Page 21 of Wild Love
“Ah, let her be,” Jerry says. “She’s been cooped up in the car all day. So, DJ, tell me about this job.”
My friend lights up and goes into it, telling her dad every single detail.
“You don’t know which player or what they’re endorsing?” Her dad leans back in his chair and takes a long drink of beer.
“No, but I checked out all the guys on the team and their endorsements, and there wasn’t anything crazy. My guess is that it’s some diva who needs a handler to make sure he shows up to set and looks pretty. Maybe Jack Wyld.” She looks at me. “He’s got quite the reputation for partying.”
“Jack’s a nice guy. I doubt he’d do anything to jeopardize a lucrative relationship. The guys I’ve met have all been levelheaded and cool.”
“Hockey players and levelheaded.” Jerry grins. “That’s funny,Maverick.” The way he says my name is almost like he’s mocking me.
Now I really am sweating.
I pull at the collar of my T-shirt to get some air.
“More ink, huh? What do all those mean?”
“Mean?” I drop my gaze to the tattoos on both arms.
“Back in my day, when a man got a tattoo, it meant something. Now you’re all covered in them, and it loses the sentimentality, don’t you think?”
“Daaad.” Dakota pins him with an annoyed glare.
“No, it’s fine. My dad said basically the same thing when I got my first sleeve done.” I stretch out my left arm. “The truth is. Some of them have special meaning; others don’t.”
“Like decorating a house,” Dakota pipes in. “Some items are sentimental, and others you buy because you thought they were pretty.” She places her elbows on the table and looks at Jerry. “Do you still have the pink sofa?”
“In the basement.” He nods.
“Oh, you have to see it.” Dakota reaches out and touches my arm lightly. “The salesperson called it dusty rose, but it’s the color of bubblegum.”
Everything in my parents’ house was white or gray. I think I might like a bubblegum pink couch. Jerry retires to an old recliner in the living room, and Dakota rinses the plates while I finish off the pizza.
“Going downstairs, Dad,” she calls as we start down the creaky stairs.
“Leave the door open,” he yells.
“Oh my gosh. So embarrassing,” she mumbles and flips on a light in the stairway. “Welcome to my teenage hangout. I spent many hours down here watching TV and hanging out with friends.”
“Boyfriends?” I ask.
“Sometimes.” She walks straight to the pink couch and sits down. She runs a hand along the fabric cushion as I take in the rest of the space.
My head grazes the ceiling fan in the middle of the living area. The furniture is mismatched as if it’s a collection of old furniture pieces Jerry couldn’t bear to part with. A worn leather armchair, a plaid upholstered love seat, and the pink couch. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall, and a bookshelf sits underneath, holding dusty books and games.
“Did you have abasementwhere you took girls in high school?”
“Kind of.” I take a seat next to her on the couch. It’s hard, not a lot of give, and it sits low to the floor, making my ass sink down below my knees. “I had a pool house.”
“Oh my gosh, of course you did.” She rolls her eyes but smiles.
“This is a great color,” I say and mean it. “Could be more comfortable, though. This thing is hard as a rock.”
I try to bounce on it and then wiggle to get situated, but it’s like sitting on a bleacher seat.
“My mom always wanted a pink couch. I have no idea why. It was a running joke every time we picked out new furniture.” She plays with the hem of her shorts, staring down at the material between her fingers as she continues. “The day she found out her cancer had returned, she went straight from the doctor’s office to the furniture store. I came home from school, and she was sitting on it and just smiling. She died two weeks later.”
“I’m so sorry.” I cover her hand with mine.
