His car idles behind him.
“Let’s see the cash,” I demand, so unlike myself. Suddenly, I feel like I’m in a gangster movie, doing shady shit. I glance around, paranoia setting in. Shit, we’re probably being filmed. What if I’m being set up in a sting operation?
Don’t be stupid, Miranda—it’s not illegal to sell baseball paraphernalia.
Is it?
He leans into the Beemer and produces a large manila envelope; it’s fat and full, bursting at the seams. Holy shit, that is what being flush with cash looks like.
“Do you want to count this?” he asks, mouth set in a cocky line. An arrogant line. Smug, almost, as if he knows I’m not going to actually count the cash, in broad daylight, in the parking lot of the cop shop. “It’s in stacks of one thousand.”
Stacks of one thousand…right. He sounds so casual, but now that I’ve gotten a good look at him, I surmise he probably spends this kind of money at the clubs at night. A grand on a bottle of champagne in the VIP section. Bottle service and primo seating I would know nothing about if it wasn’t in the movies.
I swallow the lump in my throat, pretending to be calm. “Okay.”
He holds the envelope steady on his palm, as if presenting me with an hors d’oeuvre tray and expecting me to select an appetizer, balancing it steady. Waiting.
Knowing damn well I’m afraid to touch it.
“It won’t bite,” he says with a wolfish grin. “Although I might.”
I shoot him a look meant to wipe that egotistical look from his face, but it doesn’t work. Only makes the idiot’s grin widen.
So annoying.
So confusing.
Gingerly, my thumb and index finger pluck the envelope from his hand and he watches as I slowly peel back the flap to peer inside.
I’m flush with cash, and I want to shout I’m rich! at the top of my lungs. In the parking lot. Of the police station. At four in the afternoon.
Get a grip, Miranda—this is not yours to spend on a whim. It is going straight to the bank. I nod emphatically to myself.
“Now let’s see the merchandise,” the guy says.
I pull the card from the recesses of my back pocket, and he takes it. Puts it in his pocket.
“You’re not even going to look at it?” My eyes damn near bug out of my skull—who buys something like this and doesn’t bother to examine it?
Rich, spoiled dudes, that’s who.
“Sure.” He pulls it out and looks at it. Slides it back into his pocket. “There. Happy?”
Uh…not really, but whatever—not my problem if he gets home and finds a flaw. “No returns,” I inform him, crossing my arms.
He crosses his as well, muscles bulging beneath the thin fabric of his black athletic t-shirt.
I tilt my head and study him again. There is a small scar on his square jaw and an indent in his stubble where a dimple creases his cheek. His thick brows look recently waxed—and come to think of it, his arms look waxed, too.
I cannot with this guy.
I have a few guy friends who are vain, but none come close to the man standing in front of me.
“Well, nice doing business with you…” My sentence trails off as I wait for him to confirm he’s Buzz. I mean, yes, we already made the exchange and I have my money, but still.
“Baseman.” He says it like BASE-man, different than the usual pronunciation. His large, gruff hand shoots out for a shake—one I do not take.
I cock my head incredulously. “Your mother named you Baseman?”
“It’s a nickname, dollface. Calm your ti—” He stops himself from telling me to Calm my tits. “Calm yourself.”
Wow. Classy.
“Doing anything tonight? Beer? Wine?” he wants to know. “Blowing me?”
God no, gross—he did not just proposition me to blow him, did he? Did I hear him right? Who the hell does this douche think he is?
“What did you just say to me?” The tone of my voice is scathing, the kind my mom would use when I popped off to her thinking she couldn’t hear me and she wanted me to know she knew I’d told her off.
“I said beer, wine, or me?”
Liar! That is not what he said!
“I’m working tonight, so some other lady will have to do the honors.” I turn my back and start for the car, this whole transaction making me want to take a scalding shower and cleanse myself.
I cannot wait to text Claire about this.
Shit—Claire! It’s been way longer than five minutes and she’s probably assuming I’ve been robbed. Or killed.
“Working? At night?” He’s speaking to my back now. “What do you do work at Target?”
I squint back at him. He knows I don’t have a job; I told him why I need this money when we were texting and that I’m starting my own business—not that he’s giving off an ‘I’m a great listener’ vibe. Quite the contrary now that I’ve met him in person.
What. A. Dick.
“Peace out.” I flip him the universal sign for peace, hopping up into my Tahoe. “Now move your damn car.”
* * *
“I just don’t understand the whole thing—it was so weird,” I’m telling Claire from my living room floor, sitting cross-legged as I sift through Grandpa’s box, stacking the remainder of his cards on my carpet.
My friend is in the process of making dinner at her place and has her phone resting on her countertop as we video call, so putting me at eye level with the frying pan on her stove as she steams vegetables and boils noodles.
Meanwhile, I’m sorting baseball cards so I can sell the rest to Buzz—or Baseman, whichever godawful name he wants to go by—though the last thing I want to do is see him again. Ugh, he was pervy and rude, but I’m going to have to suck
