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Poppy’s expression is somewhere between embarrassment and mortification. “Heeeeyyy,” she says.
“How crazy is this? How you doin’?”
“I’m fine. Good. And you?” She’s focused on his forehead.
I look back and forth between them. He better not have fucked her. “You two know each other?”
Miller frowns. “Uh, yeah.” He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at Poppy.
When I turn back to her, she’s making hand gestures that she quickly turns into a ponytail adjustment.
“It’s nice to see you again. I have another client.” She gestures over her shoulder and looks at me briefly. “If something comes available before Saturday, I’ll be sure to have Bernadette call you.” She spins around and rushes off down the hall.
Bernadette confirms my number, and I take one of Poppy’s cards, slipping it into my pocket as we leave.
I wait until we’re outside before I start with the questions. “How do you know Poppy? Did one of you fuck her?”
Miller stops walking to stare at me. “What?”
“Poppy. You know her. How?” Jesus. Why the hell do I sound so pissed off?
“You seriously have no idea?” Miller seems surprised.
“No idea about what?” I glance between him and Randy, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
Miller runs a hand through his hair. “She’s been to your house before, dude.”
I guess that explains why she looked familiar. “So she’s a bunny?” I don’t like that possibility. She doesn’t seem like that type, or maybe I just don’t want her to be that type. I try to place her in my memory, but come up with nothing.
“No, man, she’s no bunny,” Miller replies.
The only girls who come to my place are the ones looking to get fucked by a hockey player. “Why was she at my house then?”
“Because you invited her.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Oh, fuck.” Randy smacks Miller’s arm. “Isn’t she the chick who rubbed the dick off your forehead last season?”
Miller grimaces. “That’s the one.”
I vaguely remember pictures of a dick drawn on Miller’s forehead going viral on the internet last year. But I don’t remember Poppy at all, let alone her being the remover of the dick. However, that night is pretty fucking vague, as are many nights over the past couple of years.
“Does someone wanna fill me in here? Did one of us fuck her?”
“No, jackass, she came to your house with her friends, one of which you ended up fucking,” Miller snaps.
Well, that explains why she won’t make eye contact. “At least I didn’t fuck her; that woulda been hella awkward.”
Miller gives me a look and shakes his head.
“Is there more to the story?” I ask.
“Nope. You fucked her friend; she wiped a dick off my forehead. That’s about it.” Miller’s SUV beeps as he unlocks the door.
I’m not so sure I believe him. Something about this still isn’t quite falling into place.CHAPTER 6TOUCH ME
TOUCH ME NOT
POPPY
I head straight for my therapy room to change the sheets. I don’t have another massage for a little bit, but I need to get away from Lance and his hockey friends before one of them says something and outs me. That’s a level of embarrassment I can’t deal with right now, if ever.
My room smells like massage oil and Lance. I close the door, and try not to get all swoony over his cologne, or deodorant, or whatever that awesome scent is. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or sad that he didn’t show any signs of recognizing me—not from last year, or when we were kids.
This day was so normal prior to an hour ago. Everything in my life was normal. Maybe even a little boring and predictable, but I don’t necessarily think there’s anything wrong with consistency. Now that normalcy has been turned inside out by the reappearance of Lance, I can’t decide whether it’s good or bad or somewhere in between. Although, I managed to put my hands on him for an hour without inadvertently groping, which is definitely a good thing.
My plan is to prepare quickly for my next appointment and run out to grab a bite to eat, because I have back-to-back sessions for the rest of the evening. I toss the balled-up top sheet in the laundry hamper. It takes a lot of effort for me not to sniff it first, like some creepy obsessed fan.
“Stupid.” I pull the rest of the sheets off the table, tossing them into the laundry as well. I miss, and they land in a heap on the floor. When I crouch down to pick them up, I notice a cell phone lying under the chair in the corner—the one where clients leave their clothes.
It vibrates across the floor toward me, a contact lighting up the screen. I blink a couple of times, sure I can’t be seeing it right, but I am. The caller has been named DO NOT FUCKING REPLY in all caps. Maybe it’s a joke. It stops ringing, and the screensaver pops up. It’s definitely Lance’s phone, because the image is the Chicago team logo. A few seconds later, it starts ringing again.
