Free Reunion Girls by J. J. Salem

spend, and it gave them great pleasure to reward Lara for significant achievements.
    Privi was in her early sixties and not in the best of health, fighting both high blood pressure and diabetes. She managed all the cooking, cleaning, laundry duties, and day-to-day pet care. With just Lara and her little Maltese, Queenie, as charges, it was a light workload that gave her purpose and kept her busy, yet proved untaxing.
    By Manhattan standards, Lara's lifestyle was pure fantasy. A huge condo. A live-in housekeeper. A glamorous career. Many people dismissed her as a spoiled princess. Okay, maybe she was. But she also worked hard. Getting Regrets Only up and running had been a job that required the strength and fortitude of an Amazon. With the deed to her condo in her name, she borrowed against it to raise the upfront capital for the business. Within eighteen months, she had closed out the loan. Exquisite details, high-profile connections, and smooth running events were her claim to fame, but Lara also possessed a precise head for numbers that routinely enhanced her profit margins.
    She lay there, willing herself to sleep. But it was hopeless. The constant throbbing at her temples just wouldn't subside. She regretted all of it. Going to the wedding. Seeing Dean Paul. Encountering Aspen. Dancing with Joaquin. Drinking the champagne.
    Oy. Especially the champagne. Privi was absolutely right. Not even if Dean Paul announced his annulment would more than one glass of the bubbly ever pass her lips again.
    She put a hand to her unsteady stomach as the room dipped and swayed in another tumult of nausea. Whoa. How on earth was she going to rise up from the prone position, take a shower, get dressed, put herself in a car to the Mercer Hotel, and listen to the Kometani twins blather on about their party wishes, without dying in the process? It just didn't seem possible.
    Privi padded back into the room with a steaming cup of beef bouillon and a glass of cold whole milk.
    Lara raised up a hand in silent protest.
    Queenie rose from underneath the comforter with great interest.
    "You—put that hand down. And you—go back to sleep," Privi scolded both of them. "An old hangover cure. My sister Yari got her husband off to work after his all-night poker games for years with this same trick. Get every bit of it down. No matter how hard it may be."
    "But—"
    "Every drop," Privi cut in. "It's your only hope of getting to that meeting. I don't think you'll make it downstairs otherwise."
    Lara sighed in defeat and raised the bouillon to her lips. The aroma sent her reeling.
    A stern Privi stood by the bed, daring her not to obey.
    The first sip was the hardest. It seemed incongruous that Lara could feel so horrible this morning when only last night she had experienced the time of her life. Ironically, the champagne had been the reason for that, too . . .
    It was only because of her altered state that she had agreed to join Babe and Gabrielle at AKA Bomb Threat's East Hampton home. But it was a safer bet than another dance with Joaquin Cruz. After tumbling into the white stretch limousine, the three of them rode the whole way standing up through the open sunroof, laughing hysterically, tasting the sharp tang of the air from the Atlantic.
    Gabrielle had ordered the driver to pump up the volume on the music—her own, of course. It was a highly danceable track from Brown Sugar's first CD called "Super Bitch."

    Yes, that's my Mercedes
    No, you can't contain me
    Cuz I make my own gravy
    If my bling makes you feel less a man
    Poor baby, this I understand
    It takes a big star to say he can
    Cuz I'm a Super Bitch
    Rhymes with rich
    One taste of me
    Will scratch that itch
    Yeah I'm a Super Bitch
    You'll beg for more
    I can be virgin sweet
    Or a nasty whore

    Against all normal impulses, Lara had found herself singing along to the vulgar lyrics. But the beat was infectious, the melody instantly catching. What a sight it had been—the three of them jutting