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I glance at my phone and try to dial Morgan but realize I don’t have her number. That’s dumb of me.
I dial Matty.
“Yo. What’s up? It’s not Wednesday, if that’s what you’re asking about.”
I rub the ridge on my nose. “Why would I be asking about Wednesday?”
“Because that’s when we have league, and you never remember.”
“What day is it?”
“This is the problem with you creative types. You don’t work set hours. You have no concept of time or place.”
Matty seems out of sorts. “Did you not have lunch? Did Blake tell you she’d rather eat toe fungus than kiss you on the lips?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Why do I even talk to you?”
“Because I’m the only one capable of scoring during league, and sometimes my connections help you get better dates. Basically, I’m your life’s assist.”
“You make me sound like a loser.”
Well…I’m the one who put it like that.
“Fine,” he sighs. “Today is Saturday. For normal people, it’s the weekend. You clean your house, water your plants, run errands, plan your night out.”
Morgan tattoos for a living, so she’s a creative. I don’t see her cleaning her house, watering her plants, or running errands.
I swipe another brush stroke on the canvas, but the pink hue is eluding me. I remember why I called Matty in the first place. “Do you have Morgan’s number?”
“Didn’t you get it last night or was it a bust? Talk too much about paint?”
“We watched a mockumentary.”
“A what?”
“A—you know what, never mind. What’s her number?”
“I’d be worried for you if I didn’t know that you have some ungodly pull with the women. It’s why we have such a good league team. Everyone wants your leftovers.”
“What leftovers?” I hold the brush against the canvas waiting for him to spit out the fucking numbers.
“Right. You don’t even notice there are women at the court. You’re weirdly blind to all the women that stuff their numbers into your gym bag. You probably treated Morgan like a buddy, and she went home thinking you friend-zoned her. She went to your place to get laid, Flynn. Not to watch TV. That’s for losers.”
Huh. Had I missed some signals? “I’ll ask her when I call her.”
“I don’t have her number.”
“Then why are you talking at all?” I scowl at the phone and hang up. That was a useless call. I guess I’ll drive over to her house. It’s not as if I can paint. I don’t have the right color. I wipe my brushes, make sure Gremlin has fresh water, and then get into my Audi R8 and speed over to Morgan’s home. There are big black gates blocking my way. On the left side, there appears to be a talk box. I pull close and roll down my window.
“Yes?” comes an unfriendly voice.
“I’m here to see Morgan.”
“Whom shall I say is speaking?”
“Flynn.”
“Hmmm” is all he responds. I wonder if this is the butler Morgan and Blake joked about when she’d taken the picture of the charcuterie board last night.
