Page 39 of Ship Happens
Meanwhile, I have never heard of Chad Smith. Or rather, I’ve probably heard of so many Chad Smiths that the name is synonymous with familiarity. For his sake, however, I widen my eyes and act impressed.
“No shit? I never would have thought.”
“Well, I don’t like to tell many people. I’d hate for someone to think I was bragging.” His expression sobers. “Let’s just keep this between us, though, okay?”
I zip my lips. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Frankie joins us, and I snag a quick glance at her name tag.
“Gina Tagliano?” I lick my lips and read it again to be sure.
“If he can be Chad Smith, I can be Gina Tagliano.” She flicks her finger toward Ice Pick’s name tag, not realizing that this is his actual name and not the most generic thing he could come up with.
“You gotta pick a funny name too,” Ice whispers. “We can make a game out of it.”
And now he’s playing along. Fuck my life.
“If I have to loosen up a bit, so do you.” Frankie nibbles her bottom lip and nudges me toward the table.
Yes, fuck my life indeed, because that flirty look is all it takes for me to bend at the waist and scrawl the name Leviticus Deuteronomy. “Weird enough for you?”
“Leviti—you just wrote books of the Bible, jackass. Here, give me that.” Frankie snatches the pen from my hand and sets to work. Seconds later, I receive my new name.
“Chester . . . Copperpot? Why does that sound so familiar?”
She slaps the nametag onto my chest as Ice Pick giggles like a schoolgirl beside her. Before she can answer my question, feedback squeals through a microphone and a perky blonde steps to the front of the room. We listen as she squints and grins and gives us her spiel.
“If she pours on that sweet act any thicker, we’ll drown,” Frankie whispers beside me.
“Sure as hell beats pretending to be Chester fucking Copperpot, whoever that is.” I shift my weight and continue “listening” to the rules of the game. “What was the Sinner activity this afternoon? I’d rather be doing that.”
Frankie turns to face me, no longer caring about the woman at the head of the room. “Remember when you wanted me to try? Just a little? Maybe you could do the same. Maybe we can both benefit from seeing how the other half lives, hmm?”
She keeps her voice low so that Ice Pick can’t hear her, though I don’t think that’s an issue. He’s actually entranced by the blonde. And now that I think about it, maybe this wasn’t the best activity to take him to. He doesn’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to wooing women.
It’s too late to back out now, though. The doors swing shut behind us and the lights dim as the blonde jangles a little bell and instructs the men to take a seat. My heart squeezes in my chest as Frankie—Gina—gives me a flirty wink before joining a gaggle of women near the blonde.
Ice Pick and I do as instructed. The little tables are far enough apart that the private conversations remain private, but he and I sit as close as we can. I fully understand the risk we’re undertaking, and Ice Pick seems to at least grasp the need to stick together. Frankie, on the other hand, chats with the women as if she belongs with them.
And that’s when I remember that she does.
She isn’t one of us, and Jim’s little science experiment won’t change that, even if she’s playing nice now.
A lavender sheet of paper rests on the table. This is how I’m meant to keep track of my dates, but it might as well be Frankie’s vagina because I have no plans to do anything with it. The little bell rings again, and the women take their positions at the various tables, with instructions to move counterclockwise around the room. I’m not surprised to see that we have a surplus of men, but that means Ice Pick and I will need to wait a bit before any ladies swing our way. I turn my attention to the room. While I’m just sitting here, I might as well make use of my time.
We haven’t taken out any of the Normie agents yet. They don’t stick out like sore thumbs in a crowd of Normies, though. It’s much more difficult to spot them in this setting.
While analyzing the men and women, my gaze keeps returning to Frankie. She offers easy, relaxed smiles to the first two men, but her eyes hold no interest. As she scrawls something on her notepad, I’m dying to see what she’s written. What does she think of these men?
Why the fuck do you care, man?
I don’t know. But I do. And that’s a fucking problem.
I nearly jump out of my skin as a woman drops into the seat in front of me. With a reluctance that scares me, I tear my eyes away from Frankie and give this person my full attention.
A laugh springs into my chest, but I shove it down with sheer willpower. If Eighties were still alive, this would have been hisperfect partner. Her red hair belongs firmly in a Whitesnake video, and that electric-blue eyeshadow isn’t doing her any favors. The woman smacks a wad of spearmint gum that fights for its life amid a cloud of cigarette aroma as she holds a hand toward me and offers a breathy, “Hey, I’m Twilight.”
Twilight might want to lay off the Pall Malls.
