she sang the Rocky theme…” I couldn’t help but smirk. “Solo…”
Rick shook his head. “Jesus, Carl. She’s gonna hate your fucking guts.”
“She can hate my guts, I couldn’t give a toss, just as long as she learns to apply herself to the programme, or gets the fuck out of it.”
He paused, and I made him wait, didn’t say another word.
“Did you get my message?” he asked, finally.
I took a swig of beer. “Yeah, I got it.”
Rick shrugged. “So? It’s good, right?”
“That our little sugar baby wants to head over and chill on a Wednesday afternoon? She probably thinks you’re paying.”
He scowled. “Don’t ruin it. It means she’s still keen.”
“It means she’s after more cash.”
“Or more cock.” He leaned back against the kitchen island. “Can you be here?”
I stared at him. “When have I ever been here on a Wednesday afternoon?”
“Fine,” he said. “So, what if she wants to fuck?”
I shrugged. “Is that what you want?”
He sipped his beer. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He tipped his head. “Maybe, yeah.”
I propped myself on the worktop. “Solo?”
His cheeks pinked. “No…”
“Oh, come on, Rick. When have you ever invited one over in the week?” And he hadn’t. The idea was absurd. Together or not at all, that normally stretched to everything.
He sighed. “She’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Just… different.”
I took a breath. “She must have a magic pussy if you’re all hung up on it after one little fuck.”
“It’s not just that.”
“Of course it’s just that,” I said. “What do you think you are? Fucking soulmates?” He looked shifty. Awkward. It bothered me. I fucking hate secrets. “What is it?” I said. “Spit it out.”
He turned away, pretended to wipe something down from the sink. “Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” I said. “You’re up to something.”
He groaned. “For fuck’s sake, Carl, why do you always fucking do this?” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He hovered as I reached for it. “Before you read this, know that I had to really dig, and this isn’t recent, and it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Just hand it over, what did you fucking find?”
“And I’m seeing her.” He kept it above his head. “I’m seeing her Wednesday regardless, and I’m scoping it out, and I like her. I really like her.”
“Just give me the paper, Rick.” I took it from his hand, and he looked away as I unfolded it. A collection of Facebook statuses. Quizzes, and comments on other people’s tags. My eyes soaked it all in. “So, it’s done,” I said, folding it back up. “Another pointless exercise.”
He slammed his hand on the counter. “I knew you’d be like this.”
I downed the rest of my beer, telling myself I wasn’t bothered, that this was just another par for the course, but I felt strangely disappointed.
He shook his head. “Just let me scope it out.”
“I don’t have fucking time,” I snapped. “Find someone else.”
“Please, Carl, just give me a chance…”
I sighed, and there was disappointment. Definite disappointment. “I don’t have time for this shit.” I grabbed another beer and stepped away, but he didn’t follow.
He stood with his arms folded, and his expression was resolute and steely and all fucking loved up. “I’m seeing her on Wednesday,” he said. “And you can either be there or not, but I am.”
“So, why tell me?”
“Because we’re honest with each other. Because I want you to know,” he said.
“And now I know.” I shrugged. “Do whatever you want, but I’m out.”
He took a couple of steps in my direction, and his voice had an edge of desperation. “Six months, you promised.”
“And you rendered them unnecessary.”
“But I didn’t. Don’t you see that?”
“I see exactly the opposite.”
He scowled, shook his head. “What about the weekend? What about stretching tight little cunt and taking her together? Hey? You telling me you don’t want to do that now?”
I sighed. “Fucking hell, Rick. I don’t know.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll cancel her. I’ll call it all off, right now.” He pulled out his phone and began to text, but my hand landed on his wrist.
And I had nothing to say, no fucking reason, and he knew it.
His eyes were victorious.
“I’ll see her Wednesday,” he said. “I’ll work it out.”
And I didn’t argue.
I didn’t say another fucking word.
Do I smell like horse? I pulled my t-shirt to my nose, took a whiff. Hmm, maybe a little. I pulled my emergency perfume from my handbag and spritzed the shit out of myself, then rubbed my fingers in my armpits to check for body odour. Safe enough.