So This Is War (Vancouver Agitators, #5)

by Meghan Quinn

“Then he’s benched,” Wood says as he looks me in the eyes, nostrils flaring. “Did you hear that, you bologna-loving motherfucker? You’re benched.” I swallow deeply as I dig my fingertips into the armrests of my chair. Not sure why he had to drag the bologna into this, but I don’t bother asking as the vein in his bald head looks like it’s maxed out on stress.

I knock on my dad’s office door and take a bite of my bologna sandwich. Whoever’s bologna this is, it’s freaking good. It’s my third one this week.

All these assholes are head over heels, living in their lover era, because of me.

“Did one of you motherfuckers take my bologna? Because if you did, it’s not funny. So just bring me my bologna, and no one will get hurt.” I hold out my hand, but Taters and OC don’t move. Finally, OC says, “Dude, although it’s slightly entertaining watching you spiral over processed meat, I know better than to fuck with your bologna.” “Same,” Taters says, holding his hands up in defense. “The whole team knows better.” I slam my fist on the table. “Then who the fuck did it?” “Posey!” I nearly fly out of my chair at the sound of my coach’s voice. I turn to see him standing in the doorway of the cafeteria, looking like he’s ready to blow his fist through the wall. Did he . . . did he take my bologna?

He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly growing increasingly more frustrated with me by the second. Too bad for him, I grow more irritating the more nervous I am.

“Ah.” I nod, not quite understanding. “And that is a . . . bad thing?” “Yes, it’s a bad thing. Do you really think I want my daughter to be a struggling artist?” “Well, to be fair,” I say, “she does have you as a father, so would she really be struggling?” His eyes narrow, and I realize that maybe I don’t debate him on the welfare of his child but instead go along with whatever plan he has in mind. “Although.” I nervously laugh. “It would be a great life lesson to learn if she sees what kind of hardship it would be to be a struggling artist in a world of capitalism.” That lightens the scowl in his forehead. Despite the many fights on the ice, that was a pretty impressive comeback if I do say so myself. “Glad you see it that way.”

nod, trying to come up with another reason as to why I don’t want to be an asshole to my coach’s daughter. “What if I upset her?” I ask. “I don’t want her going to you, and you getting pissed at me.” “If you upset her, I’ll give you a goddamn bonus. I’ll cover any fines you might incur through the season. I’m asking you to upset her.” “Yup, I hear that.” I point at my ear. “Just feel uneasy about that aspect of it. I’m a pretty nice dude. Not one to hurt someone’s feelings.” “Jesus Christ, Posey,” Coach yells. “You beat men up on the ice for a living. I’m asking you to be a little demanding with my daughter. Is that something you really can’t fucking handle?” I quiver from the anger in his voice. “No, I can.” I swallow hard. “For sure I can, but you know, there’s also the aspect of paying her. I tend to invest my money, so I’m not sure I can afford⁠—” “If you can’t afford to pay my daughter minimum wage for a semester, then we need to talk about your spending habits.” “Quite right, quite right.”

I’m pretty sure Coach Wood doesn’t really understand the definition of a favor. It’s a simple ask like, oh hey, can you help me move? Or heck, I have an itch on my back, can you get that for me? Or egad, I forgot my underwear, mind if I grab a pair of yours? Those are favors. This is . . . this is a chore. This is a task. This is an objective. A mission. A secret operative. A goddamn developing nightmare that I want nothing to do with. But that doesn’t seem like an option for me. “Uh, no,” I say, tacking on a smile. “I can help you. This won’t be a problem at all.”

“Rule number three,” he continues with a force in his voice. “You will not offer her a place to live.” “Wasn’t planning on it. But just so I’m aware, will she be homeless?” “Rule number four,” he booms. Okay, so possibly homeless. Good to know.

