White Bikini Panties

By Kelly James-Enger

Trina’s got a decent job at a big company in suburban Chicago, a funny, talented best friend, a loving family, and a cute boyfriend who shares her addiction to True Hollywood Story. When her friend Jane reads her tarot cards and predicts romantic upheaval, Trina’s still shocked when she finds out Rick is cheating on her. To get over him, she decides to distract herself with a series of new relationships—and new underwear to boot. In the meantime, she’s caught up in her super-achieving older sister’s struggle to have a baby and faces losing her job in a corporate reorganization.

Will Trina find a guy who wants what she does—to get married, or at least engaged? Should she stay in the city, or is it time to grow up and buy a place of her own in the suburbs? Can Jane’s tarot cards predict the future? And is thong underwear really the answer for a formerly basic-bikini-panty-type of girl?

White Bikini Panties explores these questions during a six-month span of Trina’s life. This first-person “chick lit” novel will appeal to readers of women’s contemporary fiction. They’ll relate to Trina and her struggle to heal her broken heart and find her place both in her family and the world at large while she learns about tarot cards, body language, and the mysterious allure of thong underwear along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelly James-Enger
• Release date: May 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983663317

Kelly James-Enger

Hi there and thanks for stopping by! What should you know about me? As a reader, you'll want to know that I write contemporary women's fiction--books about women today, the problems they face, and how they overcome them. I've always been fascinated by relationships, and love writing about them. My newest novel, The Honesty Index, explores the lives of two former "BFF" who are now in their mid-30s and whose lives have grown apart--yet who still need each other more than ever before. My earlier two books, Did you Get the Vibe?, and White Bikini Panties, are available through Kindle. They're considered "chick lit" and are fun, engaging reads. And I like my characters to figure out how to solve their own problems--just like in "real life." I also write nonfiction. As a full-time self-employed freelance writer for 15+ years, several of my books show freelancers how they can develop and maintain successful careers, whether they're new to the business or are more seasoned. (Yeah, that's code for "older.") My latest book, Writer for Hire: 101 Secrets to Freelance Success, will help you make money as a freelance writer. (And if you want to become a ghostwriter like I am, check out Goodbye Byline, Hello Big Bucks: The Writer's Guide to Making Money Ghostwriting and Coauthoring Books.) In my day job, I'm a ghostwriter/coauthor for health, fitness, and nutrition professionals, so I get paid to accumulate useless facts that may or may not come in handy if I ever get on Jeopardy. What else should you know? I'm the mom of two little kids who struggles to make time to write fiction; I've lived in the Chicago suburbs (Downers Grove) for fourteen years; and like most women, I'm constantly trying to find that work/life balance. Most days I fail but am having a great time regardless. Thanks for checking out my page, and I hope you enjoy my work!

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Queen of Cups

A benevolent woman, eager to be warm and loving.

White bikini underwear changed my life. Really.

I’ve been thinking about underwear for a while. It’s one of those things you don’t expend too much mental energy on, at least most of the time. You wake up in the morning, shower, dry off and get dressed. You pull on a pair of whatever panties happen to be in your drawer, grab a bra, and select the rest of your ensemble. Think about it. Could you tell me right now what panties you’re wearing? I think not—unless you’ve got a new boyfriend, or you’re going out and hoping to find a new boyfriend, or you have your period. All three instances require proper underwear for the occasion.

I was thinking about underwear as the traffic crept westward along the Kennedy on Tuesday morning. I tried to think positive—living in the city and working in a suburb, at least I had a reverse commute. It could be worse. Still, though, the traffic sucked. I’d been making this drive for almost two years, and during that time I’d cycled between phases where it nearly drove me stark raving nuts and shorter-lived phases where it didn’t seem that bad. Lately it was one of the former. It was probably PMS, but lately the idea of climbing in my car to face the morning commute was almost more than I could handle. The fact that it was mid-July didn’t help. Running my Civic’s air conditioning tended to make it overheat, so I was forced to resort to rolling down my windows and breathing exhaust-laden air morning and evening, five nights a week.

