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“This conversation is as pointless as a tit-less chick. Fucker probably sees more pussy than your wife’s OB/GYN.” Vicious pointed at Jaime with his bottle, his black hair dripping sweat and water. “And even if he stayed celibate for a while—which I don’t buy for a second—he is about to fuck Little Miss Jailbait.”
“Edie Van Der Zee,” Jaime supplied, moving over to his bench and reaching for his protein shake. “No chance in hell. Up until she started working for us, I used to see her every morning while I was jogging on the beach. She was surfing with her blond, very naked, very tattooed boyfriend. She had hearts in her eyes when he handed her beers at seven in the morning and cupped her ass like it was his beloved firstborn. Apparently, that’s what the cool kids do these days. Drunk surf.” He laughed, shaking his head. I stared at him blankly, not answering, because the only comeback I could think of was going to be my fist. Bane sounded fucking fitting. He was quickly becoming the bane of my existence. I wasn’t even sure why I cared. I wasn’t jealous. No way. She was a teenager, for fuck’s sake. Maybe that’s what looking after someone felt like. Bane looked like trouble, while she simply looked troubled. There was a difference. A huge one.
Troubled could be forsaken, forgiven, and redeemed.
Trouble was the arms in which Troubled died an unhurried, raw death.
He gave her drugs. He gave her booze. He wanted to have un-vanilla sex with her. In short, he did exactly what I would have done had I been eighteen again.
“You’re shaking,” Dean noted dully, moving over to me and taking away the two dumbbells I used for my shoulder press. They hung in the air for long seconds while I contemplated all the ways I could break Jaime’s teeth so he wouldn’t tell me shit like that again.
“Anyway, so, yeah, are you seeing anyone, or what, Trent?” Jaime asked, finishing his protein shake with a gulp.
I shook my head.
“Why not?” Dean asked.
“Because it’s complicated. Because I don’t think there’s a woman out there who can really understand Luna’s situation. Because I’m busy with work.”
Because the furthest I’d ever gone with a woman emotionally or otherwise was with Val, whom I made a kid with, and she fucked off, and I’m trying to find her, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to sink under the weight of pity and expectation. And sometimes, at night, when I lie awake, tossing and turning in my bed, I tell myself that Luna’s turmoil, problems, lack of words, is all her fault and hope she is dead.
“Luna seems to have taken a shine to Edie. I keep seeing them hanging out together.” Dean walked over to the bench next to me, and now we were all either standing or sitting in a circle, sweaty and spent and ready to tackle the day. I plucked the towel off my bench and rubbed it on my face.
“So?”
“So, is that why you’re keeping her? Jesus, dude, pulling words out of you is like performing dental extraction on a hippo. Spill it.”
They all chuckled and stared at me, waiting for an answer. I shrugged, getting up. “Guess so. She is harmless. Just a kid. And Luna likes her. Don’t ask me why. So I let them hang out when Camila is watching.”
“Maybe she can babysit Luna while you go out on dates. She seems to be strapped for cash for some reason,” Dean—always too fucking perceptive—suggested.
“Maybe. If I were dating. Which I’m not.”
“Which you will,” Jaime amended, burping loudly. “Mel has a friend from her dance studio. She teaches ballet. Beautiful, smart, divorced with one kid.”
Here we go again. Ever since I became a single dad, people tried throwing divorcees with kids at me like beads at Mardi Gras.
“Single parents are not a fucking cult,” I gritted my teeth, adding, “and it’s a no.”
“I don’t think Mel asked for your permission, bro. She is just waiting for Katie to get back to her about her class schedule to see when she’s available.”
An ambush. Perfect.
The last thing I told them before I went back up to my penthouse for a shower and a long afternoon of watching shitty movies and flipping through the pages of all the useless reports Amanda had given me over the years was, “I’m not interested in dating.”
But, of course, my friends’ wives were much more stubborn than them.
And so much more determined than me.
“YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I want to see you, but not on Saturday. I wish you’d let me come see you at your house. Your mom can’t be that bad, and I miss…us,” I told Bane on the phone at work. He was the only person to listen to me. The only person to care. Mom was too out of it lately to do much more than lie in bed watching television.
