Teddy

WHEN I SEE RYLIE'S CAR PULL INTO the lot, I drop the curtain back in place and step out of my apartment, locking the door behind me. I climb into her car with a sigh, trying to corral enough excitement for our plans tonight. It's finally the initiation of the Paperback Riders, but my mood is still sour from my fight with Jensen earlier.

When I didn't meet Jensen at his place after work like usual, he texted me. Then when I didn't respond to his texts, he called me. I ignored his call and waited a good half an hour before listening to his voicemail.

"Teddy. Where are you? Fuck. I know you're mad at me, but you can't just avoid me forever. Please, baby. Just come home and talk to me. Please. Please come talk to me."

I realize I'm being childish, but I'm still fuming. His jealousy is nothing new. He acted like this before we were even together, but it's completely unacceptable when it bleeds into our professional setting. I don't know if I've ever been more embarrassed.

Rylie side-eyes me as she pulls out of the parking lot. "Babe," she says. "Cheer up. Tonight is finally the night! Don't let your asshole boyfriend ruin this for us."

"You don't get to call him that, Ry," I correct her. "Only I can. And he's not an asshole. I mean, he acted like an asshole for sure. But he's not one all the time."

I had walked straight from Jensen's office this afternoon right into Rylie's, and she let me rant for several minutes. Finally, she interrupted me and told me to go home and get myself right. So I left work early for the first time in forever, maybe ever, and retreated to my apartment. I hadn't spent any real time there in weeks, and it felt weird being there. It was unsettling. I wanted to sulk at Jensen's place.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out with a groan.

"Jensen?" she asks. "Has he been blowing up your phone?"

"Not really. Just a few texts and a voicemail. But I haven't responded," I admit, my head falling back against the headrest.

"Teddy! Put the poor man out of his misery!"

"You just called him an asshole. Now he's a poor man?"

"Listen," she says, lowering the volume on the radio, a sure sign that she thinks what she has to say is important. "He was an asshole. You know he was. But he's a guy. He's going to be an asshole. Over and over again. But he's still Jensen. The man you're obsessed with. He deserves to at least know you're not ready to talk to him yet. Just text him back. It'll take two seconds. Then I bet you'll feel better. And then you can stop pouting and be excited with me. It's our initiation, baby!"

Rolling my eyes at my friend, I swipe my phone open to read the text.

JENSEN: Just send an emoji as a sign of life. Please.

ME: <sticking tongue out emoji>

JENSEN: Brat.

JENSEN: You still mad?

ME: Yes. But I can't talk now. It's the book club thing tonight, remember?

JENSEN: Shit, that's right.

JENSEN: After?

ME: I don't know. Maybe I'll just stay at my place tonight.

JENSEN: No, baby. Come home. Please.

ME: We'll see.

"There," I say, stuffing my phone into my purse. "Happy?"

"Depends. Did you forgive him or tell him to fuck off?"

"Wait. Which option would make you happy? I seriously don't know."

Rylie cranks the volume back up on the radio and grins at me. "Fuck off, of course. Make him sweat a bit more. The dude is a major alphahole and he went too far this time." Then she belts out the lyrics, apparently ending the conversation.

A few minutes later, she pulls alongside a curb at the address we were given and cuts the engine. We barely step outside when we're both shoved against the car and the world goes black. I reach up to my face to feel the fabric covering my eyes. Blindfolded. I've been blindfolded. What the hell is going on?

A bunch of female voices surround us, and I try to parcel through them. "Mom?" I shout through the noise. "Mom? Is that you?"

"Shush, honey. I'm nobody's mom tonight."

"Listen up, ladies," another voice calls above the din. Everyone hushes. "This is the initiation trials of Theodora Margaret Pierson and Rylie Elizabeth Foss into the secret book society known as Paperback Riders. Their membership is dependent upon the outcome of the unnamed tasks to be set before them in due time. Whether these inductees pass or fail, all things about to occur must remain secret. Do both parties agree to the terms?"

I nod my head tentatively. I'm literally blindsided by the blindfold and clandestine nature of the events.

"We need a spoken confirmation," the voice says. I suspect it's Marg, but the woman is speaking haughtily and it's throwing me off.

Clearing my throat, I hesitantly respond, "Yes," which is quickly followed by Rylie's confident, "Hell yeah!"

I feel hands guiding me down the street, the hubbub of voices resuming, when I'm suddenly halted and shoved into a vehicle. Someone swats at me to shimmy over and then I feel a body pressed next to mine on the seat. The familiar scent of my best friend's perfume hits me, and I blow out a breath.

