cast a glance at each of her friends in turn. As a matter of fact, “pompous bastard” pretty much described almost all of their respective bosses. Except for hers. She no longer had a boss. Or a boyfriend, for that matter, she thought with a bitter smile—she’d lost both when she’d gotten fired today. Zora hid a shuddering breath behind her beer, checked the burgeoning impulse to alternately scream and cry. But she wouldn’t do either because conceding so much as a frustrated tear over that faithless, scheming bottom-feeder punctuate his victory and she simply wouldn’t allow it. So long as she didn’t cry, he hadn’t won and she hadn’t been a fool.
From the sounds of things, though, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a bad day. Zora had polled the others before Carrie had arrived, and both Frankie and April had given their days a D for dreadful.
Quite frankly, their weekly Bitchfest at the Bald Monkey Pub in New Orleans’s French Quarter was typically the high point of her week. Being able to vent her irritation to the tune of low jazz, cold beer, commiserating nods and righteous indignation on her behalf was, in her opinion, better than paying a shrink a couple hundred bucks an hour. The four had met in college, forged instant friendships, and had provided group therapy through every victory and pitfall ever since. Zora had a great family—a couple of older brothers, a mother and father who’d long since retired to sunnier climes—but this group of women had become the sisters she’d longed for, but never had.
Regrettably, there’d been more pitfalls in recent weeks and Zora knew that something simply had to give. Frankie’s cynicism had taken a possibly chronic turn, Carrie’s effervescent laughter had lost its usual fizz and April’s sometimes annoying but always endearing Pollyanna attitude had dimmed considerably. They were on the Bitter Bitch Express traveling at near-sonic speed and, unless something drastically good happened to derail them, Zora feared they were nearing the Point of No Return. They’d become man-hating cat-lovers with too many microwave dinners in the freezer and a handy vibrator in the bedside drawer.
Zora liked men, was allergic to cats and, other than the occasional bag of popcorn, didn’t use her microwave. She preferred takeout. As for the vibrator, she enjoyed every aspect of sex—from the anticipation of a kiss to the final sated sigh of post-orgasm and every minute in between—to be fully satisfied by a battery-operated boyfriend. Her lips curled. She couldn’t imagine any of her friends being satisfied with that lifestyle either.
A weary grin caught the corner of Carrie’s mouth. “No limp noodles or runny hollandaise this time.” She gratefully accepted her beer from the waitress. “Does this mean I’m going first?”
Zora nodded and the others chorused their agreement. Usually the person with the worst news got the honors—getting summarily fired and dumped in the same day undoubtedly qualified—but she didn’t mind waiting. She’d get her turn. “Let’s hear it.”
Carrie leaned back in her chair and gave her head a helpless shake. “What I can say? It’s just the same old shit. Martin isn’t happy unless he’s finding fault and—” her voice developed an edge “—he particularly enjoys finding fault with me.” She let go a sigh. “Tonight I didn’t put enough feta cheese on the bruschetta.” She shrugged. “Tomorrow night it’ll be something else.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Bastard.”
“Asshole.”
Verbally flaying the boss in question always made them feel better. Zora quirked a brow. “Any news from Let’s Cook, New Orleans?”
Carrie flashed a sad smile. “Not a word.”
Carrie had unwittingly served one of the creative executives behind the nationally syndicated program. The show had been such a hit, one of the major networks had asked the producers to pitch some other ideas and, after meeting Carrie, they’d talked to her about possibly coming on board. In what capacity exactly, nobody knew. Until then, Chez Martin—Martin’s restaurant—was the best game in town.
Carrie blew out a breath. “Okay, I’m done. Who’s going next?”
April raised her hand. “I will. Frankie’s hot Italian temper is running in the red zone—” she slid her a wry glance “—so I know she’s got something big to share, and Zora’s been entirely too quiet, which means she’s made the mental move into her ‘calm place.’” April cast a significant look around the table. “And we all know what that means.”
Despite everything, Zora couldn’t help but grin. April had pegged them perfectly. Frankie had a short fuse, literally erupted when she was angry. Zora didn’t. When she felt herself slipping into that kind of irritation, she simply shut it down. While Frankie’s approach might be more therapeutic, Zora’s was much more calculated…and vengeful. She didn’t forgive and forget easily, a personality trait that never failed to annoy the hell out of her well-meaning but meddlesome older brothers. They’d disliked Trent instantly, Zora remembered now. That should have been a clue.
April sighed. “At any rate, mine is very trivial and I don’t want to follow them. Any objections?” When none were made, she continued. “Something truly horrible has happened and, while I get the feeling it’s not as monumental as what everyone else has shared, it’s quite…disturbing.” Her brow folded into a troubled frown.
Intrigued, Zora arched a brow. “Disturbing as in they-quit-stocking-my-favorite-ice-cream-at-the-market or disturbing as in Dad-came-out-of-the-closet?” April’s grievances tended to run the gamut. And, point of fact, her dad hadn’t willingly come out of the closet—she’d accidentally discovered him there. Her Web-design company had been contracted to build a site for one of the local gay bars and, rather than simply letting the manager send her some photos, April had wanted to get “the feel” of the place. She fully anticipated seeing gay couples and men in drag, but she hadn’t anticipated discovering her father was one of them. Needless to say, it had come as a shock.
“Neither.” She drew in a long breath and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I’ve lost my orgasm.”
Numb silence, then, “What? How did you lose it? Where did it go?”
Zora bit the inside of her cheek. “You mean you can’t—”
April exhaled mightily. “No.” She rolled her eyes. “And believe me, I’ve tried everything. It’s—” She struggled for words, shook her head. “It’s just…gone.”
“Well, it can’t be gone for good,” Frankie told her, clearly appalled at the very idea. Of the four of them, she was the most vocal about sex, about the male and female roles and the old he’s-a-stud-she’s-a-whore double standard, one of her favorite rants. “You’re just with the wrong guy.”
She sighed heavily. “Not anymore. Rob cut and run after a couple of weeks of being unable to satisfy me. His fragile ego couldn’t take it.”
“You’re better off,” Carrie told her. “I never particularly liked him.” Another unspoken rule—guys were liked until they were history, then instantly became pond scum. Solidarity, the glue that held their unique friendship together, Zora thought with a fond smile. Thank God she had their support.
“Me, either,” Frankie seconded. She peeled the label from her beer. “His feet were ugly.”
April winced reflectively. “Yeah, he did have ugly feet, didn’t he?”
Zora had never noticed Rob’s feet, but felt compelled to add to the conversation. “They were hideous.”
“Well, I’m sure that your, er…condition isn’t permanent,” Carrie told her.
April grimaced, then took a drink. “I sure as hell hope not. Who’s next?”
Frankie and Zora shared a look. “I think Frankie should go next,” Zora said. “I don’t mind being last.”
Frankie pulled a negligent shrug. “Okay. I caught my dad eating a bagel today,” she said lightly.
Carrie and April wore