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I pause, considering the totality of the situation for a moment. “No,” I finally concede. “It’s really not our place, man. That’s not the mission.”
“Damn. I would have loved to decimate that cocksucker in every conceivable way.”
“Oh, well. I guess even a guy as awesome as you can’t have everything, Josh.”
“Actually, I’m beginning to think he can.”
My heart rate quickens. “Wait. So you do wanna tell the wife about his extracurricular activities?” I was secretly hoping he’d say that.
“No, sorry. I wasn’t referring to ratting him out. Kat’s asleep on me. I was looking at her face when I said that.”
I chuckle. Who the hell is this head-over-heels romantic and what has he done with my commitment-phobic, emotionally stunted, eternal bachelor of a best friend? “Oh, well, I can see why you’d say that, then.”
“Kat’s totally drooling right now,” Josh whispers, but his tone is as if Kat is gracefully doing pirouettes across a white-sand beach at sunset.
I snicker. “Yeah, but I bet it’s really pretty drool.”
“Actually, it is.” Josh chuckles. “But, anyway, okay, yeah, I agree. We don’t tell the wife she’s married to the world’s biggest scumbag.”
“Not today, anyway. I might not be able to control myself tomorrow. I make no promises.”
“Hey, you gotta follow your conscience, dude. I trust you. But just not today.”
It’s the right call. If I revealed this guy’s douchebaggery to his wife today, he’d wrongly conclude it was Josh who’d hastened his undoing, which could risk the guy coming after Josh to retaliate. And that’s not something I’d ever want to set in motion. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over my years of fucking over douchebags through anonymous hacking, it’s that you’ve got to do it in a way where they can’t put two and two together and track down their tormentor. Yeah, the smart thing would be to fuck this guy over in a couple months or so, and in a way that’ll make his wife—and therefore the target—think she’d stumbled across evidence of the target’s misdeeds, organically, through sheer coincidence. I smile wickedly at the thought, my heart already skipping a beat about all the fun I’m going to have when the timing is right.
Josh asks, “So can we somehow make sure the wife’s not there when Kat and I arrive?”
I look at the box on my screen that’s displaying the wife’s current location and inform Josh she’s still at a high-end hair salon. “Don’t women’s hair appointments at hoity-toity salons take at least an hour or so?” I ask. “Her appointment’s at one of those really fancy places where they give you cucumber water and wash your hair, so she should be gone a while.”
Josh laughs. “That’s your definition of a fancy salon? They give you water and a shampoo?”
“Hey, I go to Supercuts, man. What do I know?”
“You do?” His tone is dripping with sarcasm. With a laugh, Josh adds, “I totally couldn’t tell that from looking at you, Henn.”
I laugh with him. Josh can be an entitled prick at times, simply because he doesn’t know any better, thanks to his upbringing. And yet, he’s my entitled prick. The coolest, most fiercely loyal entitled prick of a best friend anyone could ever ask for. “So, here’s the sitch, man,” I say, ignoring Josh’s mockery about my lowbrow grooming habits. “When you get there, the name Frank Farmer is on the approved visitors’ list at the guard station. Just text me when you’re there and I’ll go in and freeze the bastard’s hard drive.”
“Will do. We’re almost there. Sit tight and wait for my signal, okay?”
“Yup. No worries. I’ll just be sitting here, watching him watch porn. Don’t you worry about a thing except bagging that babe.”
“I’ll do my mighty best.”
“Is that a note of anxiety I detect in your voice, boss?”
“Yeah, this is life or death, man. I don’t wanna fuck it up.”
Another smile unfurls across my face. During our first year of college, Josh let down his guard and told me about his acute anxiety regarding his brother, Jonas, who, at the time, was struggling with severe mental health issues following several traumas. But since then, Josh has rarely admitted to feeling anxious or vulnerable about a damned thing. He’s certainly never displayed anything but suave confidence when it comes to women.
“Aw, come on, you can’t fail,” I say. But because I can’t resist the chance to tease him once again about the moronic advice he gave me in Las Vegas, I add, “Just dick it up and the babe will be eating out the palm of your hand.”
“Gee, thanks for the tip.”
I snicker. “No prob.”
“I’ll text you when we’re there.”
“Roger.”
I’m expecting Josh to reply with “rabbit,” since anyone who’s hung out with Kat Morgan for any length of time acquires the silly habit. In fact, Kat once told me in Vegas that replying “rabbit” in response to “roger” is “sacred Morgan law.” When Josh doesn’t say it, however, and I call out his name, I realize he’s already ended the call.
