Clack. Clack. Clack.
The angry clicks of high heels on linoleum thunders through the buzz of voices in the room, alerting me of our newest arrival before she even emerges from the hallway. I check off her name on my list and fold the paper, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans. Lifting my eyes to the doorway, I await the notorious Victoria Larkin.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting.
Maybe a monster with bright red claws.
Perhaps a manlike woman with bulging muscles and a bowl cut.
What I don’t expect is a gorgeous, angry angel.
A blonde, blue-eyed woman, despite it being a casual, Saturday afternoon, fills the doorway with her fierce presence and perfectly styled hair. Whereas everyone else, including me, is wearing jeans and T-shirts, she’s overdressed and out of place in her white silky, long-sleeved shirt that’s tucked into her crisp, black pants. Her lips are blood red, as if she snacked on the ducks that live on the pond behind the community center before arriving and match her glossy, spiked heels.
Her nostrils flare in resentment as she surveys the room. Disdain paints her features as she makes quick work of eyeing up everyone in the room, clearly judging them before she meets them. I’m sure Bill seems like a dirty old man flirting with sweet Glenda. And Nate, probably appears to be some goofy goon as he guffaws at a joke Claudia tells him.
The way she lifts her nose in the air in a haughty manner has me bristling with irritation. What she doesn’t see is Bill, the man that used to cry at every session over the loss of his wife of twenty-three years, is finally beginning to smile and test the dating waters after three years since her death.
What she doesn’t see is Nate, a single father of three, who despite his laughter, aches for the loss of his wife Cindy in Afghanistan. He struggles each day to be mom and dad to his little girls.
What she doesn’t see is me, a psychology professor that teaches about the five stages of grief, but most days, I’m fighting depression and the self-loathing that threatens to swallow me up.
She may be sexy as hell—rockin’ the whole naughty librarian look—but her insolence grates on my nerves. Her holier-than-though attitude leaves a sour taste in my mouth and a desire to defend every single one of my friends to her.
When her sapphire eyes meet mine, relief washes over her features and I sit up to face the woman head on. She ignores the diarrhea promised cookies Glenda offers and stalks over to me. With each step, I admire the way her full tits bounce with the fabric. She may be a bitch, but she’s a hot one.
Instead of introducing herself, she sits on the chair beside me and clasps her hands in her lap, lifting her chin high in the air. I watch with interest as she then glances at the time on her expensive watch and huffs.
“Jesus, I swear. People have no respect for other’s time. Time is money,” she gripes. “When a meeting begins at three, I expect it to begin at three. Not three-oh-five.”
I raise a dark brow at her and steal a glance at the clock on the wall that reads one minute till three.
“Bastards,” I agree, with a chuckle. “Some of us have shit to do.”