I continue, refusing to give in to her plea for foul language.
“Oh, he looks like the gentle giant type. I wouldn’t worry about that,” she adds in.
How the heck did we get onto this topic? I’m not sleeping with Jags. My goodness. He’s not my type, I’m sure of that, and I am most definitely not his. My virgin skin probably scared his inked skin away.
“Cali, I have to get going. We’ll talk about this…no, we won’t talk about this again.”
“Well…” she crunches again. Ugh. “When do you want to go life shopping?”
“Life shopping?” I repeat.
“Yeah, you know…you need to get a new life now, so I was going to help you with that.”
“Good-bye, Cali.”
“Later, Miss Piggy.”
I shouldn’t feel a sense of relief when hanging up with my life-long best friend, but she’s seriously driving me bonkers lately. Even when I was dating Landon, she often had something to say about it and was typically prying into our love life between the sheets, which was pretty much nonexistent at the end anyway, but she knows it’s not something I like to divulge. She has no filter. I know this. I’m understanding of it, but she’s not so understanding of my filter that’s very much in place.
Driving aimlessly around in this small barren town, I not so shockingly end up in my driveway at my house. I miss my house. I miss my freedom and my space. Tango and Cali made it very clear they didn’t want me coming back here for a few weeks, until things settled down with Landon but I haven’t heard from Landon since Jags and Tango handled “that situation,” and I’m guessing I would have heard from him by now if he wanted to get in touch.
I park my mini-coop and hop out, moving a little quicker than usual to get inside. Once I lock myself in, memories and reality rush toward me at warp speed. The TV is still on from days ago, and I can smell something rotting in the kitchen. What’s worse is that there are pictures of Landon and me all around the house. I honestly thought he was the real deal. Did he ever love me? Or was it an act from the beginning? I feel like I won’t ever know.
Walking into my bedroom, I tear the sheets off the bed and throw them down into a pile on the ground. They smell like him. This whole room smells like him and the expensive cologne I bought for his birthday.
After smashing each picture from the lineup across my bureau, I move on to the kitchen. A chef, my butt. He was probably just pretending to be that too; although, he did know how to cook. So it must just be a coincidence that he’s affiliated with money-hungry crime and can also cook a mean meal. Stupid jerk.
Besides the rotting trash, the kitchen still kind of smells like that darn bread he had to make every week. As soon as the scent would finally dissipate, he’d make the next loaf. It was the bread he made us sandwiches with. It was honestly just the sweetest thing. I had lunch to bring with me to work every single day. How can someone want to make another person lunch every day and then turn out to be some kind of psycho-criminal? I suppose I could ask Cali; she seems to know the type of man well. Every one of that girl’s ex-boyfriends ended up being more trouble than she could handle. I’m pretty sure most of them are either in jail or dead now. She’s got the golden touch, I guess.
My phone vibrates loudly on the living room coffee table, and it startles me half to death. With my hand clutched over my chest, I walk over and snatch the phone from the table, noticing a number I don’t recognize flashing across my screen. I’m hesitating to answer it, but I feel like I need to. My parents always taught me that it’s rude to ignore someone’s call, and those old habits die hard.
“Hello?” I ask, hearing my voice shake a bit.
“Hello to you too, Miss Sasha.”
“Jags? How did you get my…”
“Cali and Tango know everything,” he laughs. “And I mean—everything.” His voice sort of growls at the end of his statement, insinuating something I don’t want to dig too deep into.
Why would Tango give Jags my number? Why would Jags even want to call me?
“I see. Well, can I help you?” I ask,