results I could see, a clear cause and effect.
However, even running an extra mile and adding extra reps hadn’t been enough to banish Skylar Nixon from my mind.
But actually, it was kind of nice.
Because rather than the disturbing thoughts I’d had at the beach, my head was filled with other images of her—pleasant images. As I pushed myself to the limits of exertion, I thought of her body beneath mine, her hands on my back, her lips falling open. I thought of those blue eyes closing as I slid inside her, slow and deep. I thought of the soft sigh of pleasure I’d hear before she whispered my name and pulled me in deeper.
At home in the shower, I invited those thoughts back in, welcomed them as I let the water run down my body and took my dick in my hand.
Oh yeah, jerking off was another activity in which I stayed mindful of the moment. Sex was too, although I hadn’t had sex in almost a year. Fuck, I missed it. But sex with strangers had never been my thing—although I might have to make it my thing unless I wanted to spend my life celibate.
Or maybe sex with a friend…
I tightened my fingers around my shaft and stroked myself with long, hard pulls as the steam billowed up around me.
God, what would it feel like to get inside Skylar? To smell her skin, taste her lips, watch her arch beneath me?
Could I make her come?
Was she quiet or loud?
Did she like it on top?
Would she let me tie her up? Pull her hair?