“And most importantly, rule number five. Under no circumstances will you have any sort of physical contact with my daughter.” “What do you mean⁠—” “Fucking her. You will not fuck her, Posey.” “Ahh . . .” I smile. “Well, no worries there. Pretty sure if she looks anything like you, there will be no need for rule number five.” His brow lifts, and I realize what I just said. “I mean, shit, I didn’t mean that. You’re actually, wow, you’re a good-looking guy, very attractive. The bald thing really accentuates your . . . uh, steely eyes, and the tan you’ve been able to procure while coaching a winter sport is really impressive. Not to mention your physique, just oof, what a bundle of muscles that are not wrinkly. Some people your age might look wrinkly, but not you. You’re firm. Firm in all the right places. So much firmness. Just look at those forearms and the sinew and firmness. Lots of firmness. And you know, just to throw it out there, not that you asked, but if I were a woman, then hell yeah, I would be talking to you about a date, or maybe a kiss or⁠—” “Shut the fuck up.” “Yup.” I nod. “Thank you for that.” I bow my head as a courteous thank-you.

Jokingly, I flip to the blank back page and then to the front again. “I don’t know, sir. I think I might want my lawyer to look this over. Possibly my agent.” “Sign the fucking paper, Posey.” “Yup,” I say, nearly jumping out of my seat from his booming voice. I grab a pen off his desk, sign quickly at the bottom, and then hand the paper back over to him. “Should we shake? Hug it out? Grab a whiskey and cheers?” “Get the fuck out of my office.” “Sooo, that’s a no on the celebration?” “Get out,” he yells while pointing at the door. “Great, yup, I wanted to leave anyway.” I stand from my chair and grip the handle to the door right before I pull away and ask, “Uh, when do I meet her?” “Tonight, after the game. Come to my office.” “Got it. Okay, see you then. Yay for teaching lessons.” I raise my fist in celebration. He just points at the door.

“Thanks, Grace,” I say as she starts cleaning my cut. “I do have a question for you.” “Yeah?” she asks as she picks up some gauze. “What is it?” “Do you happen to know who is eating my bologna?” She pauses and lifts away from me to look me in the eyes. “That’s your question?” “Yes,” I groan. “Someone is eating it, and I didn’t get to have my pre-game sandwich today and I think it made me sluggish. I rely on that sandwich.” “Bologna is terrible for you. How many times have we gone over this?” “Bologna is my savior. Wait . . .” I look at her. “Is it you? Are you taking my bologna away because you think it’s bad for me, therefore you’re eliminating it from my diet? That’s really something we should discuss, Grace, before you start taking my bologna. Don’t you think?” “I’m not taking your freaking bologna, Posey. I might think it’s terrible for you, but I understand the importance of rituals. I wouldn’t mess with that.” “So then who is taking my bologna?” “You just got a gash in the head, and that’s what you’re worried about?” she asks. “Yes, because I don’t get hurt. But I didn’t have a bologna sandwich today, so maybe that’s the reason.”

The girl I hired a fucking private investigator to find. That’s how goddamn desperate I was. Wasted money, since all I had to do was ask Coach Wood to meet his daughter.

“Listen to me, you fuck,” he starts, apparently forgetting his bedside manners for people doing him a favor. “I saw the way you just looked at her, and if you even think about her in any way other than your coach’s extremely off-limits daughter, I will personally slice your dick off with a rusty pair of skates. Got it?”

“You can count on me,” I say with a fist pump, feeling like a complete asshat. Coach Wood ignores my enthusiasm and goes back to his tablet, silently excusing me. Probably best.

Pacey: Why don’t I know anything? Silas: Because you’re always with Winnie. You barely hang out with us now. Eli: Says the guy who’s always with Ollie. Halsey: As if you have any room to speak. Levi: None of you have room to speak, you neglectful assholes. You’re all in happy, loving relationships because of me. OC: Uh, I’m not happy. Levi: Don’t worry, I’ll get to you.

OC: Uh . . . what do you want me to do? Levi: Write me a synopsis of the history between you and Grace. Have it in my locker in a week. If you want happiness, don’t skip out on the details.

