The Beauty and the Brawler Read Online Free PDF Page A

from—in between the goddamn vending machines. Fucking cashew addiction.
              She blinked innocently at her pseudo boss. “’Course not. Why would you even—” The look on Ava’s face seemed to reach out, snatch the lie, and then Harlem Shake all over it. Shit. Samara’s eyes closed. “How could you tell?”
              Ava snorted. “Sammie, you’ve hiked here from three blocks over in a blizzard with a year’s supply of cocoa, a cooler full of pre-cooked dinners, and a hot plate just so you could continue to entertain the hordes of rude sons of bitches that listen to ‘Choice Words.’ After seven years of watching you run your slot on WKZ like a Stalin, Fidel, honey badger hybrid on bath salts and malt liquor steroids, I know the only thing capable of knocking you off your game, if only for a few days, is the spawn growing inside you.” The station manager popped a couple cashews, casually chewing. Then she asked, “When are you due, and when should I start buying fluffy shit from FAO Schwarz?”
              Damn. Bitches be intuitive...
              Samara sucked in a deep breath. “My doctor says October fourth at the latest, and you can start buying fluffy shit as soon as I’m sure my kid will make it here without introducing me to the gates of hell.”
              Ava’s brows arched. “Oh, pumpkin...just from looking at you I’m surmising that not only are the gates of hell open, but your child is orchestrating how to stop the second coming of Christ.”
              Eyes narrowing, Samara placed a hand on her belly and grabbed a balled-up piece of paper before chucking it at Ava. “Shut it.” She looked around. “Trip or Paz in yet?”
              Trip Latimore and Paz Ojeda, were two of her best friends and worse co-stars——mainly because they were assholes. They owned it and accepted it, but that didn’t make them any easier to deal with. Most days, Samara barely refrained from pushing Trip through the eighth-floor window and watching him plummet to his death with glee. Paz, however, was a little easier to tolerate. It might’ve had something to do with the fact he’d learned his lesson about fucking with her a long time ago.
              “Both,” Ava answered.
              Samara glanced down at her watch. They had about twenty minutes before show time. She’d be cutting her part short today, knowing she wouldn’t last long. Dr. Balcomb had given her a strict schedule to follow becuase she didn’t like the fact Samara was so sick so early on. Apparently because she was only a few weeks along, courtesy of her romp session with Luciano, she had another two months to look forward to feeling like shit on a platter. She was overjoyed at the news.
              Samara started towards the studio. “Good. I can go announce—”
              “Oh, they already guessed,” Ava supplied.
              Freezing again, Samara stared over her shoulder at the other woman. “Whaaa...”
              “They had a pool going.”
              Sighing, Samara turned back towards Ava, rubbing her temples. “Trip is going around telling people he’s the father, isn’t he?”
              Ava smirked. “There were Cubans handed out.”
              “Son of a bitch.”
              “Seven years, Sammie. Seven long years...”
              She was well aware of how long she’d been forced to see Trip five days out of the week. Which was why she didn’t feel an ounce of remorse when she found him in the studio and tried to claw his eyes out. What’d the fast-talking bastard do? He laughed. Laughed!
              “Hey, hey, hey! I thought we agreed to finally come out in the open with our forbidden love!”
              Paz, apparently sensing the imminent danger his asshole of a co-worker was in, strolled through the door, put down his mug of