Of course, when your car isn’t moving, the illusory breeze stops as well. I sat, and fanned myself with the paper, and drank from the Diet Coke can that was sweating into my lap. I craned my neck, but could see no reason for the holdup. ? There was no accident, no smoking car along the side of the road, no flashing police lights. That’s what I hate about driving. It’s the illusion of control. Traffic’s light, and you’re flying along at 80 m.p.h., blasting Linkin Park and shouting along with the few lyrics you can make out, only to suddenly slam, metaphorically speaking, into a backup of cars jammed bumper-to-bumper inching along at a speed slower than you walk…and then just as suddenly, the cars thin out and traffic accelerates and you cram the pedal down, realizing that you’ve lost precious minutes in the day-to-day battle of getting to work on time. Phantom accidents I call them—those times when traffic slows to a stop and then speeds up again for no apparent reason. I counted three on the way to work—two on the Kennedy and one on the Eisenhower—but made it to work with four minutes to spare.

I’d been thinking about underwear because I’d been pondering vaginas in general. I’d seen The Vagina Monologues with Jane, at her insistence, of course, on Saturday. Jane’s an actress—well, an actor is the politically correct term now—and she’d wanted to see the production when Eve Ensler performed it here in Chicago several years ago. This time around, it was a group of three actresses, none of whom I’d heard of, but we went and Jane loved it. She laughed raucously throughout it, nodding her head and clapping frequently. I’d decided if she raised her fist into the air and yelled out, yeah, sistas! I’d clear out of there, but she managed to stay in her seat.

To be honest, I was a little nonplussed by the whole thing. I wasn’t shocked by the content—although hearing the word cunt bandied about over and over got a little old—but I just felt like I was missing something. The performance was simple. The actresses perched on stools on stage, and engaged in casual conversation. Well, casual except that they were discussing women having different names for their vaginas, and what those names were, and what the best names were, and other thought-provoking questions like What would your vagina wear?, What would your vagina say?, and What would your vagina eat?

Women—I don’t have to tell you it was 99.8% women in the audience, do I?—laughed, assumedly in recognition, but I left feeling that apparently I had not spent enough time pondering the potential name, clothing choices, and culinary preferences of my own vagina. I just don’t think about it much. Sure, it’s responsible for some sexual pleasure, and I’m happy for that, but most of the time I simply ignore it.

Several of the women I work with at The Coddled Cook had been scandalized that I had seen (insert hushed tone here), that vagina show. I’d been peppered with questions yesterday. What was it like? Did they actually talk about vaginas? Rachel in particular had been fascinated.

"So what kinds of people were there? Were there any men?" Rachel is 24, only four years younger than me, but often makes me feel much older. She has dark, curly hair, a sweet face, and laughs easily. I think what gives me the aging camp counselor feeling is that incredible earnestness she sports. She tries so hard—at work, with her boyfriend of the moment, to keep up on the latest look and lipstick color and love lives of her favorite celebrities—and she never expects to be disappointed. It always comes as a shock to her, you know? Like a five-year-old discovering that the tooth fairy is actually her mom. I don’t want to sound too jaded, but I like to think of myself as a realist.

When I told Rachel that there were actually a variety of people in the audience—from college students to militant-looking (presumed) lesbians with aggressively short hair to white-haired old ladies (that really threw me!) to a handful of way uncomfortable-looking men (I counted exactly three), she was stunned. Oh my gosh! Her eyes widened. I can’t believe a guy would go to that! I don’t even like to say the word, she lowered her voice, vagina.

Well, that was part of what she was talking about. How people think vagina is a bad word. How it’s treated as profanity when it’s simply the name of a part of a woman’s anatomy. I spoke with all the authority of an OB/GYN who uses the word vagina as often as the rest of bandy about the word stress, diet, or chocolate. I tend to do that with Rachel. She makes me act smarter than I know I am.

Rachel nodded. She was wearing a loose-fitting long-sleeved cranberry sweater and a black skirt that reached to her ankles. Rachel still dresses in the kind of clothes she probably wore in college, but it doesn’t matter much at a company like ours. Unless you’re a manager and expected to dress in more business-like attire, you can—and many do—get away with nearly anything.

I’m a big fan of black pants myself. Jane says I need to experiment more with my wardrobe as a way to express myself. I’m continually waving her off. Black pants go with anything, they don’t show dirt, and you can wear them forever. I have black flat fronts, black chinos, black wide-legs, black hip-huggers, black velvets for dressier occasions, black capris, and even black jeans. So sue me. I like black.

