Page 39 of Intoxicated
“How many blue armpits and ear gauges did you wade through to find me?”
“How many manbuns and socks with sandals did you wade through to findme?”
I chuckle. “Too many. Turns out I had to look to rural Oregon to find a guy in a trucker hat and old jeans.” He took off the hat after we arrived to his place. I saw the closet he stuffed it in, though. The back of the door boasted a series of hooks that hung a wide,widevariety of hats he must have collected through his life. He’s like a woman with shoes and purses! “What’s up with that, anyway?”
“You work outside enough, you learn to wear a hat to keep your face and scalp from burning.”
This time I’m the one raising my eyebrows. “You work outside, huh?” Damn. I can almost see it. Imagine his shirt soaked in sweat and his brow glistening like a diamond as he chops wood in the sun. Ooh, those are some seriously rippling muscles. Muscles I know can move like a demon sent straight from Hell to punish me for my sins.
Hot! (Just like Hell.)
“I’m fairly handy. Spent a lot of time as a kid hanging out with the landscapers and handymen that came around our property. One of my best friends as a teen had a dad who owned a small construction company. Kind that builds custom cabinets, sheds, stuff like that. He taught me a few things. Combine that with shop and metal class in school… eh, I’m not going to change the world, but I can repair and build things for my grandma.”
This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned his grandmother. That’s not something I’m used to with this type of guy. The only ones who go out of their way to mention their grandmas to me are those playing up her diamond ring collection (thanks, Jason) or pretending that she thoroughly changed their lives before she died. “Could you build me a doghouse?” I ask.
“Sure. Why? You have a dog?”
He’s surprised enough that I can tell such a fact would break his profile of me. Well, I don’t have a dog. Or a cat, for that matter. So he can rest assured that his profile is up to date.
“No,” I say, placing my trash next to his. “Thinking about moving, that’s all.”
He cocks his head, urging me to explain.
“I hear I’m a big bitch.”
It takes him a few seconds, but when he finally gets my stupid joke, Drew is hunched over laughing. I can smell his breath from here. Very,veryChinese food-y. I’m sure mine smells as pristine as an untapped water source, too.
“That’s right. Yuck it up.” I snort into the back of my hand as I lean against the end of his couch. “I’m only saying what you’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, I’m not entirely sure you know what I’m thinking.”
I don’t know where the serious tone came from, but he has my attention. Drew reaches into the take-out bag and removes two fortune cookies. I say nothing as I bite the plastic open and crack the spun sugar into two.
“You’ll make a painful decision you might not regret.”
Drew is looking over my shoulder. I crumple the fortune and maintain my nonplussed demeanor as I toss the trash back into the bag. He doesn’t hide his fortune from me.
“You’ll go on a trip soon.”
“Who do you think writes these things?” Drew’s mouth is full when he speaks, flecks of fortune cookie spewing across the floor and coffee table. I follow his lead, but keep my mouth closed, thank you. “Everywhere you go, they say the same freakin’ stuff. Do you know how many trips I’ve gone on because of fortune cookies?”
“What do you want them to say?” I ask. “They’ll never be accurate. You need tarot cards for that.”
I almost had him again. “They could at leasttry.Tell me I’m going to make a thousand unexpected bucks. Tell me I’m specifically going to Mexico.” He grins at me. Doesn’t take clairvoyant gifts to know what he’s about to say. “Tell me I’m gonna stick it in some dank pussy by the end of the night.”
All right. I knew the gist of what he was about to say. Just not…that.
“Dank, huh?” I slowly turn my head, foot rolling in the air as I air out my disappointment in his words. “Dank. Pussy.”
He snorts up some snot, arms bent behind his head and food baby poking out of his pants. Drew is lucky he still has a sizable bulge in those jeans. Otherwise, I’d be outta here. “Yup.”
“Dankpussy.”
“That’s the word you’re hung up on, huh, Princess?”
My palm meets my forehead. As my hand drags down my face, I groan. And burp. Couldn’t avoid that one. “My pussy is not dank,” I assert.
“Do you not know whatslangmeans? Maybe you’re getting old and behind the times. Pretty sad for however old you are. What? Thirty-five? Woof. Older than me.”
