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“It’s not my fault you smell like a Tijuana hooker’s cooch on a Sunday morning.”
Choosing to talk to the adult, I turn to Finch. “Hey, man, how’s the family?”
“They’re good, Dix. Gabriella just took her first step,” he replies, unable to wipe the smile from his face.
“That’s awesome. You must be so proud.” I motion to our regular server that I’ll have my usual. Scotch. Neat.
Hunter, as usual, ruins our pleasantries. “Yeah, unlike you, Dix, Gabriella is actually standing on her own two feet.”
I look down the bar, wondering where my damn scotch is. But of course he gets into my line of vision.
I finally cave. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means”—he tips his Budweiser my way—“you need to grow some balls and tell that cunt to fuck off and die.”
Finch splutters up his Coke. I’m convinced Hunter was a poet in his former life.
“It’s not that simple. I’ve explained to you why I can’t do that,” I grumble, beginning to get sick of my own voice.
He stubbornly shakes his head. “No, all you’ve done is given me lame-ass excuses,” he refutes. “Cherry Pie will understand that—” I find it amusing that Hunter still refers to Madison this way. The nickname came about when in true Hunter fashionhe decided to give a ridiculous, yet frightening accurate analogy which somehow compared my relationship woes to food.
“That what?” I interrupt. “That before I met her I was fucking anything that moved? And that anything included my patients, and oh yeah, her diabolical stepsister, who just may be carrying my child.”
“Maybe you could lead in with something a little more subtle?” he suggests, scratching over his stubble.
“Like?” I ask, waiting for his ingenious speech.
He shrugs. “Like, I dunno, ‘Hey, Honey Cakes, did you cut your hair? No? Well, whatever you did, you look so pretty, and wow, you look so beautiful today. By the way, love your shoes.’”
I can’t help but laugh at his foolishness. “That’s not going to cut it.”
“Why not? Girls love that shit,” he claims, sipping his beer.
“Maddy isn’t just any girl. She’ll call me out on my bullshit. I’m certain she already knows something is up.”
Hunter blows out a loud breath and nods. “True. That’s why you need to tell her.”
I run a hand down my face.
Hunter is right. I know I need to tell her, but I’m not prepared to lose her. And I know that’ll happen if I tell her the truth. Yesterday, I told Juliet I would tell Madison myself, but if push came to shove, would I? She’s right. She did call my bluff. I’m stuck between a rock and a horny woman. And I hate it.
“What do you think, Finch?” He’s been awfully quiet, which usually means he’s thinking.
He taps the rim of his glass. “Bad language aside, I agree with Hunter for once.”
Hunter fist-pumps a loud, “Hell yeah,” and adds, “Can I have that in writing?”
Once again, I ignore Hunter’s theatrics. “You think I should tell her?”
“I think you should tell themboth,” Finch replies wisely.
I pull a pained face, not liking that option in the slightest.
“I know you’re trying to be honorable, Dix, but there is nothing honorable about that woman. She says she won’t tell anyone your secrets, but do you actually believe her? I mean, she doesn’t have a very good track record.”
“Not to mention her pussy would eat you for breakfast,” Hunter pipes in, trying to be helpful. But he’s not. Both Finch and I turn to look at him, revolted.
He raises his hands. “What? I’m just saying…”
