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Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2)

Page 7

by C. R. Grissom


  “Nonsense.” Grams shakes her head. “She’s waiting for us now. She can’t wait to meet you. She wants to help.”

  It’s impossible for me to say no to Grams. “Okay, if you’re sure…”

  “You’ll see, love. Before we go, there’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “What is it?” I ask, joining her at the table.

  “It’s about your mother.” Her voice sounds hesitant.

  My pulse races. I don’t want to talk about her. I know Grams has a forgiving heart, but I don’t. “What about her?”

  “Darling, she’d like a chance to explain. She doesn’t want to excuse her behavior, but she feels so disconnected from you. Do you think you might be able to accept a call from her? She’s worried about you.”

  What a load of crap. She’s not worried about me. She’s worried about me writing a character reference for her. Mom’s defense lawyer sent us instructions for writing letters of support to help Mom build a case that she’s law-abiding and well-loved. Solidifying her testimony that she acted on instructions emailed to her by the silent partner.

  Grams sent her copy in immediately.

  My copy gathers dust on top of the dresser in the spare bedroom where I stay when I’m not couch surfing elsewhere. But I’m not going to fight with Grams over Mom. Because Mom would enjoy causing a rift between Grams and me. “I need a little more time to unpack what happened. Her responsibility. You understand, right?”

  “Oh, of course.” She pats my hand. “I want my girls to be happy. Phoebe, I know your mother has faults, but she’s my daughter. And a mother can always hope for the best.”

  Grams’s heart has always been in the right place. I have no idea how she gave birth to such a selfish, predatory woman. “I know,” I agree.

  We take the short walk to building three. As we turn the corner, both security guards stare at us from the front seat of the golf cart. The emergency strobe flashing on the roof.

  “Ladies,” the tall one sneers. “Visitors’ hours are nearly over.”

  Grams bristles beside me. “It’s not yet eight o’clock.”

  The shorter one says, “I’ve got my eye on you, Mrs. Makenna.”

  Her back goes rigid. I wrap my arm around her. “Ignore them.” I squeeze her gently.

  “They’re mean-spirited nobodies who resort to bad behavior to feel better about their miserable little lives.”

  I hear one of them call out, “You don’t know misery, but you will if you break the rules.”

  Grams missteps. I hold her a bit tighter to keep her on her feet, going cold at the thought of her falling and hurting herself.

  “Mannerless clowns,” says Grams.

  “They aren’t worth your time or energy.”

  Grams knocks on the door to four-thirteen.

  The door opens, and Grams introduces us. “Agnes, this is my granddaughter, Phoebe. Honey, meet Mrs. Marlowe.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Marlowe. I’m grateful you’re opening your home to me.”

  Her platinum-blonde hair is cut and styled into a pageboy pixie. Her eyebrows have been drawn with broad strokes. Her lip curls. “Call me Agnes. I hate those two turdballs like poison. They slapped a fine on me for smoking within twenty-five feet of the gatehouse. Fifty dollars! I should’ve shoved the lit end up his butt. Ask me, he has Napoleon syndrome. The little shitweasel. Power’s gone to his head.”

  The image of Agnes putting out her cigarette in the short guard’s butt makes me want to laugh. I grab my water bottle from my backpack and drink to hide my reaction.

  “Your girl is safe with me,” Agnes says to Grams, but then she turns to me. “Can you set me up on all those social media sites? I want to get on Tinder.”

  The water sprays out of my mouth and I choke on the liquid that managed to slide down the wrong pipe. Agnes has to be way older than Grams.

  Grams pats my back. “Can you breathe?”

  I nod, but I’m coughing to clear my lungs. Agnes on Tinder. But then again, the need for companionship has no age limit.

  “I inhaled my water. I’m fine now.”

  Grams makes eye contact. “Honey, you’ll have fun here.”

  I can’t tell whether Grams wants to convince herself or me. I give her a quick hug. “Ten days will seem like ten minutes while I bond with Agnes over social media and dating apps.”

  Grams rolls her lips inward, but her grin still lurks at the corners of her mouth. She pulls me close to whisper in my ear. “Agnes can be a free spirit, but she’s a good person. Please don’t listen to any of her dating advice.”

  I grin. “Never.”

  “Good girl.”

  Gavin steps up to the doorway. “Good evening, ladies. Simone, let me walk you back.”

  I’m instantly comforted knowing Grams won’t have to walk by the guards on her own. Grams kisses my forehead. “See you tomorrow for breakfast.”

  “Good night. Be safe,” I say around the sudden blockage in my throat.

  Agnes flips the dead bolt. “Got any grass?”

