And has the money.
“How was it weird? Was he old and creepy?”
“Not old, just creepy. Young and super hot.” Okay, so maybe perverted isn’t the right way to describe him. I try again. “You know those guys on the football team in college who walked around like they were God’s gift to women? That was this guy.”
Claire makes a yuck sound. “Ugh, I couldn’t stand the student athletes. Remember how they used to stroll through the cafeteria? Like what were they even doing in our cafeteria—don’t they have one of their own?”
“Showboating, that’s what they were doing, strutting like peacocks, and that’s what this guy was doing. I’m surprised he didn’t ‘baseman’ his muscles at me, he was so vain.”
Baseman—what an accurate description of him. I’m sure that womanizer gets to first, second, and all the way to home on the first date. What a horrid nickname.
Ew.
My phone is propped on my coffee table so I can see it as I work. “I honestly almost expected him to give me his autograph.” I glance up to find her watching me through the phone. “He hit on me…I think?”
She pauses, wooden spoon hovering above her silver cooking pot. “How do you not know if he was hitting on you?”
“He asked what I was doing later. Then he goes, ‘Beer, wine—or me.’” I feign a gag, fake vomiting theatrically.
“Um, that’s gross.”
“I know! I can’t believe guys still say shit like that, as if there weren’t a thousand better ways to ask someone out—not that that’s what he was doing. It sounded more like a proposition.”
“Yeah, a proposition for you to do all the work. He probably thought you’d suck his dick if he asked.”
“I’m sure he’ll have no problems finding a replacement set of lips.” I laugh.
Claire snorts. “Jesus Miranda!”
My shoulders shrug up and down. “What? It’s true!”
Also true: men aren’t the only ones who are perverts. I think they’d be surprised to find out that women—especially when surrounded by other women—talk dirty about sex just as often, in just as vulgar of terms as they do.
It can be our dirty little secret, I muse to myself, smiling as I put the cards into three little stacks in order of value, most to least.
“What else are you gonna do tonight?” my best friend asks. “Do you want to go out or anything? Monica texted and they’re all going for dinner at The Grainery.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I have to figure all this out then give that guy a call. I just don’t know about selling him the entire collection—he was such a sleaze.”
A hot sleaze, but a sleaze nonetheless.
I hope he’s not an ass on the phone like he was today. The whole thing was too…contradictory. Honestly, I thought we’d really hit it off and have more in common. I thought our banter when we texted was great. Fun.
I enjoyed it.
Keep it business, Miranda, and you won’t get hurt…
“You’d really consider not selling him the cards because he was a twatwaffle?”
“Yeah, I really would. These were my grandfather’s cards—I want them in good hands.”
“I know, but you need that money.”
True, but… “I have to have some standards, okay? It would be like selling my soul to the devil and I don’t think it would be worth it.”
“Don’t be hasty girl. Give it some thought.”
“I will. Promise.”
“Okay then, switching gears—what about this weekend?” Claire tries again, determined to get me out of my apartment—the one I could barely afford until today, until that $25,000 bank deposit. That will help with the rent, and the security deposits for the office space I have my eye on, some furniture…
I shiver, excited. A celebratory night out would be magic and I could use some right about now.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll come out this weekend.”
“Yay! It’s been forever. And Gretchen’s boyfriend has this new place he wants to try out—you need a password to get in.”
“That doesn’t sound the least bit out of our league.” Or above our paygrade.
“When you’re pretty, you don’t pay,” she says, grinning confidently, her black hair swept back from her beautiful, flawless face.
My eyes roll to the back of my head. “That’s easy for you to say—you’re gorgeous.”
Her eyes roll, too. “Give me a break—you’re gorgeous too. You just feel dumpy because you’ve been living in sweatpants like you’re quarantined. Slap some makeup on and you’ll feel like a queen Mama. I pinky promise.”
Claire is right—I have been living in leisurewear. In my defense, I’ve been working my ass off to get things off the ground with my business which I still cannot believe I’m doing.
With the help of no one.
I have a few mentors, but not a single soul from my family has ever worked for themselves. I’m the first college graduate and the first to start my own company.
“Alright, I’ll let you drag me out on Saturday.” In my hand is the Jenkins card. I tap it on the coffee table. “Now let me get back to figuring this shit out—Mama’s got bills to pay.”
3
Noah
“Here.” Buzz Wallace waltzes into my office as if he owns the place setting a clear, plexiglass box on the desk. It’s about four inches long by three inches wide, housing an item I’ve always wanted.
The Hank Archer baseball card.
“How did you get in here?” is the first thing I ask him, without preamble. Reaching for the case, I grasp it gingerly between my middle finger and thumb, turning it this way and that, inspecting the card inside.
“Garage door was open.”
It was? Shit.
Even though I live in a gated community, I usually make sure all the doors are locked and the garage door is always closed if I’m not in the front yard or jogging through the neighborhood. Too many people coming and going—contractors, lawn care providers, pet sitters, nannies.
“Well make yourself at home,” I sarcastically add when he does just that, propping his feet on the corner of my desk. The bastard is lucky he
