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 took his shoes off—otherwise I’d kick his ass out.
“Thanks, I will—as usual.”
“So how did it go?”
He gestures toward the card in my hands. “Obviously it went well.”
But that’s not what I mean; I want details on Miranda. What she looked like, how she behaved. Was she as cute as I imagine her to be?
“And?”
He picks at a hangnail, biting on his thumb. “And what?”
“God, are you really this obtuse?” I roll back in my desk chair, setting the card on the built-in bookshelf behind me. I’ll take it out and inspect it later; for now, I want to discuss the woman who sold it to me. Without being obvious, of course.
“Obtuse? What the hell does that even mean?” He continues chewing on his nail, picking at the cuticle and ignoring me.
Jesus, is he serious? Dude needs a dictionary to translate half the shit I say. I cannot believe he graduated from a Division 1 university with a degree in finance.
“What else? Did you talk to her? Was she normal?” Give me something—anything! I can’t tell him I want information; he’s like a goddamn animal that smells fear and as soon as he knows you want something from him, he takes it away.
As far as friends go, Wallace is bottom of the totem pole. My best friends still live in my hometown, only coming to see me on an occasional weekend here and there throughout the year. Most of them can’t afford to fly to Chicago unless I’m the one paying. Humble, hardworking, family dudes—like me, plus the family part.
Since Wallace is my teammate and seems to like hanging out with me, he’s what I’ve got at the moment, as shitty a friend as he may be.
“Yeah she was normal, about yay high.” He extends his arm, palm turned down to indicate how tall Miranda was.
“Short?”
“About five four.” He spits a fingernail onto the hardwood floor.
“Could you not do that?” I’m trying to talk, for fuck’s sake. None of the other guys on the Steam seem to act like this—why did I get stuck with Wallace following me around like a stray cat?
Because, dipshit, you haven’t told him to piss off.
The thing is I can’t. He’d be pissed and it would cause friction and I have to work with the douchebag.
So, I lean forward a little, cocking my head, arching my eyebrows expectantly. “If this were you and I were doing you a favor, I would give you more information.”
He looks up. “What the hell kind of information are you looking for? I picked up the card so you could self-isolate and I dropped it off. What more do you want?”
I want him to tell me more about Miranda.
Buzz Wallace sits back in the chair, crossing his beefy arms. “Wait…do you want information on the girl?”
Finally, he gets it.
“Pfft. No.”
He stares me down, those blue eyes unblinking. Narrow. “She was cute. Small. I didn’t really get a look at her tits. Kind of a bad attitude.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know—she didn’t count the money and she was bossy.”
“What do you mean?” I sound like a parrot, repeating myself. What do you mean, what do you mean?
“I don’t know, man. She was just trying to get in and get out, if you know what I mean. She was in a hurry, that’s all I’m saying.”
Translation: She wasn’t into him and didn’t want to stick around and flirt.
Wow. A girl who doesn’t fall for his charms? Miranda just earned another point.
“Well thanks for going—I appreciate it. I would have gone myself, but I had…” I rack my brain for an excuse. “I’m getting a head start on my taxes.”
His brows shoot up. “You do your own taxes?”
No, but I have a hand in them so I know what money is coming in and what’s going out. I don’t want to get bent over and fucked up the ass by my manager, who also has his hands in my finances.
I let the silence linger, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.
He stands. “You got any of that food leftover from the game this weekend?”
“No, I sent it home with the cleaning ladies.”
“Damn, I’m hungry.” His hands are on his hips and he’s rolling them, stretching—right there in the center of my office, like it’s a yoga studio. “What else you got?”
“Fruit.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, not in the mood. Got any burritos?”
“No, dude. Go order one.”
Wallace glances down at me. “Can’t you do it?”
“What the fuck do I look like, your personal secretary?”
“Nah, she quit weeks ago.” He says it so nonchalantly.
I stare at him for a few seconds. “Yeah, probably because working for you is like working for a toddler.”
A spoiled one who is good-looking and pleasant to look at and therefore always gets his way.
Must be nice.
Wallace continues stretching, bending his leg back and grabbing his ankle.
“Now what are you doing?” Man he aggravates me.
“Think I’ll go for a run around the neighborhood—how far is it if I do the loop?”
“Don’t you have your own subdivision to run in? It has to be mine?” Why won’t he just leave so I can shoot Miranda a note, thanking her for the sale?
He goes about stretching his arms, pulling back on his elbow. “Yeah, but too many people know me and always want to stop me to talk. Ain’t in the mood.”
I sigh. “It’s three miles.”
“Cool, I’ll do it twice.” Bending, he reties his sneakers, the hair on the top of his head a gleaming, glossy mop.