Page 23 of Delayed Offsides

But I’m in control. I might have turned into a high-school chick obsessing over the opposite sex, but I’m still the one in charge, damn it.

As I turn off the water, I hear my phone dinging with messages, but I have no idea what they are between the spider web cracks in the screen.

I try calling Callie once more, but again, no answer.

I don’t have time to stop by her apartment, and with it being a Monday, she’s more than likely already at work.

Outside my condo, I run into Mase, who’s waiting for me in the lobby. He’s smiling.

“What?”

“You really need to get that screen fixed so you can seewhoyou’re texting,” he notes, handing me a coffee.

I stare at him, and then it dawns on me. The picture I sent to Callie apparently went out to more than her.

“I couldn’t see. Who’d it go to?”

“Everyone in your contacts.”

Shit. Mase laughs.

I shrug. “Whoops.”

Mase shakes his head as we walk toward the elevators. “Even Granny B got it. She sent out a mass reply.”

That earns a laugh. I sip my coffee and give myself a few feet of distance before I reply to him, knowing he’ll probably take a swing at me. “She probably went crazy over that.”

“Don’t be nasty.” When we’re at the elevators, he glares at me, blue eyes annoyed, but if I had to guess, he’s not all that upset. His posture’s relaxed. Fucker probably is. He has regular pussy in his bed every night when he’s home.

Not me. I have a goddamn Sharpie and a cracked cell phone, and look where that’s got me.

“I’m not being nasty.” I lean against the wall in the elevator, watching the numbers count down to the parking garage. “Bagging her would be.”

He shoves me into the door when we step out.

And then I laugh, knowing who else saw the message. “Ami saw my dick too.” My eyes brighten with amusement.

Mase grins, unable to look at me. “Yeah, she asked me why you would send her a picture of a clam.”

“A clam?” Like a clam in a shell? Is she blind?

“Yeah, like a razor clam.”

And then it dawns on me. I have no idea what a razor clam looks like, but I need to know. Knowing I can’t look on mine, Mase hands me his phone, and I google razor clams.

Have you?

Don’t. It’s gross. And fucking offensive.

I’m not amused with what’s revealed to me. A razor clam is in the shell sure, but the neck of it, which I assume is “my dick” to her, is fairly long and black on the end. My dick has no fucking black on it. Well, aside from the Sharpie but still, what the fuck was she thinking?

“Are you fuckin’ shittin’ me? My dick doesnotlook like that!” I point to the screen with a dramatic jab, half tempted to throw it. “It’s fuckin’ black on the end!”

Mase is laughing so hard he can’t start the car, his head resting against his steering wheel. I want to reach over, lift his head up, and then slam it back down into the wheel for laughing at a time like this. Selfish motherfucker.

I have to set the record straight with Ami. So I dial her number.

She answers, thinking it’s Mase. “Why the fuck would you say my dick looked like a razor clam?” I ask when she answers, not wasting any time with hellos.

---