  Seriously? “No. I don’t smoke.”

  “Too bad. My grand-nephew went up to Humboldt to check on the farm, but he won’t come back with my share until next week. The property belongs to me, but he and his employees harvest and run the collective. It’s cheaper than Metamucil. I don’t smoke for the high, I toke to poop regular.”

  The next to last thing I expected at a senior center—exposure to marijuana farms and collectives.

  She fluffs her hair. “Will you do my makeup for my Tinder profile? I want to cast the net far and wide for my next lover.”

  Oh boy. “Sure, Agnes.”

  “I need to get laid. Gimme a great profile.”

  “I’ll help you with social media as long as you promise to use protection when you become intimate with a man.”

  “Impossible. An erection on a man my age is as fragile as a dandelion gone to seed. A puff of air can make it disappear quicker than making a wish. You can’t put one on when your lover’s Johnson resembles an over-boiled manicotti.”

  I narrow my eyes. “That’s the chance you have to take. I refuse to help if you won’t promise to use a condom.”

  “Fine.” She grunts. “We don’t have to pinkie swear, do we?”

  “No. Why don’t we create a profile for you on a relationship site instead?”

  “Hell no. I trained three husbands. I’m not taking on a fourth. Besides, your granny took the best-looking guy here. All that’s left are the fogies who belt their pants at their armpits instead of around their waists.”

  “That’s not true, Mr. LaMar is quite handsome.”

  “And can’t keep it up to save his life. He can’t take the little blue miracle boner pill because of hypertension. He wants a companion.” Her face twists as she says the word like it’s something vile.

  “Right.” I don’t want to get into a conversation about relationships versus a booty buddy. I’d feel like a hypocrite considering Tiago’s tempting offer. “Let’s dazzle those men on Tinder. Where’s your makeup?”

  “I like you, kid. You remind me of me at the same age.”

  “Thank you. I like you, too.” Such a relief because for the next ten days I’m her houseguest.

  Agnes shuffles off to her bedroom and I set my backpack near the front door. I’m not sure where I’m supposed to dump my stuff and I don’t want to be presumptuous. She returns with a smallish zippered statement pouch that decrees I’m fabulous, just ask me.

  I want to be Agnes Marlowe when I grow up.

  “Let’s sit at the dining room table—there’s good light.”

  She makes her way to the table and opens her pouch. I dig through to see what types of cosmetics she has available. To my surprise, she has some upmarket brands.

  “You might be right,” she says. “Do you know that Mildred Washington in building two has the clap?”

  “No.” I drop the eyeliner I’m holding. TMI.

  “She got it from St
anley Stiles in building two. They were banging like bunnies a month ago. Well, maybe not bunnies; at our age, it’s more like turtles. But slow and steady wins the race, eh?”

  I wish I could approach sex like Agnes. Tiago makes an appearance in my head. Dark hair, golden-colored eyes that crinkle when he flashes his almost-perfect smile. A mouth made for propositions and sin. His tall frame and eight-pack abs covered in lean muscle. The absolute perfection of his body makes my belly tighten in response.

  Don’t think about him or his offer to show you what good sex feels like. You’re homeless, I scold myself. You still plan to use his gym as a place to crash again when Grams runs out of seniors with spare rooms. I’ve got to get better at crashing there since my first attempt to stay at the gym overnight was an utter failure.

  Besides, sex is so overrated. Just thinking about Rudy, my first, makes me queasy. The back of my neck heats with embarrassment.

  One problem at a time. Focus. These seniors can’t have more unprotected sex. “Agnes, a condom would have protected Mrs. Washington against sexually transmitted diseases.”

  “Look, I told you, at our age we certainly don’t stop sex shenanigans to put on a rubber. Besides, many of us don’t know how to use those contraptions. Some will. Most of the old hippies here would have been smart enough to not make babies. But by the seventies, we had the pill.”

  This place is going to turn into gonorrhea central. “The pill can’t protect you against STDs.”

  “Well, we didn’t know any better. And once you got married, you didn’t need rubbers. Bone-deep apathy and daily arguments prevented baby making. So I never learned how to use these things. Do you inflate them first?”

  “No.” I can’t help but giggle at the image. “I can teach you all how to use them.” Then I realize what I’ve just offered, and I want to clamp my hand over my mouth. Oh crap. Shut up. Shut up.

  “You know, that ain’t a bad idea. We could probably use the arts and crafts room for a demonstration.”

  Why did I volunteer? My hands go numb. Showing a room full of grandparents how to roll on condoms will top my all-time list of mortifying crap I’ve done. What if Grams and Gavin show up? “Sure.” No, no, no. “Happy to play the safety-first game.”