I’d like it to be known that everything I’m going to ask her to do are tasks I can do for myself. Things I’ve been doing for years with no problem. I want it to be noted that any wild or obscene shit I tell Wylie to do should not be held against me. I’m merely a pawn in the battle between Coach Wood and his daughter. And despite being a man’s man with perfectly manscaped and lotioned balls, I clearly have no idea how to say . . . no.

“Oh . . . my . . . fuck,” I scream like a man whose nuts just got lassoed off before levitating off the floor and right on top of the slats of the bed. “Mouse,” I squeal. “There’s a fucking mouse in here.” I point at it as it runs back and forth. “A rodent. Right there. Holy fuck, a rodent.” Wylie turns toward the mouse just as it scurries toward me again and under the bed. “Ahhhh, it’s under me,” I scream as I attempt to leap off the bed, but unfortunately, the bed can’t handle my weight, and the slat I’m standing on buckles together in a snap and my foot lands on the ground with a resounding squish. I still. My blood goes cold. And I look up at Wylie, who is now wincing. Please fuck . . . no. Nope. No. Breathing heavily, I rest my hand against the exposed brick wall next to me as I very quietly and calmly say, “Is . . . is it under my foot?” She shifts uncomfortably and cringes. “That would be a yes.” I slowly nod, reality puncturing me. “The whole thing?” “Yes. Your very large foot carries quite the radial stomp.” I gulp. “Would you say it’s . . . dead?” She glances down at my foot, then back up at me. “I would be surprised if it’s not.” “Okay.” I swallow my building saliva. “Okay, everything will be okay.” I remain still, unmoving. “I’m, uh, I’m going to need some privacy.”

“Perfect. I’ll get right on that. Shall you show me the rest of the space?” “Sure,” I say, thinking that maybe this assistant thing won’t be as bad as I thought. First, she takes care of the mouse—RIP, you mangy rodent—and now my very own fiddle leaf fig tree. Wow. I won’t let her know how excited I am about the prospect of having one. And in a fucking basket . . . talk about living the good life. My apartment will be unmatched compared to the other guys. Halsey might have a bonsai tree, but I’ll have a giant, and I mean leaves taking up the apartment space giant, fiddle leaf fig plant that will fill my apartment with oxygen and goodness. None of them will have that. None. I internally cackle, knowing once again I’ll have a leg up on my nimrod friends.

“Oh yes, I can see how that would be beneficial. Very smart, Levi.” If I was wearing a suit, I’d be proudly gripping the lapels right now.

“Laying your dick to rest makes it sound like you’re putting it to sleep, you know . . . death.” “If my dick dies, I die,” I say.

I snatch it from her hand and accidentally press the on button in the process, causing the vibrator to start in my hand, which inevitably leads me to drop it on the floor. We both look down as it jingle-jangles across the hardwood and right up against my foot, almost nudging me in a suggestive way to use it. “Quite the vibration,” she says as the vibrator’s buzzing fills the silence. “Feels strong yet not too powerful where it could cause your innards to turn inward.” I look up at her. “Is that a thing?” She shrugs. “Feels like it could be. Is that supposed to hit the G-spot?” I glance down at the flat side that is, in fact, supposed to massage the G-spot. It’s currently massaging the tip of my toe. “Yes,” I answer. “Fascinating. And that piece on the end there, is that for the clit?” “The one that is currently sucking my pinky toe?” I ask. “Yes, that one.” “Yeah,” I answer. “That’s for the clit.” “And how does it feel against your toe?” She taps her chin, studying me for my reaction. “Humiliating,”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve let it suck on your toe for this long. By now, I would have grabbed it, turned it off, and stuffed it back in my drawer.” “That would have been the intelligent reaction,” I reply as I stick my hands in my pockets and let the vibrator rumble against the floor. “So . . .” she says, “we’re just going to let this happen? That thing is going to suck your toe, and I’m supposed to act like it’s not and just have a normal conversation with you about your packing needs?” “Not really sure how else to move on.” “You could . . . oh, I don’t know, pick up the vibrator.” “I think the moment has passed,” I reply. “I disagree. I don’t think there’s ever a moment when you can’t remove a clit sucker off your toe. I think the window is always open for something like that,” she replies. “But we’ve talked about it too much. It feels weird.” “I’d assume getting your toe sucked by a vibrator in front of your new assistant would be even weirder, but I guess to each their own.” She stares at me. I stare at her. She shifts. I pull on the back of my neck. The vibrator rumbles. She clasps her hands tighter against the notebook. I nervously press my lips together. And we continue to look at each other until she says, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She bends at the waist, yanks the vibrator off my toe, turns it off, and then puts it back in the nightstand where it will never be removed ever again. She lets out a heavy breath. “There. I did it for you.”

