Free Trouble In Bloom by Heather Webber

wrong by the pout on Mario's face.
    "Nina," Thad said. "What was Bobby wearing the first time you met him?"
    Wait. What was Bobby wearing? Easy. "A cheesy sixties style suit, snakeskin cowboy boots."
    Bobby held up a sign. It said, SUIT. Fake applause filled the studio. Bobby whispered, "And you don't remember Gatlinburg. Right."
    I avoided eye contact, but I could practically feel Bobby preening next to me.
    Genevieve flipped the cards, and Thad read the question silently, making a show of looking bashful. Before seeing him with Genevieve in Willie's bathroom, I would have bought his good ol' boy act. Not anymore.
    "Nina," Thad purred, "if Bobby were writing a book on his bedroom experience, would it be a boring how-to manual, a hot, steamy romance, or a rip-roarin' sensory stimulating thriller?"
    Oh. My. God.
    Next to me, Bobby shook, as if he were trying to hold in a laugh. Glad he found this so amusing.
    I glanced over at Perry. He was watching me, totally engrossed.
    Ana wasn't to be seen, the rear of the set in shadow.
    Thad had a bemused look on his face.
    Genevieve was no help either. She kept looking left and right as though she expected someone to jump out of the corner and bump her off.
    I thought that a bit overdramatic of her.
    "Nina?" Thad prompted.
    All I kept thinking about was my mother. How she was going to watch this show. And Riley! And oh, God, Brickhouse and Mr. Cabrera!
    "Nina?" Thad said.
    Wincing, I said, "I'll, uh, go with hot and steamy."
    Bobby held up the sign. ROMANCE had been his answer. More applause filled the space, echoed.
    "Kiss her," Perry urged.
    I wanted to throttle that Perry.
    Bobby cupped the back of my head and pulled me toward him. He kissed me full on the mouth, then let me go.
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ana stepping into the dim light across the set, fanning herself. Carson stood behind her while his cameraman aimed the camera at Perry as he answered correctly too—a how-to manual. Poor Perry.
    The set dimmed as we broke to get ready for the next round.
    I needed air.
    Ana was busy flirting with Carson Keyes, and Bobby looked like he wanted to talk about Gatlinburg some more. I hightailed it out of there.
    Someone had used a brick to prop open a side door. Cigarette butts littered the ground. I walked along the side of the building, out of the way of anyone coming out for a smoke, and leaned against the brick facade.
    The crisp autumn night cooled me right down. I didn't know how I was going to last a week with Bobby kissing me like that.
    A quick lap around the building to clear my mind, and I'd go back in and pray there wouldn't be any more sex questions.
    A girl could only take so much.
    Dried leaves crunched beneath my shoes—boring pumps I'd pulled out of the back of my closet.
    Wait. When did I start caring if my pumps were boring? It was a disconcerting thought, to say the least.
    Light flooded a corner office, and I couldn't help but look in as I passed by—I was nosy by nature. Through thin miniblinds I spotted Willie Sala. I dropped down out of sight and speculated.
    It looked to be some sort of storage room. I peeked in again. He seemed to be waiting for someone. I slipped over to the other side of the window so I could see the door to the office. It didn't take long for it to swing open—or for the woman to jump into Willie's waiting arms.
    His snakelike voice slithered through the window. "It will all be over by Friday, darling." Then he kissed her, and I tried not to get grossed out. After all, this was Willie Sala, comb-over king. But the woman kissing him wasn't his wife.
    It was Sherry Cochran.

Eight

    Bright and early the next morning I met Duke at the gym.
    I didn't do bright and early well. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to focus.
    "Did you eat?" he asked me. Solid muscle, he stood six feet tall and what seemed like six feet wide.
    The gym was relatively empty at five in the morning, and I was beyond grateful for the privacy. "A low-carb blueberry