Gold (BOOK 3) || PRN

XLIII. Girl Code

"Hi, Jill." I smile, eyes dancing between her snarl and O+>'s intrigued stare.

I know if anybody feels the flames on my skin, it's him. He seems to be enjoying the fire in my eyes even as they are covered. He's likely glad my anger isn't directed at him this time I can understand his enthrallment. I'm happy it's not him as well. For once in years he was not constantly fucking up.

Jill sits down on his side of the booth once he scoots to the center. She doesn't even want to look at him, let alone touch him. Jill's seating choice traps us in the booth, Mike occupying my exit route. I don't need an exit route anyway. Grown women are about to get to the bottom of some issues right now.

Yeah, you do that, is all I can say to myself when she sits so far away. Right now, the best thing for me would be a mug of tea and an ocean waves tape. I am in desperate need of some meditation right now.

"What is this?" She comes out the gate almost as annoyed as me.

Jill's lengthy brown curls have been died black, making her light eyes pop even more. She looks scandalous, her homy bohemian style no longer as cute outside of 1988. My entire perception of her has shifted, probably because I don't trust her anymore. Suddenly, her facade is crystal clear and she now reminds me of some scammer. For all I know, her name might not even be Jill. It may be something completely out of the ordinary like Joanne... Yeah, that's right. Joanne Jones.

This bitch's name was probably Joanne The Scammer. What does she do for a living? Lie.

A humongous red bullseye target has somehow settled on her forehead. It's the only thing I see. My eyes slowly zone in on her as I begin to burn holes through her face with my burning stare. I'm enjoying myself all too well when a special high heel shoe makes contact with my shin, purposely, knocking me out of my daze.

Reaching for my straw, I speak at a lowered volume as an attempt to control my emotions. "What happened, Jill? I thought we were friends?"

We'd spent many, many good times together. We once had so much in common and it pains me that she tried to play me to the left over a man who couldn't put her first since 1982. A man who allowed her to sing behind a curtain for the other talentless women he dated but she never made it up front. Susannah got more stage time sharing a microphone with Wendy. This is same man who promised her an album and, instead, consistently gave her an abundance of his left over songs from three years prior because he gave away every song he ever wrote for her. He knew she could not sell those in 1987. The same exact man who gave her a singing role in a film only to make her lip sync as revenge because they fought.

She ditched me because of him. I can forgive the gossiping behind my back. I can't forgive her doing it in the name of someone of the likes of him.

"Do you really want to do this in front of him," she sternly questions.

"Why not? I don't see why that's an issue if he's the reason you ghosted me like a rude ex."

He whistles as he spectates the event through his darkened eyewear. If anything were to happen, I'd have to be careful of my very own facial attire and upper region. One, these are not my sunglasses. They're DeVante's. Two, my nipples are still swollen.

Jill's scoff is met by my next question. "I thought we were friends."

"What?"

In the best attempts to keep calm, I intertwine my fingers on the table. My thumbs tap against each other as a sign of my frustrations. "I said, I thought we were friends."

"We were before you chose some dick over what's right and what's wrong."

My head gesture counters her reply. "I never chose anything or anybody. I stepped away from it as a whole because that was between you two," I snap back. "And I wasn't fucking him. I told you I wasn't fucking him. He told you I wasn't fucking him— In fact, he was still fucking you because I wasn't fucking him!"