Anyway, Rachel and I were debating the whole vagina thing when Elaine sidled over. Elaine. She started here about the same time I did, but we’ve never really warmed to each other. Part of the reason is that I think she’s only happy when someone else is unhappy. Everyone has someone like that at their office, no matter where you work. She’s probably the biggest gossip in the whole department, and since there’s close to 40 of us if you include all the marketing, communications and PR people, that’s saying something. She’s the same age as I am, but that’s about all we have in common. She’s tall, with streaked blond hair and pale, Nordic-icy-blue eyes. She’s also thin as a stick and apparently puts a lot of time and money into her wardrobe. I doubt I’ve seen her wear the same outfit more than twice.

Good morning, Trina. Good morning, Rachel. We both smiled and responded and waited. Elaine never stops by to just say hi. She’s always got an agenda. So, what’s the latest around here? She looked around, glancing toward the wall offices where the department heads are ensconced. It was still before 9, so most were presumably trickling in with their briefcases and giant portable coffee cups.

Nothing major. Why? What’s up? I’ve learned to cut to the chase with Elaine.

Did you hear Kirk just got canned yesterday? For porno on his PC?

He was looking at porn here at work? asked Rachel. Like most companies, Coddled Cook has a strict policy against using the web for personal usage. And also like most companies, the vast majority of us employees just as strictly ignore the rule.

No, he wasn’t just using the Internet. He was writing nasty stuff and emailing it to women he met online. I hear it was plenty filthy, leaving nothing to the imagination.

But he’s married! That would be Rachel. She’s believes that once you’re married, sexual attraction to anyone other than your spouse sputters out like a damp candle.

Elaine rolled her eyes at me. "Rach, honey, he’s a man. Please."

How’d they catch him? My heart sped up. I had to admit, I’d sent a few not-so-clean emails myself. Nothing that would qualify as porn, but Rick and I had done some of our early wooing online. I thought of one note I’d sent him after a particularly nutty night, and I cringed. What if someone was reading that stuff?

He was having an online affair, I guess, and he broke it off. The woman was plenty pissed, and sent all the emails he’d sent her from his work account to Jim. James Beckwith was the head of human resources, the person responsible for hiring and firing all of us. And that was that.

Geez. It seemed like a harsh punishment, but then again, it was company policy. I made a mental note to tame down any notes that I sent to Rick in the future. Not that our notes had been hot and heavy for some time—after you’ve been with someone for a while, that urgent sex stuff fades somewhat. And that’s good because at some point you have to focus on the real world. Or so I told myself.

The truth was that things between Rick and I seemed stalled. We’d been dating for more than a year and a half, long enough to be past the first blush of infatuation and through a few couple of bad arguments about his workaholic tendencies and occasional emotional unavailability. Rick can be the sweetest, most affectionate guy I’ve ever known, but when he’s preoccupied with work, it’s like I don’t even exist. That was our biggest issue. That and his apparent disinterest in ever marrying me.

I’d sat down at my computer to start on the stories for the next newsletter when I got a new mail message. It was from Rick.

Hey, babe. Can’t meet U tonight. Got a cutover, last minute thing Roger just dropped on us. I’ve got meetings all day—maybe hook up tomorrow night? TTYL. XO R.

I sighed. I shouldn’t have been surprised—Rick works as a network administrator downtown and most of his job seems to consist of putting out fires and dealing with technological emergencies—but I was disappointed. I’d promised him dinner and had been looking forward to seeing him. Maybe I’d just give Jane a call and see if she wanted to come over instead.

I replied to Rick’s email, and spent the rest of the morning working on a story on selling techniques. Coddled Cook sells kitchen products to people—women, mostly—through home shows modeled after Tupperware parties. Every season they come out with a few new products, and part of my job is to write articles explaining to our Cook’s Helpers how to use and sell them to potential customers. This time around, I was describing a combination vegetable peeler/slicer/corer and listing as many possible uses as I could come up with. The test kitchen would no doubt have more suggestions, but at least I had a good start on it.

My phone rang just after lunch. I picked up without looking at the phone display that automatically identified the caller. Hi, this is Trina. How can I help you?

Well, I have a problem. I have this turkey baster that I have to write about. Ironic, isn’t it?

I laughed. Come on, Bobby. You know we just gave you that product to mess with your mind. Bobby is one of the few men in the entire department. He’s a writer like me. He’s also beautiful, funny, sweet, and gay. It figures.

You’re too cruel. Actually, I know a good use for a turkey baster, but I don’t think our typical Cook’s Helper in the Bible Belt would care to hear about how it’s a great tool for lesbian inseminations.

Seriously?

I even hear that our brand is one of the best.

I thought that was just something people joked about.

Nope. I know two couples who have used it, and both are the happy parents of a bouncing baby boy, and girl, said Bobby. Maybe I could do a whole feature article on its advantages over our competitors.

