More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) by Ann Royal Nicholas

Stupid Quinn, he is a corporate titan . To his credit, though, he genuinely seemed to care that I thought well of him, which, in truth, no longer mattered. I’d made up my mind finally that what he did—or more accurately, did not do—trumped what he said he would do. Obviously, I had found it difficult to pull myself away because he was the only man I knew of who made me feel this good—even without an orgasm. There were other men out there, my rational pre-frontal cortex told me—hence the nascent attempts to find one—but my amygdala was telling me something different. And right now, with “Picturegate” hanging over my head, perhaps I should forgive myself this one-time backslide. Good as Steven was, this really had to stop.
    He glanced toward the kitchen, where the bag of goodies he’d brought sat on top of the counter. “Hungry?”
    I was starving, but not for anything that food or sex was ever going to satisfy.

CHAPTER 7
    The sun was setting on what had been an abnormally warm April evening as Kiki and I waited for the Muffs to return from their pre-book club hike to the Hollywood sign—a site which even the most put-upon Bangladeshy garment worker knows is situated in the hills above the original tinsel town.
    We were sitting on the front stoop of Rachel’s rented house on a windy street off Beachwood Canyon, and I’d already started in on the bottle of bourbon I brought, telling Kiki I was just getting into the theme of the night— white trash. The real reason, of course, was my life—Picturegate—with me playing the part of a crazed shoe wielder, which put my job on the line, and my relapse into Steven a few hours ago. Thus far, I had yet to tell any of the Muffs about either development, but my plan was to definitely avoid the topic of Steven. Too embarrassing.
    I held up my metal, reusable coffee mug in which three fingers of bourbon awaited my consumption. “Cheers.”
    “Cheers.” Kiki clinked her vegetarian, gluten-free pasta casserole against my mug. Sweet woman; didn’t want to make me feel I was drinking alone .
    “To white trash.” I sipped the deliciously-strong, peaty liquid and swallowed. Ahhhh … that’s better. Yes, yes, yes and thank you, Maker’s Mark.
    “Do you think the term ‘white trash’ is racist?” she asked, disturbing my little respite.
    “To who…w hom ?” I sputtered.
    “I mean in a sort of reverse racist kind of way.”
    Lowering the mug from my lips, I assessed her expression. Was she serious? “Only a beautiful, wealthy, twenty-first-century Black woman could ask that question.”
    Kiki was well educated and always dressed like three million bucks. Tonight she had on a pair of her typically expensive-looking, covet-worthy boots, a gorgeous tan leather jacket, and diamonds glittered from her ears and fingers. Correction: four million bucks .
    She met my gaze. “You’re right; trashiness crosses all racial dividing lines. It’s more a way of life.”
    “You have no idea.” I reflected on my own definitively white trash upbringing just down the block from the greater Fresno trailer park. “It’s a little like being born into a religious sect.”
    “Well, I have a story that gets into a specific kind of human trashiness, which I eluded to in my email, but I’m going to save it for the roundy.”
    “Can you give me a hint?”
    “Let’s just say it’s juicy.”
    “Well, you’ve certainly piqued my curiosity.” I took another sip of bourbon. But I guess I have to wait.
    The roundy-round was that portion of every book club gathering dedicated to updating each other about everything going on in our lives. It was a way to reconnect and see if we could help each other. And it’s what the Muffs who never read the books show up for—both to hear and be heard.
    “And you wait,” I said. “I have a hell of a story for you, too.” The roundy-round was going to kick ass tonight !
    From our vantage point, the fading light glinted like a ray gun off