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The first generation were all married (except Eric) and had wives and children (except Eric).
But the minute I clapped eyes on him, I was into him.
That was because he was mega hot.
It was also about other things, which I wasn’t in the place to contemplate fully at that moment, seeing as it was now closer to two in the morning, and he had no reason to be leaning against my car at that time—or ever.
Yet there he was.
I restarted walking toward him, and when I arrived, I quipped, “Of all the gin joints.”
“I’m not finding anything funny, Jessie,” he replied.
Hmm.
One could say we hadn’t had very many deep conversations (as in…none).
But I’d been around him somewhat frequently, seeing as Raye, one of my three besties, was not only hooked up, but shacked up with Cap. This meant they often came to The Surf Club to have lunch or grab a cup of joe. And The Surf Club was where Raye, my other two besties, Harlow and Luna, and I worked.
Obviously, I’d heard his voice, which was normally deep and mellow, but it could get smooth, rich and warm as fudge when he said things like, “Thank you,” after I put one of Lucia’s (our chef) divine creations in front of him.
Now, it was still deep, though not at all mellow, or smooth. Instead, rough and edgy.
In other words…pissed.
“Eric—”
He cut me off. “Have you lost your fuckin’ mind?”
“No, I?—”
“Wrong,” he bit off. “You have. You’ve lost your fuckin’ mind.”
Now, hang on a second.
This guy worked with my friend’s boyfriend.
No, wait.
Cap was my friend too, so take that degree of separation out, he worked with my friend.
I waited on him a couple of times (right, that was a lie, I’d waited on him multiple times).
And I went out and had wings and beers while watching the Cardinals with that crew once, and he was there.
Other than that, and the mad crush I had on him from not-so-afar, this guy did not factor in my life.
“What I’m doing has nothing to do with you,” I told him.
“Wrong again,” he retorted.
I was losing patience.
No surprise, since I wasn’t the most patient being on the planet, or even in the top ninety-nine percent (and on my bad days, such as now, I occupied more of the lower .3 percent bracket).
“How do you figure that?” I snapped.
“I take it you haven’t read the Rock Chick books either.”
