4
Noah
I’m waiting in the kitchen when Wallace returns from his romp around my neighborhood, no doubt collecting phone numbers from all the desperate housewives. Some are married to professional athletes themselves, but they’re bored and lonely and looking for uncomplicated sex. And attention.
I would know because during one of the few times I’ve jogged through the subdivision with Wallace beside me, I watched Carole Dubois—wife of linebacker Karl—coyly commandeer his phone and enter her number. Another time, I watched Suzanne Draper pat his ass and bite her lip—in front of her teenage daughter while they were walking, while I was standing right there.
Unfuckingbelievable.
The audacity.
It’s one thing at a bar; it’s another in broad daylight on a residential street.
I’m fuming when he walks in, my hands braced on the marble countertop, expression so contorted he stops in his tracks when he sees me, immediately pulling the headphones off his head.
“Dude, what’s wrong?”
“You tell me.”
He looks around, at a disadvantage. “Help me out, bro—did something happen?”
“I just talked to Miranda—the girl you met today? For the card? Fuck you very much, Wallace—she doesn’t want to sell me another one.” Well, she might, just maybe not the entire collection. Have to wait and see.
“What? Why?”
“Because, dude! You freaked her out! She hates me now.” Sure, I’m being a little overdramatic, but dramatic is how I’m feeling with no desire to rein it in. My friend might have my back when it counts, but he sure did shit in my cereal bowl today. Took a big dump in it and didn’t bother cleaning it up.
“Wait—are you saying she’s butthurt because I put the moves on her?” His brows are raised, as if he’s genuinely perplexed by the notion that a woman might possibly react in an adverse way.
Stereotypical spoiled jock.
“Put the moves on her?” I move, jerking open the fridge and staring inside. I’m not confrontational, but I want to punch him in his arrogant face, so instead, I stare at the glowing shelves of my Sub-Zero, seething. “Sounded more like you propositioned a hooker at a truck stop.”
“Huh?” He has no idea what I’m talking about.
I slam the fridge shut, stalking back over to the counter, a caged tiger with nowhere to go.
“She told me you implied she could suck your cock.”
Wallace doesn’t even blink. “I might have made a joke about blowing, but it was just a joke.”
“Who the fuck makes jokes about that to a stranger?” Oh, that’s right—he does. “Well newsflash, fucker, she doesn’t want to sell me the rest of her card collection because you creeped her out. She has morals, apparently, and doesn’t want her grandfather’s legacy belonging to a total pervert.”
“Morals.” He considers this, thinking hard. “Oh, you mean her moral compass won’t let her sell you the cards based on principle, not because she doesn’t still need the money.”
What kind of idiot savant am I dealing with here? Christ almighty, this guy. While all other concepts seem foreign to him, he latches onto this one immediately.
“I get it. And I’m sorry—my bad.” Funny thing is, he does genuinely look apologetic. “What are you going to do?”
“Uh, excuse me? What am I going to do?” My eyes bore holes into his skull. “Don’t you mean what are you going to do? You got me into this mess—you get me out of it.”
“Hey man, I was doing you a favor—you’re the one who didn’t want to go, which makes no fucking sense. If you want something done right, do it yourself. I’m not your errand boy.”
He doesn’t get it. He’s a fucking god among mere mortals; they all fall at his feet. Everyone else disappears when Buzz Wallace waltzes into the room, myself included.
“Please. If I can arrange it, will you just help me out one more time? If I can smooth it over and get her to sell me another card?”
I have the card I want, but now it’s a matter of principle—just like he said before—and I won’t let this rest until the entire collection is mine. Even if I have to beg. Even if…
“Fine, but then that’s it. Fight your own battles and stop being a pussy about it.” Buzz cocks his head and considers me. “Why didn’t you want to meet her to get the card, anyway? What’s the big deal?”
I’m not explaining it to him—he wouldn’t get it. I also don’t want to listen to him riding my ass or making fun of me, which he absolutely would do if I told him I didn’t want to meet Miranda because I was developing a weird, anonymous crush on her. I didn’t want to meet her because I didn’t want to feel the crushing blow of rejection.
All this over someone I haven’t met.
And now it’s likely I never will, because Wallace has to go finish the job he screwed up.
“It’s not a big deal, but she’s already met you and then I don’t have to explain.”
“Real mature, Harding. Women love being lied to.” He pauses. “Not.”
“Right. They just love being molested in parking lots instead.”
His hands go up defensively. “Hey, I didn’t touch her! It was just words—no harm, no foul.”
“The police station parking lot isn’t a nightclub, dipshit.”
He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on my counter, bites, and chews. “Speaking of nightclubs, we’re going out on Saturday.”
“No we’re not.”
“Yeah we are. Davis from the Blues invested in that club downtown and he wants us to come see it, so we’re going.” He begins walking to the mudroom, exiting stage left.
Grant Davis is a linebacker for the Chicago Blues football team and a friend of ours. Young, hungry, and a great goddamn guy, he wouldn’t understand why I wasn’t at his club, especially if they’re all there celebrating.
Baseman couldn’t come—he’s at home, jerking off alone is what I imagine my other buddies would tell him.
Shit. Looks like I’m going out Saturday.
Me: I know you said you would contact me, but I cannot stop thinking about this situation and feel fucking terrible about it. I’m sorry I crossed a boundary.
Miranda: Apology accepted, I guess.
Miranda: Is this you trying to weasel your way back into my good graces so I don’t sell the cards out from under you?
Me: Um. No? I’m not like that.
Miranda: SURE you’re not.
Me: I’m being sincere. I really feel like a dick about Wednesday, but I can’t do it over—all I can do is tell you it won’t happen again.
Miranda: Won’t happen again? So what you’re saying is, we’re going to meet and it will be nothing but business, the way it should have been to begin with?
Me: If you would reconsider selling me your collection, yes—I would be on my best behavior. You should even bring a friend.
Miranda: I don’t need a bodyguard, but thanks.
Me: Please consider it. I’ll give you whatever you want.