“I also have two other things that are meticulous but necessary. You know, superstitions and all.” “Oh, I know all about them.” She leans a little forward and whispers, “Did you know that my dad has to do the sign of the cross over his underwear before he puts it on every game day?” Oh fuck, that’s amazing. I hold back my snort, but it makes my eyes water. I try to blink away the tears of amusement, but God, that’s great intel.

Levi: I’m unwell. Eli: Is it the bologna? Dude, we don’t want to hear about it. Halsey: I told you not to eat that shit. Pacey: Remember when he got sick in Banff from eating five sandwiches within two hours? Silas: Remember when I got sick just hearing him say he devoured the whole package of bologna while doing it? Levi: This has nothing to do with my precious bologna. Stop hating on it, you fucks. OC: You know, we really shouldn’t be food shaming.

Levi: PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I’m unwell because I stepped on a mouse and killed it today. I can still feel the squish. Pacey: Why the hell did you step on a mouse? Silas: Ew, were you wearing a shoe? Eli: I don’t understand why you feel like you need to share this with us. Halsey: That’s . . . gross. OC: Guess I’ll be the only one who asks . . . are you okay, Posey? Levi: No. Mentally distraught. Thank you, OC, for being my only friend. Also, yes, I was wearing shoes, and it was an accident. Silas: Seriously, OC, chill, man. Levi: Does anyone care about the mouse? Or me? Pacey: *deadpans* Yes, we care so much. We hope everything is okay with your life. Eli: Sending you well wishes and sorrows. Silas: Prayers for the mouse. OC: May he rest in peace . . . Halsey: Moment of silence.

OC: What the hell am I reading? Levi: Eli wants to bless Coach Wood’s underwear for him. Eli: Oh fuck off, all of you. OC: Maybe he wants to eat an apple while he blesses the underwear. (See what I did there?) Pacey: Bringing it full circle. I approve. Silas: Clever. Halsey: I think I need to leave this group chat. Levi: You’re slowly becoming my favorite with every passing day, OC. Eli: You must have low standards, then. OC: Ouch, quite the burn, but it doesn’t quite compare to the burn you feel in your loins over wanting to make Coach Wood squeal. Silas: Oh shit. Halsey: Okay, that was good. Pacey: I snorted on Winnie. She’s not happy. Levi: Appreciate the use of loins.

He’s not eating one of the freaking bagels I got him last night? Doesn’t he know that I had to drink two boiling hot cups of coffee to make it through that drive? That I had to listen to a playlist called Don’t Fall Asleep the entire way that was put together by some psychopath on Spotify that consists of horrific animal noises and loud screeching? I nearly drove myself mad. And he’s not going to have a bagel? HE’S NOT GOING TO HAVE A FREAKING BAGEL?

“Don’t feel bad for her. Don’t feel anything for her. This is a job. This isn’t personal. You do the job, and you move on. Don’t feel any sort of emotion toward my daughter, understood?” I gulp. “Yup. No emotion. Completely emotionless. No need to worry about emotions with me. I don’t even know what they are. I’m an empty⁠—” “Shut up.” “Right. Yup.” I grip the chair’s arms, trying to keep calm.

