My best friend and money man could go several nights in a row without, it seemed, and holding his liquor had practically been his first childhood milestone.
Nights out were dwindling for both of us, though. My tendency to be “an old man,” according to Thatch, and his secret rendezvous with every available pussy in Manhattan pretty much soured the deal.
It’s not that I didn’t enjoy nights out or the company of a beautiful woman. I loved women. I loved every fucking thing about them. I just didn’t love the idea of having drunken sex with some chick I picked up at a bar. I wasn’t a fan of Pussy Roulette, and when I ate one, I wanted to be able to remember the taste.
My phone rang on my desk as though the call had been put straight through without a heads-up from a lunch-eating Leslie. Normally, Pam rolled my calls to voicemail when she was away from her desk, sorting through them and passing along worthy callers upon her return.
Every ring made it that much more painfully obvious she was out, a duck-lipped, inexperienced seductress in her place.
“Brooks,” I answered, putting the phone to my ear.
“Yo,” Thatch greeted. “I forgot to ask. Do we have BAD practice tonight?”
I covered my groan. I’d forgotten about rugby practice.
That didn’t stop me from busting his balls. “Yes, Princess Peach. We have practice every Monday night.”
“Yeah, but with it being football season and all, I thought maybe Wes was busy cheerleading or whatever.”
Wes was the third member of our bachelor trio and the owner of the New York Mavericks. We teased him relentlessly, but in reality, it was cool as fuck to know somebody who owned a team in the National Football League. A little sweet-talking got us tickets anytime we wanted and field time with the players.
“I take no offense, by the way. Princess Peach is a badass bitch.”
“Most of their games are on Sunday. You know, like the one you talked me into going out to watch last night. I’ll see you at practice tonight,” I said, shaking my head at another ridiculous conversation.
“Geez, Diva. Eat a Snickers.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You know, you force me to say fuck, as in fuck you, way more than I ever dreamed in a business environment.”
His answering chuckle was dry. “Just one of my many talents, K. Most of the others involve a lighter, a forty of beer, and my cock—”
I ended the call before he could finish.
Jesus. Is this guy really my best friend?
The short of it was, yes, he was my best friend. And I wouldn’t change it despite his ability to produce migraines. I was never short on entertainment, that was for sure. But my well of patience had run dry for the day. Simple as that.
Standing quickly, before I could be interrupted again, I yanked the skinny end of my tie from its knot, unwound it from my neck, and hung it on the hook next to my jacket.
I dropped my keys with a clang into my pocket and slid my wallet snug into its spot in the one in the rear.
Retracing my steps from several hours earlier, I passed Meryl with a nod and escaped the building without having to do more than smile politely at passing employees.
The sun nearly blinded me as I pushed the front door open, and the sounds of an active fall lunch hour overwhelmed my office-trained ears. Horns honked and cabbies yelled and pigeons took off in a rush as a toddler ran screaming through the middle of them.
I popped the buttons on my sleeves as I walked, rolling them up to expose my forearms and bask in the dramatically warm weather, and faded into the crowd of pump-wearing women and suit-clad men.
Indian summer, I think they called it, the desertlike arid heat settling deep into my bones and radiating from the inside out.
I could see the sun and city from the wall-to-wall windows of my office, but my lunch hour was pretty much the only opportunity I got to feel it.
That was the real root of my grumpiness, I guess. I worked hard from sunup to sundown, and one simple hour in between was what helped keep a happy head on top of tense shoulders.
“Kline!” the owner of my favorite little mom-and-pop deli called as I pushed my way inside the door.
“Hey, Tony!” I answered, gently making my way through the standing-room-only crowd to shake his hand over the counter.
“Here, here,” he urged, moving some old memorabilia to unearth the one empty seat in the place.
“No way,” I denied with a smile and a shake of my head. “I’ll wait for a table like everybody else. I could use the extra time to clear my head today.”
“Sit, sit, sit,” he said over me, his refusal to let me stand in the crowd and wait a regular occurrence. But he didn’t do it because I had money. Tony didn’t even know I had money. All he knew was I’d been coming in every workday I was in town for the last ten years, and I looked him in the eye and shook his hand every single time I did.
“Thanks, Tone.” Giving in was the only option.
“We got a sandwich for you today, buddy,” he said as I slid my butt onto the seat.
“I hope it’s a pastrami and corned beef on rye. I’ve been fantasizing about it all morning.”
“Ah,” he said with a shout and a wink. “For you, I’ve got just the thing!”
And the truth was, he did—a warm smile, familiarity, and a genuine exuberance. Stuff I needed way more than a sandwich.
“Finally!” Dean remarked as he slammed through my door half an hour later.
I’d just finished finalizing and faxing the original Sure Romance contract. The one where a little quick talking had prevented Leslie’s ill-timed interruption from ruining my life and dragging the company over a swath of hot coals. The one I was shoving down Martin’s throat whether he liked it or not.
Meanwhile, my stomach was working on chewing a sandwich-sized hole through itself.
“I swear that evil trampvestite is the bane of my existence.”
I raised a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow in amusement. If Cassie was the expert of parodies, Dean was the single-most talented nickname giver I’d ever encountered. No two people were alike and no name was deemed off-limits in the name of political correctness. Basically, Dean did the dirty work and I reaped the benefits.
“Trampvestite, huh?”
“Oh, yeah,” he confirmed, pointing to his fluttering eyes. “Fake lashes to here.” He held both hands out generously in front of his chest. “And fake tits out to there.”
I didn’t bother to conceal my laugh.
“She’s had me running all over this goddamn place this morning, putting out fires and sweating through a five-hundred-dollar shirt.”
“You know what will make you feel better?” I cooed.
His green eyes twinkled under the fluorescent lights. “Twenty million dollars and a private island with Brad Pitt?”
“A hot turkey sandwich.”
“Hmm,” he mumbled as he pretended to consider it. “I guess that’ll work.”
I slid the bottom drawer of my desk open with ease, yanked my purse out, and slammed it shut with a bang.
“Let’s go. Feed me. Regale me with all of your tales of woe.”
“She’s been annoying you too,” he argued as I slid my arm through his at the elbow.
“She has,” I agreed. “You just play a much more convincing victim than I do.”