“Wait, what happened to Jeffry?”
“He’s been let go.”
My eyes bulge. “Let go?”
“Yes. I’m afraid Dr. Buchanan didn’t appreciate Jeffry undermining your abilities or creative vision, and after the stunt he pulled during the game against the Blazers? Well, I’m sure you understand.”
My lips part, but I clamp them shut, unsure of what to say.
“We’ve hired someone else as head of public relations, but you’ll rarely see her,” Erika adds. “If you have any other questions, don’t be afraid to reach out, Ms. Rutherford.”
“Of course,” I reply. “Uh, thanks for letting me know.”
“Have a good afternoon,” Erika quips.
The call ends.
I own one towel. One. Technically, I had two before the move, but one of them disappeared somewhere between the townhome I shared with the girls and the new apartment. I have a feeling it might be in Tukani’s truck since he let me borrow it so I could move all my things in, but it doesn’t matter. Now, I have one towel. It’s pink and fluffy and smells like laundry detergent. I run it over my wet hair when a quiet knock sounds from the front of the apartment.
Until now, I haven't invited anyone to see my new place. I didn't feel like I should after they found out how dire my financial situation was not so long ago. If they knew how much money I made online before giving it all away, they'd probably shit their pants.
I've tried to analyze my money issues, but I still don't understand why I can't save any. Why it leaves me itchy anytime I have more than a few hundred dollars to my name. Why I feel the need to give it all away. But if I can't understand, how can I expect others to?
I could always blame my dad. Maybe if someone had thrown him a bit of cash, he wouldn't have borrowed it from the man who killed him.
Regardless, money issues are the least of my problems after the hotel incident and last night's debacle.
Yup. An entirely new shitstorm is brewing and currently swallowing me whole. I made it ten times worse when I freaking masturbated while on a call with my boss.
Shoving the thought aside, I walk down the short hall and open the front door. With two iced lattes in hand, Ash grins at me. “Dude, you have a doorman.”
“Pretty sure you already knew that little nugget,” I remind her, pushing the door open the rest of the way.
Ash steps inside, letting out a whistle as she takes in the place. I guess I can’t blame her. It really is crazy nice. She’s probably thinking the same thing I did when I first saw the apartment. It belongs in a freaking magazine. Or at least, it would if it wasn’t for the secondhand furniture ruining the whole photo-worthy vibe.
“Not too shabby,” Ash announces as she takes in the kitchen, ten-foot ceilings, and stone fireplace on the opposite side of the room. “Although, you could use a few more pieces of furniture.” She motions to the empty space where a kitchen table belongs and the worn armchair in the center of my otherwise bare family room. “And a TV.”
“My laptop works very well, thank you very much.” I grab the latte from her hand and take a long sip. “Ah. That’s the stuff.”
“So?” she prods. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I lie, but she wiggles her index finger back and forth.
“Nope. No backing out and keeping me in the dark, missy. Tell me all the things.”
“Who says there’s anything to tell?” I question.
“Do you really think I forgot your cryptic little comment on the phone? And even if you hadn’t said anything, I know you. No matter how much you love me, you’re not one to call me out of the blue just to chitchat, so spill. Any more stalker issues? Colt told me about what happened at the game.”
“Tell Colt he’s officially on my shit list,” I announce.
“Why? Because he’s being a good friend and keeping an eye on you?” She folds her arms, careful to keep her latte from spilling down her chunky knit sweater. “Or is it because he’s being a good boyfriend by keeping me in the loop when it comes to my best friend who, for better or for worse, sucks at communication?”
My lips purse, and I take another sip of coffee. “Both.”
Her mouth lifts with a ghost of a smile, but she doesn’t give in. Instead, she doubles down on her sleuthing efforts. “So? Tell me everything.”
“So…” I lick my lips, deciding to get this over with because no matter how much I hate it, I really could use her advice. “One of Shorty’s friends came to visit me at SeaBird last night. Apparently, Shorty told him I’d be willing to suck his dick for fifty bucks—”
Her gasp cuts me off. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not even to the crazy part yet,” I mutter, replaying the night for the thousandth time. “Buchanan overheard the asshole’s proposition and punched the guy, but the guy knocked Buchanan in the head with a beer bottle. Thankfully, the bouncer intervened and threw Shorty’s buddy out while I took Buchanan to the breakroom to clean him up. And as I was supergluing the gash on his head, he leaned in and tried to kiss me.”
“Professor Buchanan kissed you?”
“Tried,” I emphasize. “Well, technically, I guess he did kind of kiss me when we were in Creekside,” I ramble. “But I’m talking about last night––”
“Hold up.” She raises her hand. “Buchanan kissed you when you were in Creekside?”
My nose scrunches with embarrassment, and I drop my chin to my chest, avoiding Ash’s scrutiny. “Technically? No. It was more of a hot brush of the lips kind of thing.”
“When?”
“We may have had a quick little…session while sharing a room during the away games, but we both agreed it was only a one-time thing, which is why, when he went in for the kill last night, I turned at the last second and––”
“But he’s a babe,” she argues.
“Yeah. A babe I have nothing in common with and has a penis, which we both know I’ve sworn off altogether, thanks to my shitty taste in men.”
Attempting to keep up with the chaos of my life, she takes a sip of her latte and licks her lips. “Okay, yeah, but Buchanan isn’t a shitty guy.”
“For now,” I quip.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s look at my past, shall we? Either, A—I have terrible taste in men, and they’re all shitty from the beginning, but I don’t recognize it. Or, B—they’re actually awesome dudes, but as soon as I start dating them, they turn into selfish assholes. Either way, it doesn’t exactly bode well for me. I’m not about to make the same mistake by dating my boss only to have it blow up in my face.”
“So, the one-time thing in Creekside doesn’t count?” she argues.
“We agreed––”
“It was only a one-time thing,” she repeats, mimicking me. “Yeah. So you said. And I would believe it if he hadn’t tried to kiss you last night.”
“Which is why I turned away,” I remind her, “to uphold the one-time thing.”
“Okay, let’s pretend the hotel scenario never happened, shall we?” She flicks her blond hair over her shoulder. “Are you saying you still wouldn’t date Buchanan because you’re convinced it’ll blow up in your face?”