Slow Hand Curves (Big Girls Next Door Erotica) by Christa Wick Page B

scrawny ass down, though.” Bree nodded her head at me as if that little fact would clench the deal.
    I shook my head. I hadn’t been abandoned by my husband, hadn’t had back surgery, and I looked nothing Portia, who was the DFW area’s answer to Paris Hilton. He had no charitable or aesthetic reason to assist me.
    Not that I wanted him to!
    “No,” I told them, shaking my head for emphasis. “I won’t do it and you can’t make me.”
    *****
    I don’t know what gave me the idea I could resist them. After two days of relentless goading by Melinda and Bree, I arrived at the facility twenty minutes early. The building’s automatic doors slid open, exhaling cold air that hit my skin like an arctic blast of shame. Hesitating, I looked back at my little blue Prius sparkling in the Texas sun. I could still flee -- Melinda would give up trying to fix me after a while and things would settle back to normal. Bree I could avoid until she too had moved on to another pet project.
    “Move, fat ass.”
    Startled, I turned to the familiar voice. Portia Philips’ face twisted in surprise as she realized she had just insulted someone whose daddy was richer than hers. She recovered quickly, her right nostril and eyebrow creeping up her face in an unbecoming sneer.
    “Finally seeing someone about your weight problem, Amber?” She adjusted the shoulder strap on her Dolce & Gabbana purse. Her bony hip canted to the side as she waited for my answer. Behind her, the automatic doors slid shut.
    I smiled as if I wasn’t talking to a woman who was best described as the spiritual love child of Ted Bundy and Aileen Wournos. “Here to get your STD treated?”
    Her gaze narrowed, the sneer disappearing as her mouth pressed into an unflattering thin line of hate. “At least I can get laid.”
    My smile widened, but I was relieved she couldn’t see my eyes hiding behind my sunglasses. “I’d be impressed if every street walker in South Dallas couldn’t make the same boast.”
    Seeing Portia’s claws extend, I took a little step to the side and triggered the doors once more. If she was going to have one of her infamous hissy fits, she was going to have it with an audience. Surprising me, she gave a disdainful shrug.
    “Like your opinion matters. You’re fat. No one would even talk to you if you weren’t Brandon Rice’s daughter.” She flipped a wedge of auburn hair over her shoulder, dismissing me with the same gesture and heading for her neon green Dodge Charger.
    She was right -- mostly. Not everyone in Dallas was as shallow as Portia Philips, just the majority. I couldn’t get through the grocery store without someone staring at my cart in judgment.
    Feeling about two inches tall, and twenty feet wide, I stepped inside and ducked behind a column to wait for Portia to clear the parking lot. After that, I would leave. What in Hades had I been thinking letting Melinda pressure me into coming here!
    I slumped against the cool marble column. I hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem. Frustrated and desperate, my brain had been on vacation. I would remedy that with a call canceling the appointment once I was safely in my car.
    Leaving the comfort of my hiding spot, I headed for the door. A white-haired woman with a clipboard intercepted me. She cupped a hand that looked frail but felt like steel around my elbow and steered me deeper into the building.
    “Reception is over here, dear.” She talked as fast as she walked, which was slower than tree sap in February. “Do you have an appointment?”
    “No…I mean yes, but I’m…”
    Before I could finish, my guide handed me off to a middle-aged woman seated behind a polished wooden counter. “Got a fresh one for you, Cora.”
    I pushed my signature blue sunglasses up into my blonde curls. “Yes, I have an appointment with Samantha Pepin that I need to can--.”
    The receptionist looked at me like I’d just parked a UFO in the waiting area and had sparkly antennae growing