“Keep her fucking busy. Run her ragged. Make her regret she ever took this position. I’ll put together another list and email it to you. Continue to be demanding. I talked to her last night, and her hopes seemed high. I didn’t like it.” Why? Doesn’t he want his daughter to be happy? I don’t understand this entire ruse. If I had a child, I’d want what’s best for them, and what’s best for them is their happiness. Why doesn’t Coach Wood want that? Maybe he’s unaware of what happiness is. He’s just an old crotch of a man with beefy shoulders and a bald head. Perhaps he needs a little love in his life. Maybe I’m the one to help him find that love. My success rate is at one hundred percent right now, so I could help him find a lady friend—or man friend if that’s where he’s headed. Who knows. I’ve never gotten that personal with him. Either way, I’m the key to him finding love, and I’m up for the challenge. “You know, Coach Wood, have you ever considered dating?” He points at his door and yells, “Get the fuck out.” I wince as I scurry out of my chair. “Sure . . . yup.”

“Trust me when I say nothing will be happening between us. First of all, she’s fucking young, like ten years younger.” “Silas is ten years older than Ollie.” “Yeah, and there are times when she calls him granddad. Do you really think I want that for my life?”

“Wonderful. Ready for breakfast?” He wiggles his brows. “More than ready.” Looks like Penny is on the menu. They take off and slip into her office without even having the decency of saying goodbye. Fucking rude.

“Just don’t embarrass me,” I say, wanting to clarify that. “You embarrass yourself on your own terms,” Halsey says. Look at this motherfucker, coming out of his shell now that he’s found happiness. He wouldn’t have even said two words to Wylie a year ago, but now he’s making jokes at my expense. See what I’m talking about? Ungrateful friends.

Halsey and Blakely kept the guest list to a minimum and celebrated the wedding at Silas’s cabin in the Canadian Rockies, where they said their vows in the backyard. Silas’s private chef catered the event. I offered up the great idea to have bologna sliders as an appetizer, but they didn’t take the suggestion, nor did they listen to me about bringing Sherman—their bonsai tree—to the wedding, which I thought was flat-out irreverent. That tree was one of the main reasons—besides me—that they got together. Because of those two huge misses in their event planning, I knocked their wedding score a full point. They didn’t care when I told them. Fucking rude.

“I don’t even think he’s been with anyone in a while,” Silas adds. “I haven’t seen Posey with a girl in, I don’t know . . . a few months.” “Unless he’s been hooking up at home,” Eli says. Pacey shakes his head. “No, you can always tell when Posey is backed up. He gets this tic in his jaw whenever he sees us around our girls.” My jaw ticks right at that moment, and Eli points it out. “You mean that tic right there, where it pops out like a heartbeat?” “That exact one,” Pacey says. “Can you stop looking at my jaw, you perverts,” I say. “Staring at a man’s jaw is like staring at a pair of tits, and I don’t appreciate the ogling.” I press both of my hands to my jaw. “Not the same thing.” Eli shakes his head. “Not even a little,” Silas adds. “Not even close.” OC holds up his finger. “You know, I actually think a man’s jaw⁠—” “Shut up,” Silas, Pacey, and Eli say at the same time, and OC clams right up. I turn to him and say, “Don’t let them treat you like that. You go ahead and compliment me. I’ll be sure to add it to the running tally of reasons I like you and why I’ll help you with your love life.”

I look over at Silas, who now studies me, his hand to his chin. “You know, ever since last year, it seems like he’s paid more attention to us and less attention to himself, and then there was that girl he was crushing on that OC told us about.” “I, uh . . . I was lying,” OC says. “I didn’t say anything. I was drunk. Medicated. Mistaken. Anything you heard from me was a fabrication.”

