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Turning away from her, I focus on my computer, dismissing her entirely.
With a scoff, she marches away, slips on her shoes, grabs her coat, and slams the door as she leaves. The moment she’s gone, I dial Garrett’s number.
“Let me guess. You didn’t like her,” he says by way of greeting.
“She just kept pouting. Do men really like girls who pout so much?”
Garrett laughs on the other end of the line. “We don’t like what most men like, remember? It makes my job hard, sure, but I’m just trying to find you the right girl, Emerson.”
“Apologize to Rita for me, and never send her back to my house.”
“You got it.”
The line is silent for a moment as I look over the emails from Maggie on the new app update from the developers.
“That’s not true, you know,” I mumble as I scroll through her messages. I can hear the white noise in the background, which means Garrett is in the car.
“What’s not true?” he replies after a moment.
“When you said we don’t like what most men like. I think our tastes are very much in line with the majority. We’re just unique in that we’re not afraid to pursue them.”
“We aren’t afraid to pursue them in a healthy way.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll send a new girl for you tomorrow,” he says after a moment.
“Don’t bother.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Are you sure? You seem stressed. We’ve got the club opening next week and investors to please and the state breathing down our necks.”
It’s true—I am stressed. On top of everything Garrett just mentioned, my son has not returned my phone calls in four months. But the idea of meeting a new pouty sub only stresses me out more.
“I don’t think you even know what you want,” he says absently, and I glance at my phone on speaker.
“I thought I did. These girls want praise, but they don’t want to earn it.”
“Negative attention is still attention,” he replies.
“And you know I don’t like brats.”
“I know, Emerson. But you’re going to have to give someone a chance to impress you before you toss them out. Let me send you another one tomorrow. There are plenty of girls willing to do whatever you want.”
“Maybe next week. Keep the application open.”
“You got it.”
After hanging up with Garrett, I sift through the pile of letters on my desk. It’s mostly junk, but there’s a handwritten envelope that grabs my attention. Cutting it open, I find a check. It’s for two thousand dollars from a name I don’t recognize. In the memo portion of the check it says, Security Deposit for Apartment 623.
It takes me a minute to realize this is Beau’s address. Or at least it was. I had no idea he even moved, let alone had the security deposit sent back to me. Didn’t he move in with that girlfriend of his?
The one he never even let me meet because he was too ashamed of me, I think grimly.
This could be good. If he needs the money back, he’ll have to come to me to get it. Picking up my phone, I type out a quick text, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel.
Your landlord sent me your security deposit. I’ll hold on to it for you. Come over whenever you need it.
Naturally, there’s no answer. The entire screen of texts are all outgoing without responses. I have confirmation from his mother that he’s at least alive and doing okay, so I can sleep at night. I just wish he’d talk to me again. Too bad disappointment seems to be the theme of my week.