"Ry?" I whisper in her general vicinity. "What the hell is happening right now?"

"No clue, but I am here for it!" Then she cackles. We've been blindfolded and essentially kidnapped, and she cackles in response? Is my hesitation or her elation the normal reaction? Suddenly, I am unsure of everything.

I hear car doors slamming and seatbelts buckling and engines starting. Then we're moving. A ringing from the front of the car startles me. Someone answers a phone with a curt, "One second," and the response can be heard through the car's speakers, "We on?"

"Yes, we're on speaker. Let's get started."

"Ladies," the haughty voice over the speaker booms, "so begins part one of your trial. We will be interrogating you in rapid fire succession, answer whatever comes to mind without thought. We don't want to hear what you think we want to hear. Give it to us straight. If we don't believe an answer to be genuine, we reserve the right for further questioning to weed out the truth. When we arrive at our destination, you will move on to part two if, and only if, you pass part one. Do you agree to these terms?"

We both vocalize our agreement, and before we have a moment to reconsider, the questioning begins.

"Favorite romance author?"

"Lucy Score, Tessa Bailey, Colleen Hoover, Meghan Quinn," I word vomit any author that pops into my head as if I'll earn extra credit for the bonus answers.

"Sierra Simone," Rylie drawls.

"Oooohhh, someone likes things dark and dirty, I see," a different voice calls through the speaker. I'm pretty sure it's my mom.

"Favorite trope."

"Miss Pierson might as well skip this one. She's living her own best friend to lovers trope as we speak," someone in the front seat says with a laugh.

"Wait, does that mean the lover part is now true?" Again, pretty sure that's my mom.

"I can accurately confirm this to be true," Rylie announces next to me. "Teddy has indeed graduated to the lover portion of the trope."

Dozens of whoops surround me, and I jump at the sudden racket. "Jesus," I whisper-shout. "Is the whole damn town seriously this invested in my relationship?"

"Yes, sweetie. We've all been waiting for this for years." It's definitely my mom.

"Well, you're all wrong," I call. "That is not my favorite trope. Everybody knows the best trope is enemies to lovers. All that yummy angst and bad boy energy. Especially if there are tattoos. Please, there should always be tattoos."

"I'm assuming you've discovered by now," another voice booms over the speakers, "that your bestie turned lover has zero ink."

"Obviously. But books aren't reality. Book boyfriends don't translate to real life boyfriends."

There's a collective gasp followed by a moment of silence.

"Shit," Rylie whispers near my ear, "I think you just failed part one. I hope we're graded separately."

"Tattoos," I say, clearing my throat, "are merely a physical attribute of the character's personality. I think we can all agree that my real-life boyfriend might as well have full sleeve tattoos based on his alphahole, caveman tendencies to overreact the minute a guy even accidentally looks at me. Should we discuss why I'm currently pissed at him?"

"Oooohhhh," the speaker buzzes the women's interest. "Always. The answer is always. It'll always be always. Spill."

After I retell the events from earlier today, they concede I'm dating my book boyfriend fantasy and move on. But now I'm sweating, heart racing, from having to backtrack and defend my place in this secret society. Damn, these women take this very seriously.

"Fade to black. Defend your position on this. Miss Pierson, you first."

"My position is it shouldn't exist. No author in good conscience should ever torture their readers by dangling the idea of hot sex only to pause the scene right when it gets spicy. Nope. It's just not nice." I'm suddenly riled up, gearing up to further explain my thoughts on this, possibly with an A, B, C bulleted list when I'm cut off.

"Miss Foss?"

"Duh. Is this even a question? No one wants PG-13 smut. Give me all the twitching cocks and warm pussy details, please."

They whoop at her response. Whoop. They fucking whoop. I essentially said the same thing, but I got only dead air. Pretty sure my journey with the Paperback Riders ends the moment the car stops. Shit, why am I so bad at this?

"Harems and/or reverse harems. Miss Foss, you go first this time."

"Yes. The answer is fuck yes."

Someone whistles over the speaker, followed by whispers and giggles.

"Miss Pierson?"

"Typically, yes. I'm all for them. But I have read some not-so-tasteful ones that have left a sour taste in my mouth. I mean, how many dicks can go in one woman? At the same time?"

"No fucking clue!" Rylie shouts. "But I'd love to find out!"

More whoops. My best friend gets more whoops. Shit, I really do think I'm killing all my chances here. Should I lie? Should I channel my inner Rylie? Am I not Paperback Riders material? Do I even want to be in this club anymore if they don't want me anyway?