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“Girlfriend?” I ask carefully.
He shakes it off. “Nah, just my best friend. She’s not the girlfriend type, doesn’t believe in settling down. She’s great though,” he adds, as if he needs to defend her.
I hold up my hands. “No judgment here.”
But it’s obvious he wants to be more than her friend. Poor sap.
“So, about these wishes. Any good ones up there?” he changes the subject.
I take a sip of my drink, then shake my head. “We don’t read them. They go up on the wall.”
“What if they fall?”
“Huh?” I ask
“Can you read them if they fall?”
I shrug. “It’s never happened so…”
He points to one on the ground near my foot. “Wanna do the honors?” he asks.
“Only if you replace this one with your own.” I pull a black marker from my pocket and hold it out in challenge, knowing he needs to get his feelings for this Pix girl down on paper. I have a feeling if he has to think about what he really wants, he’ll realize it’s her.
He grabs a dollar out of his wallet and smirks, taking it in his hand and jotting down his wish immediately.
That’s what I thought.
He stands up, tacks it onto the wall, and points to the dollar bill next to my foot. “Now read.”
Picking up the dollar, I flip it over and laugh, recognizing the wish that was made by one of the locals a few weeks ago.
I wish for my granddaughter to find a nice man who isn’t a complete toolbox. And for the hundredth time, to score with the damn niners!! Love Dolores xo
“Let’s see if they get their wish…”
CHAPTER1
Gwen
Ipush through the asshole’s door, on a mission, with piss and vinegar running through my veins. First, it was his car stereo—that he still hasn’t finished paying me back for—then, it was the Peyton Manning rookie card he insisted was an “investment” because of the value it would accumulate over the years.
But now, even after I canceled my credit card and got a new one, he somehow got the number and treated himself to a custom-made, top-of-the-line snowboard!
Okay, I know exactly jack and shit about snowboards, but judging by the outrageous number at the bottom of my credit card statement, it has to be top of the line.
I trudge into the apartment, only making it three steps before rolling my ankle. Damn the chunky heels of my boots. Cursing under my breath, I lean against the wall and pry them off. While I was hoping the authoritative clunk against his floors would add to the intimidation factor of his impending ass-chewing, I can’t exactly be taken seriously if my clumsy ass is tripping and stumbling about. Besides, he’s got his death metal—that he swears gets him pumped up for meets—blasting from his bedroom. Going with the ninja approach instead, I silently storm down his messy hallway, dodging dirty clothes and shoes.
For ten months, I’ve overlooked Scott’s spending problem like he overlooked my klutziness. I was understanding when he was reluctant to get a job because he was confident he would make it as a professional snow and skateboarder. He was so sweet, charming, and patient with me and my accident-prone ways, and I wanted to support his dream of becoming what equates to the love child of Tony Hawk and Shawn White. I even convinced myself that letting him drive my car was eco-friendly.
But oh no… this snowboard purchase—when the one he already has is less than a year old—is the last straw.
With my eyebrows perfectly diagonal and my jaw clenched so hard it could crack walnuts, I continue my mission toward Scott’s bedroom. Before I can reach his room and give him an earful, though, I slip on one of the many items strewn about. My arms windmill, and I wrench my back as I try to overcorrect and regain my balance. I grab hold of the closest doorjamb, miraculously catching myself before I crash to the floor.
I hold on, panting while my heart rate slows. Why, oh why, must I be so uncoordinated?
When my breathing evens out, I right myself and look down to see what I slipped on… and oh holy mother of monkey shit, it’s a lacy pink thong—that’snotmine.
I’m a total boy shorts girl, which means some floozy skank has been in this apartment with no fucking panties on.