I look down at my skates, and that’s all Silas needs. He snaps his fingers. “That’s it. He’s going through girl troubles, and he won’t tell us.” “Is he really?” Pacey asks. “That can’t be right,” Eli says while bending at the waist to try to look me in the eyes. “Are you having girl troubles?” “No,” I growl as I stand. “I’m not having girl troubles. I’m having . . . fuck, I’m having bologna withdrawals.” I grip my hair, ready to lie right through my teeth because I can’t fathom telling them anything else. “I’m trying to quit cold turkey because Grace said it wasn’t good for me. So yeah, I’m crushing. You’re right. I’m crushing hard on lady bologna, so if you all don’t mind, I’d prefer for you to leave me the fuck alone so I can deal with my anxiety and heartache in private.” With that, I stomp toward the bathroom, locking myself in a stall and leaving the tension, anger, irritation, and frustration to bottle up in my shoulders. It’s not going to be a good game tonight.

“Think you needed that therapy session,” Eli says as he skates past. Yeah, maybe, but at least I got one good punch in before it was broken up.

In the meantime, please direct your attention to the corner of the room to meet your new fiddle leaf fig tree.” Oh, fuck yeah. The time has come. Dreams are coming true after a shit of a day. Come to Papa . . . I turn toward the corner of the living room, expecting to see a well-nourished, thriving fiddle leaf fig, but to my dismay, a small pot sits on the floor with three leaves sprouting from it instead. My brow pinches together. “What’s that?” “I know what you must be thinking.” She gets off her stool and walks over to the plant. “It’s small now, but with lots of love and devotion to its growth, this fiddle leaf fig will soon be a blooming fiend taking over this very space.” Those three leaves will need a lot more than some love and devotion. She got me the Charlie Brown version of a fiddle leaf fig tree, not the monstrous, girthy log of a tree I expected.

I tack on a smile, painfully aware of my desperation. “Yup, everything is great.” “Okay because it looked like you were screaming into a pillow.”

“You seemed different from how you are now. Like the confidence I was talking about.” That’s because my dick didn’t have a muzzle on it like it does now. “Oh, really?” I laugh nervously. “Well, you know, people change.” “They do, but I think it’s something else. Are you scared of me?” “Ha!” I bellow. “You? Scared of you?” I shake my head. “No, no, no. Nope. Not scared of you. Not even a little. Definitely not scared. Nope. No scaries over here.” Now, am I scared of your father? Yes. My nipples have inverted just thinking about him seeing us like this side by side on my couch, and nothing is even happening. Well, besides my growing affection for this woman. Oh, did I say affection? I meant erection. My growing erection.

She can’t be . . . No. There’s no fucking way. “Hold on . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to make sure my voice doesn’t come out shaky. “You . . . you like bologna sandwiches?” “Love them,” she answers with a smile. Mother. Of. Fuck. This is the worst-case scenario out of all scenarios. This . . . this is blasphemy. This is bullshit. This can’t be the world I’m living in. No, this is a nightmare. Someone punch me. Poke me. Stick a chopstick right up my dick hole. Pull me away from this disaster I’m living because, oh my fucking God, the girl of my absolute dreams, the one that’s been persistent in my mind for a year, the girl who could do no wrong, she likes bologna. No, not like . . . loves. LOVES! Actual tears spring to my eyes as panic races through me. I’m going to lose it. I have two choices, ask her to open her mouth so I can fuck it, right here, right now—possibly while she eats a bologna sandwich—or just run. Run as far away as I can run. I choose the latter.

