Saga of the Wobbly Boot by Melissa Williams (best ereader under 100 TXT) 📕

Giggles erupted from a nearby table of bottled blondes, showering over the quieter patrons in the pub. Manicured hands alternated flipping perfectly styled hair over a designer jacket shoulder and waving them at one another to shut up

! Lunch rush was minimal on this particular Tuesday and it only amplified the vexation. Empty vinyl booths and tall bar tables resonated with infectious, dimwitted laughter.

“Guess they aren’t from around here,” Scotch on the Rocks mused, eyeballing them over his chilled glass. Ice clinked cheerfully, despite the foreign visitors. “Hasn’t been this much prattle since the Sex and the City movie.”

“Fake blondes,” Appletini snorted. “As if there aren’t enough of them already, flocking to trendy cafes and malls. Why aren’t they at Starbucks, drinking their lunch?”

“I’m drinking my lunch!” Scotch on the Rocks toasted the visitors with a sly wink. A cascade of giggles contaminated every remaining clean space in the pub. They were drowning in a vast sea of asininity. “Oh, God.”

“Whatchu got against them, anyway?”

“Fake ones act the part in a big, moronic way,” Appletini rolled her eyes and extracted a pack of cigarettes from her designer purse. “Can I get a light?”

“Aren’t you a fake red?” Scotch on the Rocks snapped his fingers, and flame instantly appeared out of a leather wrapped Zippo. “Why hello there, Pot! I see you already met Kettle.”

“That’s why she’s so cranky,” Wild Turkey snickered. “Gotta match the part!”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Is that how it works? Do you boil over in a fit of rage when something doesn’t go your way?” Scotch on the Rocks raised his eyebrows teasingly. “Blow steam if you see girls who are shinier than you?”

“I am not a Pot,” her eyebrows scolded them. Appletini collected her briefcase at the base of her chair. Getting to the office before one-thirty was going to be a challenge. Damn those blonde bimbos. “Now, if you gentlemen – and I do use that term loosely – will excuse me, I’m going to be late for a meeting. I’d rather not deplete anymore brain cells beforehand.”

“Bye, Pretty,” Wild Turkey winked and saluted with his glass. “Don’t get lost on your way out. Them girls are dangerous.”

Scotch on the Rocks grinned. “Until tomorrow.”

Powerful, thin heels echoed her departure past the group of peroxide vixens. Rolling her eyes at their menial banter, she extinguished the cigarette in an ash tray belonging to the only table near the door. Her compatriots had dubbed it the Dunce’s Corner, a location solely occupied by first time visitors. “Excuse me, ladies.”

Truth be told, they were as intelligent and fiery as Appletini. Life had taught them, however, that it was easier blonde and dumb.

Scoffs echoed their distaste, but were quickly drowned by the weather outside. Dark clouds covered the city, and drenched everyone in their wake with dubious treasures. Fortunately, she wasn't superstitious, otherwise the foreboding weather would have served as an awful omen.

Appletini’s meeting lay in a prestigious high rise within the concrete jungle of NYC. Until this point, she had been locked within the confines of Jersey, and this client was her big break. Both Sex on the Beach and Vodka Tonic had attempted to slither into the contract several times during her extensive leg work; their friendship was now over.

Dirty Martini sat atop a fabulously wealthy empire most could only dream of – cars, large houses, and more money than her increasingly arthritic hands could count. A vast array of employees populated the near 30 floors below her, and three personal assistants grudgingly drew straws to serve her. Appletini wanted her business, and the fat commission check to match.

A stately woman with a proud nose, Dirty Martini stood a full head taller than every other woman on staff. Water cooler gossip speculated the pint-sized personnel were intentional, to lend a more powerful air about her. Height was actually attributed to three decades of four inch heels with every outfit and strategic positioning at specific angles in door ways, but that was Dirty Martini’s dirty little secret. Power was necessary in her business, and she had acquired it how ever possible.

This meeting with Appletini today signified a multitude of budding opportunities, most important being expansion. If Dirty Martini was to continue flourishing, she would need more real estate and far more money than her tired hands could obtain. Appletini’s firm was on the right side of the money, and Dirty Martini wanted to come on over.

“Just like Red Rover,” she pointed knowingly at today’s assistant, Newcastle, with her letter opener. She liked him well enough: sharply dressed, neat hair, thin rimmed glasses that did not overtake his chiseled face. He waited until her back was turned before he rolled his eyes, too – a lesson Honey Meade would do well to learn. “I’m ready to come on over.”

“Absolutely,” he quipped. Internally, he hated Dirty Martini. Her demeanor was crass, her language was heartless, and her requests were down right impossible. Outwardly, she was the best boss anyone could ask for, her and the catalog of cars she was infamous for bestowing upon favorites at the company Christmas party. He had an eye on the cherry red Camaro. “I can only imagine the terror in their faces as you run over.”

Her tongue ran slowly over her top teeth, and eyes narrowed into lizard-like slits. “I don’t run, boy. This company does not run. This company waits for someone to invite it over, and it saunters along. Do you know why

?”

