I loathe Phillip right now. What a jackass.
I rearrange myself in my seat, mimicking his pose, legs crossed, expression neutral. “What makes you think I look defeated?”
Seriously, why would he fucking say that?
“You haven’t called or texted in days. You don’t take our calls when you’re at work. You’re clearly not spending any time with us, so you must be spending it with someone else. Classic case of ‘I’m seeing someone new.’”
It’s true that we tend to disappear when we like someone, desperate to spend all our free time with them. Which is absolutely the case with my friendship with Abbott right now.
Friendship. I damn near choke on the word. “Whatever.”
“Good comeback.” Blaine laughs. “What are you, ten?”
Of course, they’re both right. I just can’t admit it or I instantly lose the entire bet, and my season tickets.
Season tickets, season tickets, season tickets…
I’m not even a baseball junkie; I like it well enough, but I’m not obsessed with it like some dudes. So what’s the big fucking deal?
The big deal is, those tickets are worth a fortune and you could sell them if you weren’t interested anymore. You lose your ass if you give them away in a bet.
I try to keep that in the back of my mind, too—the street value of the seats I hold.
As a kid who grew up with nothing, I’m not about to hand off what can make me a sweet chunk of change. Retirement, a house, paying down my student loans—those are all things looming over me that I could use the money for if I were ever desperate enough.
I am not.
And I’m determined that I will never be as hungry or desperate as I was as a kid.
“You don’t think I’d tell you if I was seeing someone?” I scoff, staring down into my glass. “Give me some credit.”
“No can do, pretty boy. As a matter of fact, I don’t think you’d tell us jack shit if you were seeing someone.”
“No one has called me pretty a day in my life.”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Blaine sneers, biting down on a giant olive. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, boring into the pimento then sucking it into his mouth with a slurp.
“Yeah,” Phillip brilliantly adds, “don’t try to change the subject.”
“I’m not. And I’m not dating anyone, Scout’s honor.”
“Let’s be real here, you were never a Boy Scout.”
“Right.” My tone couldn’t sound more bitter. “Because we couldn’t afford the fees. We couldn’t afford jack shit, including school clothes or supplies, and certainly not the fees for me to play sports or participate in extracurricular activities.”
My friends recoil, taken aback. Speechless, for once in their fucking lives.
“Whoa, dude.” Phillip’s hands go up to coax me out of my tizzy. “Whoa. Not at all the path I was trying to lead you down. Relax, bro, relax.”
It takes another drink for them to lift me out of my funk. Just one drink, though, because I have someplace else I’d rather be.
I want to go home.
To my apartment and home to Abbott.
After counting down the minutes until it’s safe for me to rise, I take my leave, heart racing the entire trip, winded when the elevators of my building slide open and I see Abbott there, not unlike the morning we officially met in the hallway. Adorable at her door, balancing a grocery bag in her arms, purse hanging from one as she wrestles to get the key into its rightful spot.
“Hey neighbor.” As I greet her, my hands get stuffed into the pockets of my glorious blue jacket.
She turns, abandoning the task of getting inside her apartment to greet me in kind.
Her teeth are pearly white, peeking out between glossy pink lips. Her eyes? Look at my absurd velvet smoking jacket. Then at my face.
Jacket.
Face.
Jacket. Face.
Her smile becomes secretive, now buried in the brown paper bag hefted in her arms. She gathers herself, reemerging, serious this time. “Whatcha doing there, buddy?”
Buddy?
And here I thought the day after oral was going to be awkward. How wrong I was—she’s still a total smartass.
“I was…” I don’t want to tell her I was with my friends. She’ll mock me.
“With your friends?”
How did she know? “Yeah, how did you know?”
Her eyes stray once more to my navy jacket. Get wide. Brows rise. “Lucky guess.” Abbott squints in my direction, shifting on her heels. “Random question: do you actually smoke when you’re wearing that thing?”
I give the sleeve a whiff. “Occasionally.” Mostly on patios.
“Interesting.” She smirks smugly.
“How is that interesting?”
“It just is.” Her back hits the wall, and she uses it for support. “I also think it’s interesting that you and your little buddies have a secret club—it reminds me of the gentlemen’s clubs I’ve read about in romance novels.”
She needs to stop using the word little to describe me and my friends; it’s annoying.
Her mention of a gentlemen’s club piques my interest because that’s exactly the angle my friends and I were going for! Of course, I can’t say that out loud. Abbott will think I’m loco. Crazy.
A complete dipshit.
Which, of course, we are—however, the last thing I need to do is add fuel to Abbott’s massively flaming fire. I can see in her eyes she’s in a great mood, and in the mood to tease.
I cross my arms, the blueprint in my hand getting tucked snuggly under my armpit. “Oh yeah? What do they say about those clubs? I’ve never read one.”
Abbott cocks her head, tilting it to the side, lights from the hallway creating a halo effect above her head. Her hair is straight today, and shiny, hanging in a flat sheet.
“A few I’ve read have centered around these clubs. The guys are single and make these bets with their friends to remain single.” Abbott chuckles, unknowingly hitting the nail on the head. “Obviously that’s never what happens in the end.”
“What happens in the end?”
“One by one, the single gentlemen always fall in love.” Another laugh. “Honestly, the whole concept is ridiculous. You’d have to be bitter and jaded to start a club like that. Or a complete loser.” She annunciates the word loser, thoroughly repulsed.
“Now now, let’s not be hasty, throwing out insults,” I start, aware that I’m about to argue my viewpoint while wearing a velvet smoking jacket, a uniform for a club doing exactly what she described from her novels. Her girly, historical romance, smutty novel bullshit. “You don’t know for sure those guys are losers.”
Not that I have any idea what I’m talking about.
“It’s fictional.” She rolls her eyes in my direction. “That would never happen in real life.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Are you kidding? No. These days, no self-respecting guy would be a member of a club like that. He’d be laughed out of town or roasted on social media.”
Once again, here I stand in this dumb fucking jacket, like a jackass, listening to her drone on and on and on, cheeks now ablaze. I haven’t blushed in years, but I’m blushing now.