“Two different people?”
“Yes. You’re so nice right now, being kind of cute, and you’re fun to chat with, but man—I don’t know what that was today. It just made me rethink the whole card collection. I know beggars can’t be choosers and there’s a chance someone else won’t buy the entirety, but I don’t know if my next buyer should be you.”
“Was I that bad?” I mean, come on.
Miranda inhales and lets out a frustrated breath. “I just thought it was rude how you offered to let me have my way with you, or give you a blowie—whatever you were pretending not to say like boys did in middle school. Come on—does that shit work on a grown woman?” She snorts again. “Because if we hadn’t been in the parking lot of the police station, I would have felt violated.”
“I’m sorry—could you repeat that?” Did she just say I offered to let her have her way with me? Did she say blowie? Goddammit, I’m so confused right now.
“You don’t remember?”
“I…”
Yes—I don’t remember! NO—I DIDN’T ACTUALLY EXPERIENCE IT. BECAUSE THAT WAS NOT ME.
“I—uh…” I fumble for a lie. “Forgot to take my meds.”
Anddd I just made it worse. I roll my eyes heavenward, each word leaving my mouth compounding the problem, making it a thousand times worse.
“You asked what I was doing later then asked if I wanted beer, wine—or a blowie. Or not, because then you denied it. Juvenile and immature.”
I’m officially embarrassed on Wallace’s behalf. I might not know shit about women, but I know enough not to say shit like that.
“I said what?” I shout it loud enough that the neighbors probably heard. “Jeez, he really actually did hit on you…” I mutter.
“Huh?” She pauses. “You’re not making any sense. Are you high? What medications are you on?”
None. Well, some, mostly for joint swelling, anti-inflammatories—those kinds of meds.
I groan into the phone, raking my fingers through the mop on my head, wishing I had a ball cap on. “Never mind. Let’s just talk about the rest of your cards.”
Miranda is quiet for a second. “You know what? Why don’t I just text you when I know what I want to do, okay? Plus, it’ll all be in writing. Yeah?”
This whole call has become a shitshow, leaving me no choice but to agree. “Sure.”
I don’t want to hear any more about her run-in with my friend. The pit in my stomach can’t get any tighter; the bile in my throat can’t get any more bitter.
“Great. Then I guess for now, just…you know. Wait to hear from me, ’kay?”
No, it’s not okay, but what the hell can I do about it? Nothing. “Sure, that works.”
“Super. Well…” Miranda clears her throat. “Have fun with the Hank Archer card. And again, I really, really appreciate the cash. Really.”
I am really, really going to kill. Buzz. Wallace.
Really.
4
Noah
I’m waiting in the kitchen when Wallace returns from his romp around my neighborhood, no doubt collecting phone numbers from all the desperate housewives. Some are married to professional athletes themselves, but they’re bored and lonely and looking for uncomplicated sex. And attention.
I would know because during one of the few times I’ve jogged through the subdivision with Wallace beside me, I watched Carole Dubois—wife of linebacker Karl—coyly commandeer his phone and enter her number. Another time, I watched Suzanne Draper pat his ass and bite her lip—in front of her teenage daughter while they were walking, while I was standing right there.
Unfuckingbelievable.
The audacity.
It’s one thing at a bar; it’s another in broad daylight on a residential street.
I’m fuming when he walks in, my hands braced on the marble countertop, expression so contorted he stops in his tracks when he sees me, immediately pulling the headphones off his head.
“Dude, what’s wrong?”
“You tell me.”
He looks around, at a disadvantage. “Help me out, bro—did something happen?”
“I just talked to Miranda—the girl you met today? For the card? Fuck you very much, Wallace—she doesn’t want to sell me another one.” Well, she might, just maybe not the entire collection. Have to wait and see.
“What? Why?”
“Because, dude! You freaked her out! She hates me now.” Sure, I’m being a little overdramatic, but dramatic is how I’m feeling with no desire to rein it in. My friend might have my back when it counts, but he sure did shit in my cereal bowl today. Took a big dump in it and didn’t bother cleaning it up.
“Wait—are you saying she’s butthurt because I put the moves on her?” His brows are raised, as if he’s genuinely perplexed by the notion that a woman might possibly react in an adverse way.
Stereotypical spoiled jock.
“Put the moves on her?” I move, jerking open the fridge and staring inside. I’m not confrontational, but I want to punch him in his arrogant face, so instead, I stare at the glowing shelves of my Sub-Zero, seething. “Sounded more like you propositioned a hooker at a truck stop.”
“Huh?” He has no idea what I’m talking about.
I slam the fridge shut, stalking back over to the counter, a caged tiger with nowhere to go.
“She told me you implied she could suck your cock.”
Wallace doesn’t even blink. “I might have made a joke about blowing, but it was just a joke.”
“Who the fuck makes jokes about that to a stranger?” Oh, that’s right—he does. “Well newsflash, fucker, she doesn’t want to sell me the rest of her card collection because you creeped her out. She has morals, apparently, and doesn’t want her grandfather’s legacy belonging to a total pervert.”
“Morals.” He considers this, thinking hard. “Oh, you mean her moral compass won’t let her sell you the cards based on principle, not because she doesn’t still need the money.”
What kind of idiot savant am
