My So Called Life (Love Not Included Series Book 3)
Read My So Called Life (Love Not Included Series Book 3) Online
Authors: J.D. Hollyfield
My So Called Life
Copyright © 2015 by J.D. Hollyfield
My So Called Life is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
My So Called Life
is a registered trademark of J.D. Hollyfield.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.
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Cover Design:
IndieSage
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Other Books by
J.D. Hollyfield
Love Not Included Series
Life in a Rut, Love Not Included
, Book 1
Life Next Door
, Book 2
O
NCE UPON A TIME
there was a girl who wished for something better. That girl was me and I got the hell out of fairyland and grew up as fast as I could. I painted life the way I wanted my dreams portrayed and in the end I was the creator of my own destiny.
If someone asked you what your life muse was, what would you say?
Before we go any further, I think now’s a great time to get acquainted.
This isn’t how I’d prefer we meet, but like they say, there’s no better time than the present. And at the present moment, I’m squatting in the bathroom, peeing out four top-shelf martinis. As I listen to my best friend, the infamous Lexi Hall, go on her typical rant about my boyfriend, I think about the night before me and why I’m blitzed beyond belief.
And it’s because I am awesome.
My name is Christina Daniels and you can be glad to meet me. Why, you ask? Because I just landed the biggest account of my career. I’m the executive art dealer for St. Markey Gallery in San Francisco, California. And three months ago, I signed the most prestigious artist, Alfonzo Del Ran. He, you will want to know, is the hottest impressionistic painter in the entire Western Hemisphere and his work is currently on display at
my
gallery. Well, not mine, but it should be. I’ve run the show for St. Markey Gallery for the past five years and all the heart and sweat I’ve poured into that job is now officially paying off.
Two months of hard work and we have finally made it to the opening night of my show. As I attempt to tweet to the world my fabulous success, as well as fight to not fall off the toilet, I mentally sum up the bonus that is currently being deposited into my account. I imagine the numbers adding up. I’m gonna be rich, baby.
“Fuckin’ shit. I’m hammered.”
Yep, that’s Lexi again. As I said, my bestie.
She’s in the same boat as I am. She’s the associate gallery dealer at St. Markey and my sidekick. I met her shortly after I moved to California six years ago, and the moment we laid eyes on each other, we fell in friendship love. Now she’s also indulging in the celebration of my success and we’re both in danger of falling face first onto the bathroom floor if we don’t sober up a tad.
“I mean who has a flippin’ bidet in their bathroom?” I hear her slur through the wall divider.
Brent does, of course.
Oh, yeah. Brent, he’s my boyfriend. You’ll get to meet him in a few.
“Shit, that kinda feels good,” Lexi mutters while the flush/squirt button goes off yet again.
“Lexi, I’m not sure you’re using it the right way. It’s a box cleaner not an orgasm dispenser.” I hear another muffled moan, partial giggle, and yet another press of the button. “And also, I’m pretty sure that’s not why Brent has it in here.”
“Geez, Christina. Way to kill the mood.” She groans and I hear the flushing stop. “If we’re going to continue being friends, like
ever,
you will never mention BTD while I’m taking advantage of this multi-use vag-spritzer.”
At that I laugh.
Just before my phone battery dies, I post my drunken tweet about being ‘the art hustler,’ wipe and flush. A task I thought would never end, because it’s time to continue celebrating.
I
AM STANDING TALL
, swaying in my $1,200 silver Manolo Blahniks, because, yes, I can afford them, staring out of one eye at the crowd of people who are here celebrating my success. My normally out of control auburn hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail, with my smoky eye makeup highlighting my baby blues. Always wearing green, my favorite color, I’m sporting a dress that of course fits like a glove.
The party—in full swing—is being thrown for me by Brent, my possibly soon-to-be fiancé. I say soon to be because I know he plans to propose to me tonight. I say possibly because a huge part of me doesn’t want to say yes.
“Oh, Christina, I was just so blown away by the Del Ran show. I must say, Cornelius really has struck gold with you.” This is from Reagan St. Martin. She’s an associate art dealer who does part-time work for a competing art gallery in Sonoma. She wants my job, but will never have it. She simply doesn’t have what it takes to be me.
“Oh, do stop, Reagan. It’s only a job. But yes, I do agree it’s a blessing that Cornelius has me. I can’t imagine where the gallery would be without me bringing in so many of these high-profile artists.” And I say that with self-confidence, because it’s true. If there is anything I do not doubt, it is my drive for what I do. Grow up struggling for everything it allows you to build early hustling skills to fight for everything. One being my stellar success.