They’re silent for a second, all looking at each other before Winnie says, “You not hitting on me was not a favor.” “Trust me.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her. “It was. But we’re not going to get into that. Let’s just say, I value your opinion over theirs.” Ollie nods. “I can accept that. Also, to be fair, oye my dick was a huge turnoff.” I lean in and hold my finger up while saying, “But it made you push harder. Therefore, I moved things along.” I curtly bow. “You’re welcome.” “You’re a moron,” she says. I nod. “Yes, yes, I’m aware of my moronic tendencies. See how I can admit that?” “You’re so brave,” Penny says, voice full of sarcasm. I press my hand to my heart. “Thank you. Now, back to my boner.” “Can you not start with the boner again?” Blakely asks. “It’s making it hard for me to eat my coffee cake.” “Do you know what’s hard?” I ask with a quizzical brow. “Dear Jesus, Posey, just tell us what’s going on,” Penny shouts. “Right.” I take a deep breath and say, “I want to fuck my coach’s daughter.” They all still, staring blankly at me. Finally, Blakely leans toward Penny and says, “See, I told you it would be good.” Penny lifts her drink to her mouth. “You were right. I apologize.”

“Anyway, we had an amazing night. We talked, she rubbed my penis through my jeans, we kissed . . .” “You know, I do love rubbing Silas’s penis through his jeans,” Ollie says. “I like a good jean rub, too,” Blakely says. “I made Pacey come once while doing that.” Winnie beams. “Eck, that’s my brother,” Penny complains. Winnie shrugs. “What? He really liked it.”

“The kiss was . . . well, it was life-changing. I felt it all the way down to the tip of my penis.” “Please, Posey,” Penny groans.

They all study me, looks of confusion in their eyes. Finally, Penny speaks up. “Going to skip over the hairless situation and ask. What do you mean there’s something secret about your penis?” “Yeah, that’s confusing because now my mind is racing,” Ollie says. “Like . . . what kind of things are happening down there? Does a little man pop out of your penis when the lady comes, offering a congratulations to everyone involved?” “That’s ridiculous. Of course not,” I say, but then think about what that little man might look like. Maybe he’s holding a pot of gold. “Oh my God, he’s thinking about the little man,” Penny says. “Am not,” I say petulantly even though I think he would have a pot of gold, but we’ll keep that between us.

“And I swear on my left nut that she’s fucking with my head on purpose. She knows how much I want her but can’t have her.” “Why do you say that?” Blakely asks. “Because she’s always in my apartment now. She’s walking around wearing practically nothing. She’s touching me. She’s getting close but not intimate, and it’s driving me nuts. And worst of all . . .” I take a deep breath, lower my sunglasses to the tip of my nose, and say, “She loves bologna.” A collective gasp falls over the group, all the women with slack jaws and blinking eyes. “Oh dear God,” Winnie whispers, leaning back. “Fuck,” Ollie says. “Well, that’s . . . wow.” Penny shakes her head. “Did not see that coming,” Blakely adds. “Now I understand the boner.” “It all makes sense,” Ollie says.

Levi: RED ALERT. RED ALERT. I NEED MY LABIA LADIES! Penny: Ew, you are not calling us that. Blakely: Think of a better name, or we’re not helping. Ollie: Agreed. A much better name. Winnie: *Snorts* Levi: I’M IN DISTRESS! That’s the first thing that came to mind. Penny: You know, if we’re going to be a part of this, we should really brainstorm a good name. Blakely: I like the idea of using the term queen. Because that’s what we are, right? Queens. Ollie: Ooo, I second the queen idea. Winnie: I’m also on board with queen. Levi: Fine, my Quibbling Queens. Penny: Try again. Levi: Quintessential Queens. Ollie: Too long. Levi: Quirky Queens. Winnie: You’re getting worse. Levi: Uhh . . . Queefing Queens? Penny: You’re going to be dead to us in mere seconds.

Winnie: Could you imagine us saying something like that? Oh, his pecs were bouncing so much, my clit was screaming. Ollie: His bulge, oh his bulge. *drapes hand over forehead* My nipples were leaking they were so turned on. Penny: The cake on that man. I nearly fainted into my own vagina from how turned on I was. Blakely: Fainting into the vagina, that’s on point with what they’d say. Levi: Can you really bend that far? Penny: Posey! Focus! Levi: You’re the ones talking about screaming clits and leaking nipples. Christ.