riding with Tammy

The freeway unspooled under the Range Rover’s tires, a pale ribbon cutting through the haze of late morning. Tammy had one hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily out the window, hair blowing like some ad for California living. You sat there stiff, trying not to look as overwhelmed as you felt, but she saw it anyway.

“God, Timmy,” she drawled, her voice a blend of velvet and mischief, “you look like a kid on his first field trip. You nervous? Afraid I’ll make you carry my shopping bags until your arms fall off?”

You shook your head, but your hesitation gave you away.

She grinned, turning the wheel with a flick of her wrist to slip into the fast lane. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to admit this is weird. Seeing your best friend reborn as…” She lifted her sunglasses to flash her bright, knowing eyes at you. “…a smoking hot Real Housewife type with D’s and designer sunglasses. I’d be freaked too.”

Your throat was dry. “It’s just… I still can’t wrap my head around it. You act so… natural. Like this was always you.”

Her laugh bubbled out, that too-perfect, reality-star laugh, but with a Randall edge buried under it. “Because it is natural. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. This doesn’t take work, Tim. It’s easy. You think I rehearse these tosses of the hair? Or practice walking like a bombshell? No, babe—this flows. I open my mouth, and out comes Tammy.”

She cut her eyes toward you, lips quirking. “And you’re still waiting for Randall to peek through, huh? The old me to crack a Mountain Dew and start yelling at the screen while I trash-talk in Call of Duty?”

Your silence was answer enough.

Tammy chuckled low in her throat, tapping her manicured nail against the steering wheel. “Then maybe I need to test you. See how much of me you’ll really accept. An assistant’s gotta be ready for anything, right?” She let the idea hang in the air, heavy and teasing, her gaze flicking sideways to watch your reaction.

“Tell me, Timmy,” she purred, leaning closer as traffic slowed around an exit, “what wouldn’t you do for me? Where do you draw the line? Carry my purse? Hold my heels while I switch into sneakers? Pretend to be my boy toy if it keeps paparazzi off my back?”

Her grin widened, almost predatory now, like she loved putting you on the spot. “Careful how you answer. This is your interview, babe. And I already told the world you work for me.”