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I tear off onto my deck, where a giggle greets me.
“Drew!” It’s Tiffany, my fifty-something cougar neighbor who is wearing a gold bikini at midnight, with a bucket of makeup on her face and a huge pitcher of margaritas on her table. She’s smoking a clove cigarette. A gust of wind blows hard just as Mark stomps after me, coming up short when he realizes she’s here.
“Oh!” she purrs. “Who’s your friend?” Tiffany stands.
She’s wearing high heels. Gold ones. They match the string bikini. For a woman my mother’s age, she’s in great shape.
But definitely not my type.
Mark does that thing with his voice that guys do when they’re surprised, but are trying to hide it.
“I’m Tiffany!” she chirps, shuffling over on stilettos and holding out her perfectly manicured hand.
“Mark. Hi.”
“Hi there,” she says back, giving me a wide-eyed glance. “Drew! You look like a bear ate you and spat you back out.”
Mark’s lip twitches as he tries not to laugh.
I have to say, normally Tiffany is a fun neighbor to kick back with and have a few drinks, but she’s a stereotype of a stereotype.
Tonight, though, the edges of the world are fuzzy and my body’s full of adrenaline.
She’s still not my type, but that pitcher of margaritas is looking damn fine.
“Been a long day,” I say, rubbing my stubbled chin with my hand, then wincing. The knuckles ache from connecting with Blaine’s facial bones.
I grin at the memory.
“That’s better!” Tiffany giggles. “You look so fierce when you frown!”
“So fierce,” Mark mutters.
I glare at him.
“Like that!” Tiffany gushes.
“Smile, Drew,” Mark says with a laugh. His eyes dart from me to Tiffany, asking a pretty big question without saying a word. I shake my head no imperceptibly, except he catches it.
She doesn’t.
“Drew and I hang out all the time. You might call us pitcher buddies!” She shuffles into her apartment suddenly.
“You’re nailing her?” Mark asks under his breath as I grab his beer and finish it off. Suddenly, our serious conversation from before is so boring.
A door slams shut inside me.
Good. Let the demons pound on it from the inside. I’m done.
“No. She wishes.”
“She’s, um...”
“Well preserved.”
“You always were the one with tact.”
“If I’m tactful, you’re Miss Manners.”
