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Christ, if I wasn’t careful I’d need to knit a pair of booties for my balls.
“Eh, kinda shitty. It rained almost the entire fuckin’ time. In Malibu, man. What’s up with that?”
I grunted in support and checked my watch.
“But I met someone. She’s…” Slater trailed off without using any of his usual descriptive language, namely tits, ass, or pussy. “Unreal.”
“Gonna try the long distance thing?”
He laughed in his usual throaty Slater way. He always sounded like he’d just smoked a pack of cigarettes embalmed with beer. “Nah, she came back with me. She’s taking a shower right now.”
“Define ‘came back with you.’”
“She’s sort of moving in with me.”
“Oh. Good luck then.” From this angle, I had trouble seeing the numbers on the TV. I’d developed a routine. Look at the TV, look at my phone, look at my watch. I’d have to be a rebel a
nd break the order.
“Yeah. We’ll see how it goes. We’re just getting to know each other.”
A week ago, that probably would’ve sounded more illogical to me than it did right now. Tonight it only rated another grunt and check of my watch.
Eleven on the dot. As soon as I got Slater off the phone, I was calling. Fuck it.
“What about you?”
Ah, what the hell. Might as well tell someone my sordid secret. “I met someone too.”
“No shit? It’s been one hell of a week, huh?” Slater laughed. “You didn’t move her in, did ya?”
“No. I’m going to fight her.”
That statement garnered the silence I was expecting. Who needed flowers and chocolates when you had a cage and gloves?
“You for real?”
“Yeah.”
Blowing out a breath, I told him an abridged version of the story. Leaving out the aborted sidewalk handjob, alley sex, bathtub fingering and post-fencing fuck, of course.
Since we were guys, telling the whole thing would’ve normally taken about a minute. I didn’t have time to embellish as I might have, so the shortened episode ate up approximately thirty seconds interrupted by Slater’s thrice-muttered “dude.”
We hung up after agreeing to meet for lunch tomorrow at KY Burger. It was really called Kool Yum Burger, but that was the dumbest name ever.
It seemed appropriate since I was the dumbest guy ever. Why else would I be calling a woman who hated me to ask about the safety of the woman I’d walked away from?
Using a number I’d sneak-memorized from Mia’s phone the night before and had to try five times to get right, no less.
Kizzy took so long to answer I was about to hang up and try a sixth time. Fuck voicemail. I’d ring right through the side of that bowling bag purse of hers if that’s what it took to get her to answer me.
I wasn’t waiting until morning. I’d show up at Mia’s door first.
“Fox Knox?” she shouted into my ear, sounding like she was in the center of Times Square. Must be still at the fight then.
“Kathleen Cavanaugh?” I shot back.
She made a sound of disgust. “I’ve broken bones for less than calling me that. How did you get this number?”