“Of course, ma’am.” He slid his glasses down the frame of his nose to avoid direct eye contact.

“This company is worth waiting for, twit!” The final word was spat out with tidal force. “Get out. I don’t want your incompetence to overshadow this afternoons meeting.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” He practically skipped out of her office, relieved of duty. Honey Meade or Cosmo with a Twist could do her bidding now. He had a date with Tom Collins in Accounting, and was half tempted to call his mother while doing it. Maybe then she’d stop setting him up with the fat neighbors trashy daughter. Contrary to her desperate belief, Wine Cooler was not his cup of tea.

Appletini arrived only moments after, fully recovered from the mind numbing luncheon with her partners and the Cider Pack. Armed with charts, reports, and a contract as thick as a dictionary, she was ready to land the client of her career. Visions of lazy summers in Cozumel and fireside winters in the Rockies danced before her eyes as Dirty Martini’s stocky assistant led her in.

“Come in!” Dirty Martini’s voice reverberated across the bombastic office with its breathtaking view. “How good of you to join me. Have a seat.”

Appletini obtained one of the lavishly upholstered chairs before the desk. Stiff fabric and hard padding greeted her instead of the luxurious material she anticipated. Dirty Martini did not want any to feel comfort while sitting across from her. Despite the awkward arrangements, she was feeling confident and assured: this was her day.

“Leave us.” Sharp words soared at Honey Meade as though they were going to pin her to the heavy door. “And tell Accounting I need that report immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am,” ignoring the urge to curtsy, she tumbled out of sight and into the safe labyrinth of the office.

“So,” Appletini began unloading her company’s arsenal out of her briefcase. “Let’s start with your goals. What can Rain-Meyer Investments do for you?”

Business was Dirty Martini’s favorite game, and she threw a mean curve ball. Her stance was upright and erect in a large chair behind a massive desk, lightly resting her domineering chin upon clasped hands. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, she slowly leaned forward. “My goals are simple – be the best. My need is simple – an investment firm that can keep up.”

Appletini nodded. “Of course. A business of this stature needs a company to match. Companies that overshadow your own are dangerous – you run the risk of being railroaded by your own partnership for greed. Firms that are too small won’t be able to keep up or give you the deserving quality of service. That is where we come in. We have an expansive array of options available for clients of virtually every size.”

“I am not just another client.”

Appletini kicked her game into high gear and began what she did best: spinning. The world was a much better place, thanks to Spinners. Tragedy? Hardly – there were the benefits of a silver lining! Disaster? Inconceivable – you can always rebuild! Her library of circular reasoning and protocol had scored some of her biggest commission pulls. Dirty Martini didn’t strike her as a fool, but everyone had a chink in their armor. Tuesday was always her lucky day.

“That,” she concluded. “is why Rain-Meyer Investments is a perfect fit for this company. We can take you worldwide. The clients you would acquire, the exposure you would obtain, and most importantly, the revenue you would receive would solidify this company as number one globally in three years.”

Appletini could taste mimosas with eggs benedict on the veranda for breakfast every day, while a tanned cabana boy skimmed her pool. She could smell tropical flowers wafting through her bedroom, infused with fresh fruit and honey instead of the damp, moldy garbage and rain. Crepes in France with a client, only to turn around for a dinner meeting in Germany with the next. She was bathing in rose colored glasses.

Dirty Martini tapped her short nails on her fleshy cheek. The proposal was more than enticing. And who didn’t want Worldwide included in their moniker? Her present lifestyle would pale in comparison, and the workload would fall to the peasants beneath her. Truthfully, she had inherited most of her worldly possessions, including the company. Her father had been a role model business man – ruthless, direct, and passionate about the industry. His success set an incredibly high standard. Dirty Martini needed to commandeer extraordinary profits of her own to top the Fortune 500 list and move out of her fathers shadow. The personal assistants may quiver in fear, but they acted alone in their cowardice.

“This is what you're going to do: leave your card and my accountants will review all of this information.” Dirty Martini directed, lounging in her Throne of Authority. “If the numbers come back confirming you can do what you claim, we’ll have a deal.”

“I can wait here,” Appletini countered. “Should there be any additional questions. You wouldn’t want to delay your world take over due to an oversight.”

“My staff is ivy league trained, highly intelligent, and thoroughly competent. Save for a fraudulent contract, there will be no oversight. Should you want to continue the possibility of a joint venture, I recommend your abrupt removal from my office.”

Appletini rose and extended her hand. “It was pleasure, ma’am. Please have your staff call me if they find any problems with the paperwork, and I will be more than happy to remedy the issue. My card.”

“Good day.” It was more an order than a closing. Dirty Martini ignored the outstretched hand and made her way to a large window overlooking the metropolis as Appletini made her exit. A loud thud echoed throughout the office as the door isolated her from the idiots outside.

“Did you just drop $5?”

Dirty Martini started. She was supposed to be