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Chapter 5
MEL
I glare up at the fancy coffee house. Bee and I would never have been seen dead in a place like this a year ago. How times change.
Smoothing down the skirt of my hostess dress, I take a deep breath and step inside. There is a tinkling bell, and a perky waitress is beside me in seconds.
“Did you have a reservation?”
Of course you need a reservation to get in here. Nothing like the college bar Bee and I used to hang out in.
“Uh, I’m here with Bee Armstrong.”
The waitress nods, tapping around on her computer, a small frown appearing between her eyes.
“I have a Bianca Armstrong, table for two?”
“That’s her,” I grit out, grabbing my purse with both hands. Bee hates being called Bianca.
Nodding happily, the waitress beckons me through, taking me out into a flower-filled conservatory setting. I’d take a moment to appreciate how well decorated it is, but I’m too distracted by what is in front of me. The waitress leads me to the table and places down a menu, leaving after saying something about drinks.
I stare, my mouth slightly open, at the thing rising out of her seat. Her auburn hair is smoothed back into a sleek bun - no messy ponytails here - and she has no freckles.
“Melinda,” Bee smiles, pressing a fake air kiss to my cheek, sitting back down. I’m in too much shock to palm her off. I sink into my chair, not knowing where to start.
“It’s always been Mel. You know that. What happened to your freckles?”
Bee wrinkles her nose, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders.
“They’re there,” she sighs, waving vaguely at her face. “I can’t just wish them away. But I like this look.”
“O…kay. You look…nice.”
She beams, turning to place her order with the waitress – green tea and something obscenely healthy-sounding. Bee has always been slender, but she’s lost a few pounds since moving out. Pounds she didn’t really have to lose.
She does look nice. Her dress is fancier than anything I have ever seen her in, and she looks good with the new hairstyle and makeup. She just doesn’t look like my Bartle-Bee.
“How’s… life?”
I sound totally lame, but I don’t know what she does now she’s not studying. I don’t think she got a job.
“Incredible,” she sighs, a dreamy look entering her eye. “I’ve completely made over Philip’s house. Carte blanche. I’ve met all the important people at his work - we had them over for a dinner party the other week - and, of course, I’ve been planning the wedding.”
I force a smile. Sounds…boring. It sounds like something Bee would have found boring a few short months ago.
“I’m glad it’s all working out for you.”
Bee nods, barely acknowledging the waitress who brings our orders. Her eyes land on my chocolate sauce topped brownie, her nose wrinkling.
“Careful,” she teases lightly, “you want to still fit into your maid-of-honor dress.”
I wave my fork in the air, undeterred. “I’ll just have them leave a little space.”
Bee’s smile seems a little forced. She doesn’t ask me about my life, or college, launching instead into a description about the new décor at her new house - Philip’s house. I let the whole, not asking about my life slide. Maybe she actually does miss college and doesn’t want the reminder.
I ask all the right questions, pushing through the conversation until our table is cleared. My gut is churning. Maybe cream-filled coffee and a heavy, chocolate sauce-coated brownie wasn’t the way to go. Bee has removed everything that makes her Bee from her life. How long until she removes me?
PETE
“How’s the fascinating world of sports law, Luigi?” Andy drops onto the barstool beside me at our favorite sports bar.
“Fuck off, you prick,” I smirk at him, sliding a beer across in front of him.
He’s called me Luigi for the last two years, ever since I got that goddamn tattoo. Right now, being called Luigi is bringing me extremely pleasurable flashbacks to the evening three weeks ago in Tinker Bell’s apartment.
She’s the first woman I have slept with since getting the damn thing who knew it was Luigi on sight. Every other woman has asked why I have a cartoon tattoo there? They have also never shown Luigi extra love while sucking my dick.
“Why do you look like you’re remembering some woman sucking your dick?” Andy squints accusingly across at me. I grin at him.
“Because I am.”
“She must have been good for you to be sitting here all gooey-eyed.”
“She wanted to lick Luigi.”
Andy snorts, taking a pull of beer, his eyes flickering over the TV above the bar where the game is in the second quarter. The Seahawks are playing the Jets. I represent the Seahawks linebacker, Hudson Klein.
“Please tell me that was your opening pick-up line.”
The memory of my hand coming down on her ass, red blooming across it, floats across my mind. Not that I’d share the memory with Andy. I share a lot with him, but that memory is just for me.
“Unfortunately not. Speaking of my Italian friend… when are you getting a matching Mario tattoo?”
“Fuck off, cunt. No one will ever come near my dick with a tattoo gun.”
Grinning, I take a sip of beer, whistling as the Seahawks kicker makes a field goal.
“Nice,” Andy cheers, gesturing to the bartender for two more beers. “How’s work?”
“Pretty good. Better now Artie’s back from New York. I thought that fucking vacation was never going to end.”
“Aren’t people supposed to take a babymoon before the baby is born?”
I roll my eyes. “Usually. But Artie was working on a major transfer deal, and Holly was furious. He had to promise her this once Ben was sleeping through the night, so she didn’t divorce his workaholic ass.”
“Must run in the family.” Andy tilts his beer glass at me. “You’re a fucking workaholic too. When are you going to agree to buy a vacation cabin with me? I’ll show you how to flip it.”
“If I wanted to buy a wreck, I’d pay someone to do it up.”
“Fucking rich prick. You’d be paying me.” Too right, I would. Andy’s a fucking genius. “And I’d be charging you a premium.”
“What happened to ‘mates rates’?”
Andy snorts into his beer, grinning across at me. “I know your net worth, you fucker. I’ve been to your parent’s mansion. No discounts for you.”
Flipping him off, I take a pull of beer and glance around the bar. “Pool table is free.”
“Good.” Andy slides off his stool, snagging his beer and striding across the room. “I’m going to wipe the floor with you. Usual bet?”
“Sure.” Smirking, I pull out my wallet, extracting two fifty-dollar notes and placing them on the edge of the table, my beer on top of them. Andy grabs a cue, adding his own hundred and taking aim. He breaks but doesn’t sink a ball. Game on.
Andy talks a big game, but I grew up with a pool table in my basement. He has a long way to go before he can beat me with anything other than luck.