That might bring your career here to a screeching halt.

Bobby lowered his voice. Don’t even joke. You know how bad the job market it? One of my friends lost his job at Cahner’s three months ago and he hasn’t been able to find anything. It’s bleak, Trini.

Bobby had insisted on calling me Trini since he started working here a year ago. I kind of liked it. I’d never had a nickname—well, Trina is short for Katrina, but not even my parents use my full name—and Trini somehow made me feel fluffy and fun. Bobby and I had recognized something in each other almost immediately. He was the only one who knew how I really felt about working there, and how disappointed I was in the way my Career was turning out.

When I majored in English, I hadn’t thought much about what I’d do when I got out of school. Sure, I’d fantasized about writing poetry and wearing black turtlenecks and smoking cigarettes and drinking strong black coffee and exuding an air of mysterious sexiness. In these fantasies, I hadn’t stopped to consider how I would actually support myself. My rude awakening started immediately after graduation. I lived at home, downstate, but set my sights on Chicago. Even then, it took me almost a year to find a job in publishing, and that was working for a horrible little woman’s magazine downtown. I was making the princely, or rather princessy, salary of $23,000 with no benefits except health insurance. I found an apartment out in LaGrange—I couldn’t afford to live anyplace decent in Chicago proper—and I took the train and then the el to get to work every morning. I stuck it out there for almost two years, and then took a job at a medical publisher in Oak Brook. The money was better, but the work bored me to tears. Writing about accreditation procedures, Medicare reimbursements, and hospital standards nearly sucked all of my life force right out.

So the job at Coddled Cook had sounded pretty good. The money was decent, and the company offered good benefits, even money toward tuition if you wanted to take college courses. I’d moved to an apartment in WRigleyville, but according to mapquest.com, this made for only a 37-minute commute. Ha! More like an hour, minimum. The work wasn’t fascinating, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as writing about hospital policies every day. During my tenure there, I’d become responsible for the copy in four separate monthly newsletters as well as some other writing projects as well. I’m a senior writer now while Bobby and Rachel are simply writers. In theory, they’re located under me on the food chain although when you’re this low in the hierarchy I don’t know that it matters. After Bobby and I agreed that the semen-carrying capacity of the Coddled Cook’s latest kitchen implement should not be included in our next newsletter, I gave him the scoop on Kirk.

What is with guys and porn, anyway? I liked pumping Bobby for this kind of information, though he sometimes told me more than I wanted to know.

You got me. I always thought there was something off with Kirk, though. I thought I was getting some gaydar vibes from him.

Oh come on. Bobby is beautiful, but he’s also vain. He thinks practically every guy wants him. Maybe he’s right—I know most of the women here had mad crushes on him when he first came to work here. He doesn’t act swishy or femme, but his excessive well-grooming tipped me off . I mean, come on. How many straight men do you know who wax their eyebrows?

Seriously. Some of those cockhounds are just in deep, deep denial. Believe me.

I’ll just have to take your word for it. After Bobby hung up, I tried to drag my attention back to my story. Ugh. I was bored. I checked my watch again. Only 2:03 p.m. Two hours and fifty-seven minutes before I was sprung for the day. I managed to occupy the rest of the day and called Jane before I left the office. I could have used my cell on the way home, but I don’t like to talk and drive at the same time. That makes me an anomaly, I know. The truth is that I usually forget my phone, and on the occasions I remember it, the battery’s usually dead. That’s the kind of thing that drives Rick nuts. Being a techie, he wears a phone and a pager for work. I’ve teased him before about being able to track him down at a moment’s notice.

Jane was up for coming over, and I was glad to have some company. By the time she arrived close to 7, I’d already made a big salad to go with the pasta and garlic bread. I can cook the most basic of dinners, but you won’t find a lemon zester or any of the more obscure Coddled Cook tools in my kitchen. My family’s another matter. My older sister, Jessie, has just about every product they make, and I get my mom discounts on whatever she wants. My younger sister, Missy, could care less, but she’s still in college surviving on pizza.

After dinner, Jane dug in her bag for her tarot cards. She’s into stuff like that—reads the I Ching, takes her horoscope seriously, thinks that that there are spirits all around us. Rick thinks she’s a flake and has told her so. I just try to keep the two of them apart.

