Page 24 of Fighting

Lee:

Mateo:

I knockout the entire list of returning vendors with hours to spare before Nessa gets out of work, so I figure I’ll surprise her by getting proactive. I follow the socials of several counties surrounding Peacock Springs as well as small businesses and groups, checking for connections. I’m working on finding an in with my favorite local garage band, Ishtar’s Temple, when my phone rings.

I straighten and stretch my back, then pick up the device, grinning whenPoison Ivyflashes on the screen. It’s only four. I figured I wouldn’t hear from her for at least another hour. It’s probably a pocket dial. Regardless, I pick up.

As I raise the phone to my ear, she’s grumbling.

“I can’t believe I’m fucking calling him for help, but”—she gasps—“ugh, oh fuck. Hello.”

“Hello there, killer. What can I do for you?” I tease.

“My car. It’s dead. It’s a million years old, the windows still have to actually be rolled down by hand, and it’s got a cassette tape player, but it’s mine, dammit. And it’s dead. Gone. And I’m stranded at the stupid clinic in Pennsylvania. I haven’t had luck with a rideshare, and I…” She clears her throat, and her next words come out quickly and quietly, as if they’re painful. “I need help.”

Grinning, I pocket my wallet and keys, though I can’t help but tease her.

“Sorry, what was that last part? I couldn’t quite hear you.” I suppress a chuckle as I step into my motorcycle boots. Once I’ve slipped on my favorite royal blue bomber jacket and coordinating baseball cap, I step out and close the door quietly.

“I. Need. Help,” she grits through her teeth.

“Oh, Ivy. Why didn’t you just say so? Do you want me to look up the bus schedule for you?” I slide into the driver’s seat and thank my remote start for not giving anything away.

“You’re the worst,” she grumbles.

A thrill zips up my spine. “Don’t stress, gorgeous. I’m on my way,” I say as the phone switches to Bluetooth and the plinking of the turn signal gives away that I’m in the car. There’s a tense silence when the perfect distraction hits me.

“Is that my name in your phone? The worst?”

“No.”

“Is it Best I Ever Had?”

“Ugh, gross. No.”

“Number One Pussy-Eater with a trophy emoji?”

She snorts, the sound making the phone line crackle. “Yep. How did you know? But it’s written in emojis. So it’s the weird laughing cat face, a tongue, and the trophy. A few gold medals too.”

I can’t help but laugh along. It’s true that my tongue does not disappoint.

“But really,” she says, “it’s just a picture of the desert, because when I think of you, I dry up.”

Her snappy retort is missing its usual heat, betraying her increased anxiety, so I switch to a soothing tone.

“Hey, Nessie, I’m already on the way. Just tell me what name you saved me under in your contacts. Since you know you’re Ivy in mine. Are just as creative for yourself?”

She exhales, then mumbles in a language I don’t understand. Finally, she says, “Brain emoji, trash can emoji.”

“That’s not it. You don’t actually think I’m stupid. Don’t do that.” What others think of my intellect may be an insecurity of mine, but I know better. “No, you want to call me a man whore. Or some other sex-positive passive-aggressive term.”

“You’re right. It’s the…” Her hesitation gives enough space for my heartbeat to skyrocket.

“It’s what?” The question nudges her along and she rushes out a reply.

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