Working Girl (35 page)

SITTING HERE, WATCHING EMERSON
walk across that stage, is the second best feeling of my life. Beaming with pride, he takes his diploma before shaking hands with the Dean and I giggle seeing him so happy. His smiles are infectious. Once his photo opportunity is over, he spins around to find me in the crowd. I watch as his eyes search the thousands of faces for my familiar one. It doesn’t take long because we’re like magnets; somehow we always find each other. Catching my eye, he smiles and winks before taking off to the other side of the stage.

Looking down at my lap, I feel the number one feeling of my life all over again. As I run my fingers over my own diploma I feel such an immense sense of pride that I wonder if I might spontaneously combust. A smile has been plastered on my face ever since I heard my name being called.

“Presley Marie Adams.”

As I walked across that stage and grabbed my diploma, I wanted to stop time. To stand and shout out my story to the crowd. I didn’t, but I did shout it to myself.

I am Presley Marie Adams.

My mother was a prostitute, and life was hard.

But I didn’t let the darkness swallow me whole.

Instead I found my light.

And my light led me here.

Emerson

Walking across that stage is what I imagine walking on air feels like. Today is the first day of the rest of my life; a life that I know I’m going to spend with her. We’ve been through hell and back but today none of that really matters. Standing in the middle of the stage, I stop to hold my diploma and pose for my picture and I spot Mom standing up in the crowd, her happiness evident in every inch of her face. It’s nice to see her happy, and her love for Presley does just that. She makes her happy.

Mom was over the moon when I talked to her last week about my future. With tears in her eyes she hugged me as I told her my plans, telling me over and over again how glad she was that Presley and I had met, and in the process saved each other.

Tucking my diploma under my right arm I exit the stage, my left hand snaking into my pocket. My fingers run along the corners of the smooth velvet box and a smile spreads across my face as I imagine Presley’s reaction. Things will go one of two ways: she’ll either be overloaded with emotion, or she’ll be so shocked that she’ll be pissed!

I take my seat a few rows back from her and she spins around in her seat, looking at me over her shoulder, smiling and blowing a kiss in my direction. I give her a thumbs up, my other hand still resting on the box in my pocket. My heart flutters with nerves as I think about what my life holds for me. In just a few short minutes, I’m going to ask Presley to marry me, and we’re going to live happily ever after—despite the shitty hand that we were dealt.

Our lives will be lived in the light.

***THE END***

I HATE WRITING THESE.
I mean, seriously, how am I supposed to thank people by writing just a few words. It’s impossible, but I’ll try to let them know how special they are once again.

First off, I have to thank my family. My husband and kids do their best to understand when I’m locked away in my office. I know there are times where they just want me to join the ‘real world’, but they never say boo.

Next up is my editor, Rynny. You’ve become more than just my editor and I can’t imagine my life without you in it. Granted your location sucks, but you’re always in my heart.

To my cover designer, Robin Harper. Your concept for Working Girl was totally wicked, and you put up with me asking you to change colors and try this and that. I’m sure you were ready to strangle me, but it came out beautifully and I love you to pieces. Thank you!

Toski, thank you so much for finding the perfect face for Presley. Your photographs are amazing and I can’t imagine using any other pictures. You also are a pretty kick ass beta. ☺

A huge thanks to all my Bad Ass Bitch Betas. You guys have been with me for awhile now and I appreciate your feedback and excitement. Olivia, Heather, Laura, Miranda, Meagan, Allison, Myra, Shelly, Melissa and Lisa. You guys were huge helps to me. This story wouldn’t be what it is without you!

And finally, I want to thank my readers. You guys are what keep me going. Your reviews and thoughts about my stories are the force that drives me. Please keep on reading and I’ll be writing for you until the day I die.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at
How I became Lotus Raine
by Erika Ashby.

THE BIRDS AND the bees. Maybe it's just me, but using that title for "the talk" makes no sense. Every time I hear it, I wonder if the wise guy who came up with it was secretly promoting cross breeding. I'm sure stranger things have happened then birds and bees fucking. But come on, it's not possible. And although it sounds sweet and all, it gives false representation to the poor kids who get sat down for that dreadful explanation.

What happened to the days where people were straightforward and didn't feel the need to beat around the bush? Why couldn't the talk be called exactly what it was?

“Son/daughter, I need you to sit down so we can discuss the P's and the V's.”

Straightforward and right to the point.

Thank God, I never had to listen to either one of my parents sputter their way through it as I held back laughter. My mother was too busy practicing the birds and the bees to ever tell me about them. Or maybe in her messed up mind, she thought avoiding the convo would keep me from turning out like her.

Who am I kidding? I wasn't that much of a priority.

Now my poor dad on the other hand, I don't think he really knew what to do with me when I chose to live with him. He was smart enough to know I'd already been plenty exposed to certain things and the talk would do me no good. Truth of the matter is I probably knew more than he thought I ever could. Not from personal experience, God no. But just from what I witnessed and had tried on myself—alone. Doing things alone and in private had felt safe.

Then again, my father had been with my mom. He knew her ways. I’m sure he knew the endless men didn’t stop just because she had a kid. Kids are nosey—that’s a fact. And I was a damn nosey one, mainly when I shouldn’t have been.

But I always ended up feeling dirty, knowing whom I learned it from. I couldn't escape the feeling that I couldn't stay true to myself; if I’d given myself over to the ecstasy that always called out to me.

So I made a choice. Was getting off and the sexual urges festering within worth the chance of one day becoming her?

The answer was simple.

I'd never allow myself to become anything like her.

And I didn’t.

But it was hard.

My dad had tried to drill it into my thick skull that I was nothing like her. He’d even say there was no way I could become anything like her. I wanted to believe him but couldn’t risk everything I had worked so hard for.

I was content with one day marrying a
Goody Two-shoes
man—one with a reputable career. We’d have scheduled, yawn worthy sex. And every now and then, he might be able to get me off. But more times than not, I’d be taking a shower afterwards, using the detachable showerhead to finish off what he attempted to start.

I thought my plan was sound, and I left no room for error. It’s funny how one person, one right situation and a few drinks that loosen you up in more ways than one, can fuck up your entire plan.

Or did it?