Page 1 of Resist

CHAPTER 1

Cora

FOXY

COCO!! STEP AWAY FROM THE PINT OF COOKIE DOUGH ICE CREAM!!!

Then take off the hoodie, put on something fierce, and come down to Protocol!!!!!

I could saymy father passing away a few weeks ago has impacted my rock star level Friday night itinerary but I’d be lying. My friend, Phoenix, isn’t wrong in her assessment. She’s also tried the softly-softly approach for a while now, escalating to yelling at me in a text was simply a matter of time.

I’m on the couch in my apartment, rocking an oversized hoodie, yoga pants, calf-length slouch socks that are like a heavenly, toasty warm bed for my toes, and watching'The Playing Card Killer'documentary on an on-demand streaming service.

The only thing Foxy’s actually wrong about, is the size of my tub of ice cream. And the flavor. I read a serial killer romance with hints of cannibalism last week, and it kind ofput me off cookie dough ice cream for a little bit. Maybe even forever.

I’ve opted for my backup preference, chocolate. It’s an underrated ice cream flavor, but hard to get right. As a result, I’m fussy about the brands of chocolate ice cream I’ll allow to visit my freezer. I love visiting our other bestie, Maddie, in Iowa because she’s always got a tub or two of Blue Bunny ready to go.

Holding the spoon between my lips, I type out a reply.

It’s a gallon, actually. I’m fine where I am, Foxy. Have fun.

Foxy

Shit. A gallon? It’s worse than I expected. 9-1-1!!!!!!!

I can say a lot of things about my friend Phoenix. She has the most beautiful legs of anyone I’ve ever known. Her tongue is sharper than a samurai sword. And to say she’s dramatic is something of an understatement.

She also loves the ever-loving shit out of exclamation points.

Someone bangs on the front door to my penthouse like I owe them money. A lot of money. I heave out a sigh as I cradle the tub against my chest and stand up. I’ll let her in, but she’s not taking my fucking ice cream because she’s also a really good fucking friend and knows in times of crises she better bring her own.

I swing the door open with a grunt. As expected, Phoenix stands in front of me.

Her dreads have purple accents this week replacing the blood red from the last time I saw her. She’s wearing an ankle-length, beige trench coat, and on a second pass of her outfitI’d guess it’s to hide the fact that she’s wearing assless chaps in public.

I shake my head and gesture her inside with my spoon.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me.” She plucks the spoon from my hand and spears it into the tub in my arms. She scoops a huge mound of melty goodness into her mouth then points the implement at me with a narrowed gaze.

Without another word, she wafts her hand toward the bedroom as she works through the oversized bite of cool deliciousness on her tongue.

Ha. That’s what you get for taking a bite that’s too big. Fighting a grin, I shake my head.

She stabs the air with the spoon in the direction of my bedroom.

I fold my arms—likethat’sgoing to help protect me againsther.

She flexes her eyes wide like a parent trying to silently communicate with her unruly child. I could play dumb, like I don’t know what she’s trying to tell me, but we’ve been friends for too long for that to work. She’s worried about me, she wants me to go out with her, and she’s not taking no for an answer.

I shake my head again. “I’m fine, Phoenix. Truly. I’m comfortable here.” I steal my spoon back and take another bite. “Go back to the club.” And I’ll go back to my yoga pants and true crime documentaries.

The corner of her mouth twitches, and while there is no other visible sign, I know I’m really in hot water now.

She yanks the ice cream from my clutches, finds the lid on the coffee table, and puts it back in the freezer before she returns to where I’m still standing, spoon still-in-mouth, aghast that she dared confiscate my fucking ice cream. Does she have a death wish?

She cups my face with both palms, her perfectlymanicured nails grazing my skin. “Coco, I love you, boo. But it’s time.”

When a fissure of anger spreads through my chest she shakes my head in time with her own. “I’m not telling you how to grieve. I’m not. This isn’t even about Papa Blackwell, and you know it. This is about your vagina, your sexuality...” She huffs out an aggressive breath. “You remember orgasms, don’t you?” She’s talking to my crotch now, and my skin heats.