Come on. Jane drank a mouthful of wine. Her round face was flushed, and her hair—henna red this month—was held back from her face with little-girl butterfly barettes. She wore a low-cut V-neck sweater that revealed impressive cleavage. I never think of Jane as fat exactly—she’s way too confident and sexy for that—but she’s not thin either. She says she’s built for comfort, not speed. You haven’t let me do your cards in ages.

She pulled the deck out of a little black velvet pouch. Tarot cards are a little bit bigger than regular playing cards, but much more colorful. Each card has a little scene and a meaning attached to it. I’m always afraid I’ll get the Death card—a skeleton on a horse—but Jane says Death doesn’t mean actual death, it just means change. I have to be in the mood to let Jane read my cards—most of the time I don’t feel like hearing what’s going to happen, or may happen, or may not happen. Jane’s reading include a lot of possibles, and maybes, and it looks like… Tonight, though, I was in the right mood.

All right. I refilled both of our glasses. Jane had brought over a decent bottle of chardonnay. She temps to support herself while she’s looking for acting gigs, and had been working as an assistant for a wine distributor for the past month. Her boss had let her bring home some free samples, and she was making the most of it.

Dutifully I shuffled the cards, trying to clear my mind. What should I ask about, again?

Anything. Just concentrate on what the future holds, if you want. Or ask about work. Rick. She wrinkled her nose. Whatever.

Good enough. I tried to picture the future. I thought of Rick. I thought of the dreaded drive to Carol Stream every day. I pondered and shuffled, and shuffled some more.

OK. I set the cards down.

Do you feel comfortable with how the cards feel?

Yup.

OK. Remember, now you cut the deck three times with your left hand. I always forgot that part. I did as Jane said, and then handed her the cards.

OK. Jane started laying out the cards. This covers you. A woman sitting on a throne. This crosses you. A scary-looking card with an enormous devil. It wasn’t looking good. Jane continued setting the cards down, explaining the position of each, but I didn’t pay much attention. She sometimes made little huh or that’s interesting noises as she flipped each over, but I knew she’d explain them each in detail after all ten cards were down.

Jane looked at the cards for another minute or two. Wow. You’re going to have some changes. Big changes. She frowned, and pointed at one of the cards. See this? There’s something going on you don’t know about, and it’s going to cause you heartbreak. Possibly. She pointed to a card that featured a bright red heart, pierced by three swords. The three of swords. But you have the capability to make the most of your creative abilities and reap benefits from it. She held up a card of a man using some kind of tool on a workbench. There’s a new man coming into your life, too. The Knight of Swords. She pointed at the card at the top of the reading. He kind of storms right in. I don’t know if he’s good for you, though. You’ll be very attracted to him, but the outcome card is interesting. She held up the card that read The Hermit. Hmm. Maybe you’re going to have to retreat and figure out what it is that you really want. It may not be material things after all. Or maybe you wind up alone.

Geez, Jane, thanks a lot! So what does the whole reading mean?

Jane shook her head. I don’t know. It seems like the cards are telling you to be watchful, don’t take things at face value. What did you ask about, anyway?

Nothing, really. Just what was coming up future-wise.

Ah. Jane nodded and smiled. Well, it seems that the future, she paused for effect and then grinned, is unknown.

Chapter 2

The Seven of Wands

Conflict will appear in your personal and professional life.

By the time I walked the short distance to Elephant and Castle, I was in major need of a drink. It had been a long week, and I was meeting Rick and some of his buddies at the bar. He likes to go out with his coworkers some Fridays, and this place was one of their favorite hangouts. We’d probably grab some dinner afterwards, and I was hoping I’d be able to pry him away within a drink or two—he and his coworkers get talking about servers and network issues and firewalls and Ethernets and they might as well speaking Greek. I love Rick, but he’s a geek at heart. Around his buddies, he’s a geek squared.

I maneuvered through the crowd, looking for someone I recognized. The crowd in here was aggressively, studiedly cool without trying—or at least that’s the look everyone goes for. Lots of perfectly straight hair on the girls, poky, messy haircuts on the guys. The women mostly in their 20s, wearing hip-huggers slung low over flat bellies or miniscule minis with tank tops and strappy sandles. I felt like a frumpy suburban housewife in my neat little V-neck blouse and black capris.

I don’t know what it is. Even when I buy trendy clothes, they never look right on me. I always feel like I’m playing dress-up. Maybe that’s why I’ve kept my wardrobe so simple. Those asymmetrical tops and gauzy hippie blouses and skirts would be out by next year, anyway.

I finally saw Rick at a table,