Page 39 of My So-Called Perfect Life
“Sure, why not,” I agree. “Bring some red, please. I’m out.”
* * *
“Jesus Christ,”I screech. The angry ghost or spirit or whatever it is just grabbed the chick’s ankles and dragged her under the bed.
“How couldn’t you see that one coming?” Mercy asks with a laugh.
I squeeze the blanket around me tighter suddenly feeling a chill.Damn these movies screw with my head. “It doesn’t matter either way, it still gets me. I think it’s more the anticipation than anything else.”
Whether I know it’s coming or not, the wait is what makes it frightening. You don’t know when to expect it exactly.
“Are you sure you want to stay with that orange?” Mercy juts her chin out toward my feet perched on the coffee table. “Every time I glance down and see it, all I can think about are the puddles of vomit from Saturday.”
“Bite me. I like—” My words die on my lips as I stare at the nail polish and a horrible recognition hits me. “Oh my God, Mercy.”
“I know, it’s ugly right?”
“Forget the nail polish,” I chide her with a smack to the arm. “You know what that letter from Mandy means?”
“Ow,” she whines rubbing her upper arm. “Other than Scott is a filthy pig and you dodged a major bullet?”
“I publicly humiliated Ryan! I screamed at him for giving me chlamydia in front of the entire bar!”
She chuckles but then quickly scoots down the couch out of arm’s reach. “Yes. Yes, you did. Right before you puked all over him. Don’t forget about that part.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ryan
Monday nights are always slow.My bottom line would be happier if it had a little more action, but after the insanity of the weekend, it’s kind of nice to have a night to get my shit together. Tonight, I’m watching the baseball game and working on payroll. There are worse ways to spend a night. At least, I shouldn’t get puked on.
“Hey, boss.” Roxy nudges me. “I think you’ve got a visitor.”
I look up from my spreadsheets and realize I’ve spoken too soon. Danielle is walking across the bar. My spine immediately stiffens.
She stops a few feet away from me, as though she’s afraid to get too close. “Can we talk?”
She looks tired, worn out. As though she could use a stiff drink and a long nap.
I don’t know what to do with this woman. Our first encounter was hot and amazing. Our second one was embarrassing and not my preferred exchange of bodily fluids. My head tells me to steer clear of her, or at least out of projectile range, but . . . for some reason I want to move closer.
“Sure,” I say as I stand up. “Let’s go back to the office.” As we walk back, I pray I’m not going to regret this. I think all my nose hairs burned off from the amount of bleach I used in here. I can still faintly smell it.
I gesture for her to sit on the sofa. “Have a seat.”
She nibbles her lip. “I know I wasn’t in the best shape when I was in here last, but I could have sworn the sofa was tan.”
“It was. But vomit is surprisingly difficult to get out and leaves a pretty gnarly stain, so a new one needed to be ordered. Black this time—it hides everything. Plus, leather is nicer and so much easier to clean”
“Oh God,” she moans as she drops her head into her hands. “Your boss had to replace the sofa?”
“Yeah, the other one wasn’t salvageable.”
She drops her hand and starts digging through her bag. “Please, let me pay for it.”
“Not a chance.” I say. “I doubt my boss would accept that. He said something about needing a few extra tax write-offs this year, anyway.”
“Could this get any worse?” she mumbles.
