Page 58 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I’d taken to the couch with a book, but I keep losing my place on the page. I used my day off yesterday as a rest day, though my body needed the break less than my exposure to Ian. I did brush up on my American history. Lady Bird Johnson’s pet project was the Highway Beautification Act, which, minor controversies aside, sounded right up my alley. She also worked to tidy DC, planting millions of flowers on National Park Service land around the capital. She was a big believer that beauty would make the US a better place to live. Better, one might submit, than “fine.”
She also had one hell of a hair helmet. Which is what made her instantly recognizable when I spotted her image on my desk this morning, gracing the glass of a novelty prayer candle. There’s one on my nightstand, a white elephant gift from the school, with Dolly Parton fashioned in the style of a Catholic saint. They’re all over Austin, done by a local company, with a slew of celebrities and historical figures.
Taped below the icon was a note in Ian’s distinct, blocky writing, reading, “Our lady of better than fine.”
Hot.
I close my book. Alistair stands at the end of the hallway, eyes distant in thought, or… not-thought, possibly.
Ornotnot-thought. He’d been valedictorian of his high school graduating class, after all. And I’m overdue for my apology tour. No time like the present.
“Alistair,” I start, “I know basically nothing about you. I’ve been remiss. And I’m sorry.”
His head quirks to one side, but he doesn’t seem particularly affected by the statement. “It’s cool. I keep to myself a lot. I have a rich inner life.”
It had beennotnot-thought! I gesture to the lounger. “Sit! Tell.”
“Like, what’s in my head right now? ’Cause right now, I’m just pissed because I have an underwear shoot on Tuesday, and it’s gonna fuck up my weekend.”
“Oh, man,” Grant groans, coming in from the dining room with his notebook. “That sucks. Forallof us,” he adds, pointedly.
Heather frowns, she and Mark joining me on the couch. “What? Why?” she asks, unaccustomed to the unspoken rule of the Dawghouse: One doesn’t request elaboration from fellow residents. But after my spat with Ian, I’m thinking that I might have misinterpreted their acceptance of my silence. Just because I wasn’t forthcoming doesn’t mean that no one else wants to be asked about themselves. With these three having such a long history together, they might just take for granted that they know everything about one another. I’m the interloper. I should have been asking all along.
“I gotta cut my water weight.” Alistair eases into the recliner, draping himself across the armrests. “It makes the muscles look more defined. So shitty, though. Dieting is bad enough, but when I’m dehydrating like that, I swear, the last day? I cansmellwater nearby.”
“He’s a dick the whole time, too,” Grant says.
“You would be too if walking past a sprinkler had you drooling. Actually…” He frowns. “I don’t think I can even produce saliva at that point.”
“Is that level of dehydration even safe?” Mark asks.
“Fuck no. But it’s not long-term. And it only comes up every now and then. I’m used to it because of the other stuff I used to do.”
Heather’s brows quirk upward. “Other stuff?”
“He used to do bodybuilding competitions.” Grant laughs. “Until he wasbanned.”
“Banned?” I ask.
“Because of my penis.”
Heather’s “Excuse me?” is a squeak.
Alistair groans, letting his head drop onto the armrest. “When I competed, I’d do my individual program to ‘Like a Rock.’ Because my body is hard. Like a rock. Like, every time the song would go, ‘Like a rock,’ I’d flex. To go along with the song.”
“That’s…” What is someone supposed to say in this situation? “Very literal.”
“Exactly. And I’d do a standing backflip at the end. As a finale. But my abs were so tight, doing that meant that sometimes my dick would pop out of my shorts.”
This time, Mark squeaks.
“My mom always let me know,” Alistair continues. “She’d be in the wings—she’d help me out backstage. So good at coverage for my tanning stuff. And she’d”—he makes a downward motion with his hand, as though tucking in a shirt—“‘Tuck it in, sweetie!’ But I guess some people thought I was doing it on purpose.”
“To be fair, folks probably aren’t expecting full-on dick at an event like that,” Mark offers, reasonably.
“I guess,” Alistair concedes. “It was still sucky that I got banned, but I was already over it. And that’s kind of where I am with modeling, too. The money’s good, and I’ll be putting away a lot more now, with your draconian-ass budgeting,” he says to me, accusingly.
I shrug; I’m more impressed with his use ofdraconian, even if I don’t think it applies. My guidelines are hardly written inblood. “So, what are you saving for? A place of your own?”
