Ladies' Night Andrews, Kay (great novels .txt) 📖

He was halfway out the door, but he turned around, came back, and pulled to her feet. “I thought about what you said last night. Just before you left. You’re killing me. You know that, right?”

She smiled. “In a good way, right?”

“Absolutely. See you at six.” And then he was off again. A minute later, she ran out to the porch, hollered at him as he was getting into the truck. “I’ll bring dinner. What do you like?”

“If you bring it, I’ll like it.” He threw the truck into reverse and headed down the road.

*   *   *

She was still on the floor, barefoot, dressed in her messy, paint-spattered T-shirt and cutoffs, a bandanna tied over her hair, scooching along on her butt, painting the baseboards, when she heard footsteps in the living room. Maybe Bo’s T-ball game was over early? She turned expectantly.

J’Aimee stood in the doorway, looking down at her, eyes blazing with hostility.

Grace scrambled to her feet, dusting off her butt with both hands. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice cool.

J’Aimee was dressed in all black, a sheer, sleeveless black chiffon midriff-baring top worn over a black bra, black skinny jeans, and high-heeled silver-studded black sandals with gladiator-wrapped ankles. With her jet-black dyed hair she looked like a refugee from a bondage flick.

Although J’Aimee was actually about Grace’s height, today, in the heels, she glared menacingly down at Grace.

“You think you’re pretty damn smart, don’t you,” J’Aimee said, poking Grace in the chest with her forefinger. “With those bullshit e-mails you sent my advertisers. Me, steal your content? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

J’Aimee’s breath was hot on her face. Grace was tempted to take a step backward, but instead stood her ground.

“Me? I’m the person who started Gracenotes. I’m the actual Grace. I’m the person who developed, cooked, photographed, and wrote that corn-crab chowder recipe you so blatantly lifted off my blog to pass off as your own work.”

“There are a million recipes for that soup floating around on the Internet,” J’Aimee said with a shrug.

“Ben managed to wipe out that post on my page, so I can’t prove it, of course,” Grace said calmly. “But I’ve got a new blogging platform for TrueGrace and a new protected password, and I’ve installed malware now, so tell him not to bother to try to mess with it. Also? I’ve started watermarking my photos with my TrueGrace logo, so you won’t be able to poach my photos anymore either.”

“Me? Poach your shit?” J’Aimee’s throaty laughter was harsh. “Who are you kidding?”

She took a step backward, her eyes sweeping disdainfully over the room. “So this is your exciting new project? This shack?” Abruptly, she turned and walked out of the room, her high heels clacking sharply on the wood floors.

J’Aimee walked into the kitchen, took in the beat-up, doorless cupboards; the gaping spaces where appliances should have stood; the bare, glue-spattered plywood floors. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose in disgust. Just as quickly, she walked into the hallway, peered into the bedroom and then the single bathroom with its outdated tile and filthy tub and toilet.

“You’re pathetic, Grace,” J’Aimee said, her eyes glittering with malice. “You are desperate and pathetic, like this house. You put yourself out there to all the world on the Internet as this all-knowing authority. Miss Know-It-All: the perfect designer, entertainer, gourmet cook…”

J’Aimee admired her own reflection in the bathroom mirror and then stomped out of the bathroom and into the living room. “But you’re not even woman enough to keep your husband interested in you. You want to know how long it took Ben to jump my bones after you hired me? A week.”

She laughed at the look of shock on Grace’s face. “And don’t be telling yourself that I’m the little tramp that went after him. He came on to me. Uh-huh. That’s right. The first time? Oh, that was while you were out giving a speech to some fancy society women’s fund-raising luncheon. I even remember the title of your talk, because I had to type it and print it out for you. ‘A House Is Not a Home.’ And while you were giving your lame talk, I was back at your house, fucking your husband’s brains out.” She paused and laughed again. “In your bed.”

Grace wanted to knock J’Aimee down, shove a fist in her throat, anything to shut up the torrent of bile spewing from her mouth. But she was paralyzed, speechless.

J’Aimee’s smile was mirthless. “TrueGrace? That’s what you’re calling yourself now? Who are you kidding? Ben was the brains behind Gracenotes. He and I did all the scut work, making it look pretty and effortless, while you took all the credit.”

She took another step closer to Grace again, until she was directly in her face. “Look at you now, Grace Davenport. Living with Mommy above a shitty bar, hiring yourself out as nothing more than a glorified housepainter.” She whipped a cell phone out of the pocket of her form-fitting jeans, and before Grace could stop her, she’d snapped a picture of Grace, standing there, covered in paint, her mouth gaping. “This’ll give Ben a good laugh.”

The click of the camera lens suddenly snapped Grace back to consciousness.

“Just what is it you want here, J’aimee? You want more material to leave some more snarky, barely literate comments on TrueGrace? Don’t bother to deny it either. I know you’re Freebird. Since you’re living in Ben’s pants these days, you might want to get him to explain ISP numbers to you.”

Now it was Grace’s turn to fight. She put her paint-spattered hand squarely in the middle of J’Aimee’s chest, leaving a perfect white handprint on the black chiffon.

“Hey,” J’Aimee cried angrily, swatting Grace’s hand away.

“You’re a fraud, J’Aimee,” Grace said, rolling the name out with the exaggerated French pronunciation. “Oh. Wait. Even your name’s a fake, Jamie. You’ve never had an original idea in your life. You’re the kind of bottom-feeding parasite