"Ridiculous, isn't it?" Alisha laughed dryly.
"Completely," he agreed, turning his eyes back to the paper.
Tallulah Marietta von Libereitz and Gregory James Fleming were married Saturday at St. Bartholomew's Church on Park Avenue in New York. The Reverend Bruce Forbes officiated.
"You were involved with a goy, Larrington? What did your bubbie think?" he asked with a smirk, full on grinning when she rolled her eyes and chuckled softly.
"Shut up, Big," she said easily, picking up the fresh cocktail in front of her.
Blah, blah, ages, blah blah jobs, blah blah, parents. Both of these people sounded like pretentious assholes. "You still hung up on this guy?" he asked indifferently.
"No," she said definitively.
"Sure about that?" he asked her pointedly, holding her chocolate brown gaze.
She nodded insistently. "Yes."
"Then why the fuck are you letting him ruin your night?"
It was a good question. A very valid question, albeit with a little more profanity than she'd have used. "I…" she began, quickly closing her mouth when nothing followed. For so long she'd been hurting over this and it was almost as if she was conditioned to have a response any time Gregory was mentioned. Still, it had hurt to see his wedding announcement to the woman who'd had a hand in destroying her happiness. He'd done a number on her for sure, but as she stared up into Big's questioning eyes (they looked green today), she really didn't feel all that bad anymore. "I have no idea," she finally blurted, a small smile on her lips as a huge wave of relief washed over her.
"Me neither. That douche looks like he wouldn't know the first thing about how to handle a woman in bed…especially one as fiery as yourself." Her jaw dropped. He grinned.
"Big—"
"Hey, you called me—this is me helping. Take it or leave it." He picked up his beer and took a big drink.
In disbelief, she sputtered out a breathy laugh and fell back against the backrest in the booth. "Fine," she heard herself say, eyes cast on the ceiling. "I'll take it." She sat up and grew a little leery the moment that lightning quick, wicked grin flashed across his face.
"Let's play a little game," he suggested.
Alisha started to protest, but his arched eyebrow stopped her. She'd already agreed to his brand of help. (God help her) "What kind of game?" she asked nervously.
"I'm going to ask you some questions and you have to answer without thinking. Just say the first thing that comes to your mind."
"Okay," she said skeptically.
He smirked into his glass and took another drink of his beer. "Okay. Better friend, Maggie or Russell?"
"Maggie," she said without thinking, feeling slightly guilty towards her other fabulous friend.
"Favorite singer?"
"Beyoncé."
Big rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Of course it fucking is." Alisha kicked him under the table. "Favorite thing to do?"
"Sing."
"Best sex you ever had?"
"Joe Fletcher," she said enthusiastically, promptly slapping her hands over her mouth and flaming every shade of red under the sun.
He laughed and gestured to the newspaper. "See, what'd I say? I'm guessing lover boy there didn't meet your needs very well."
"This conversation is inappropriate," she protested weakly. That statement had sounded so much better in her head.
"Well, Shorty, as you like to point out every time I see you, I am inappropriate, so I don't know why you're surprised. Shouldn't almost friends be accepting of each other’s flaws—or in my case strengths and badassness?"
A giggle bubbled up in her throat. "Sure, Big. Whatever you say."
"Great," he smirked. "Okay, back to why this ex of yours couldn't satisfy you."
"I never said that," she stammered.
"Yeah, you did. If he'd been good, you'd have answered his name when I asked you about the best sex ever. So, what was it about Gerald?"
"Gregory," she corrected.
"Whatever. Tiny dick? Kinda looks like he would."
"How do you know what tiny dicked men look like?" she asked, cocking her head to the side and smirking at him.
Big paused, momentarily rendered speechless from her verbal kick in the balls. "Oh, fuck off, Larrington, you know what I meant. So, was that it?"
If you'd have told her two months ago that she would be sitting in a karaoke bar discussing the size of her ex's penis with a crude, foul-mouthed, yet very hot fireman, she'd have suggested a mental institution. Well, technically it wasn't a discussion because there was only one person talking about it so far, until she opened her mouth and said, "His size wasn't the problem."
"Now you're admitting there was a problem." He no longer regretted walking out on Haylie (?), because this night was getting hella interesting.
Alisha averted her eyes and picked up her drink, annoyed to find it empty again, but settled for the ice cubes. She looked over at him and found him watching her with a look that clearly told her he was waiting on some elaboration. This night was just weird, and she knew that this conversation was probably a horrible idea, but at least she was feeling better. After holding up her glass and signaling for another from their waitress, she glanced down at the picture of the newlyweds and figured what the hell? "He was selfish, and he wasn't very good at…" she trailed off.
Now we're talking. "Wasn't very good at what, Larrington?" Seeing her hesitation, he decided a diversionary tactic was in order. "Do you have a pen?"
Her mind couldn't keep up. "A pen?"
Big mimed writing something. "Yes, Shorty, a pen. We're going to improve this article here." He grabbed the newspaper and held his hand out for the pen she found in her bag. "Continue…" he gestured with his hand.
"Um…" she saw him draw a Hitler mustache on Gregory and she giggled, her head starting to feel light from the alcohol. "He was…um, he was…really…terribleatgoingdownonme," she mumbled as fast as she possibly could, half hoping the dreadful girl murdering Girls Just Wanna Have Fun on stage drowned her out. From the wicked look of smug