  “Rubbers cost money. I’m not sure anyone here has disposable income to throw at something they don’t think they need.”

  The irony of this situation doesn’t escape me. This role reversal where I’m forced to convince the adult to act with caution makes my head swim. “Agnes, no matter what your age you have to protect yourself. You can’t have sex without them. Look at poor Mrs. Washington. Would you want to be in her shoes right now?”

  I add blush to her cheekbones.

  “Mildred isn’t the prettiest flower in the vase. She probably seized the moment. I can’t say I blame her. Most of the folks here would be too embarrassed to buy them.”

  Truth. I’ve done the condom shuffle to the checkout line at Wal-Stop, too. “We need a booty fund because I can’t afford to buy condoms for everyone on my own, either.”

  Agnes pats my wrist. “Grass made me rich. I can bankroll it.”

  I’m worried that her idea of bankrolling this venture means throwing five dollars at me. “Can you afford enough condoms for everyone? They can be expensive.”

  “Honey, I’m rolling in it. Will you need more than three hundred?”

  “No.” I feel instant relief Agnes understands how expensive contraception can be. “If I shop at the warehouse club near the airport, I shouldn’t need half of that.”

  “Do you have your driver’s license?”

  “For Nevada. I haven’t had time to take the road test here.”

  “Don’t worry about that. As long as your license hasn’t expired, you can drive my car.”

  Now I’ve got to concentrate on how to make good on the condom promise.

  *

  Shopping at BargainClub with Agnes is epic. Long lines at a food sample table? No problem. Agnes—wearing a purple, paisley-patterned caftan and spotless white running shoes—elbows her way to the front by telling people she has no time left to wait. “The Grim Reaper has me on speed dial.”

  She says it with sass and charm through lips painted a stoplight red. No one calls her on her baloney. A word I learned from Agnes.

  “Baloney is the polite way of crying bullshit,” she says. “At my age, I don’t have time to be polite—but you still have time for that particular bullshit.”

  By the time we make our way to the area where they stack medical supplies, she’s asked ten different people about the contents of their carts. She’s pushy, nosy and I’ve fallen under her spell.

  I casually place a value-sized box of condoms in our cart. Agnes lifts it out to inspect my choice. “Don’t go cheap. I hear they have sensual for her kind of rubbers now. Maybe we should skip the condoms and I’ll host one of those sex toy parties instead? Forget manicotti man, I’ll take care of business on my own.”

  Holy cow. What do I say? She’s describing my sex life. “We could stop at a shop that specializes in…personal pleasure appliances on the way home. But that won’t stop the others from getting STDs.”

  “Listen to you. Sounds like buying a refrigerator or a washing machine that specializes in spin cycle only.” She cackles. “Personal pleasure appliance.”

  My face flames, but I grin. “We’re a good team.”

  “Damn straight. Now let’s stock up. We need at least three of those boxes. Can we buy lube here, too?”

  Her voice carries and I wince. One lady wearing a shirt that says Soccer Mom, her cart nearly full of what appear to be halftime snacks, and a man whose cart brims with office supplies scurry out of earshot from us.

  “What’s his problem?” Agnes sneers.

  “A mature woman taking charge of her sexuality probably intimidates him.” She intimidates me, so I might be projecting here.

  “I never wanted to burn my bra, and I like a man who’ll open a door for me, but I like what you said about taking charge.”

  “Absolutely. No one should wait around for a man to give her an orgasm.”

  We head over to the checkout lines. The wait seems endless. I hear snickering and glance over my shoulder. The four girls who follow Tiago around the gym are in the line next to ours. Their leader, the blonde who stared daggers at me when I first joined the gym, is taking pictures of Agnes and me. She’s snickering, while she points at our condom cart. All four girls collapse against each other, laughing like drunks.

  My heart stops. Then it speeds up so fast my vision clouds and I get dizzy. I’m doomed. I’m freaking doomed.

  *

  The Arts and Crafts room is actually kind of nice. Windows form a wall on the left side of the room. White laminate cabinets hold supplies like watercolors and small, blank canvases. Glue guns, construction paper, supplies for creating your own greeting cards line the shelves. I discover an entire cabinet devoted to scrapbooking supplies.

  The management company made an awful choice in who they hired to facilitate security here. Which obviously made me question their overall judgment, but they didn’t spare any expense for this room, and it makes me feel better about the company running this place.

  Agnes spread the word far and wide about today’s tutorial. We are dangerously close to standing room only—a no-no for the senior set. I’ve got a class later today, so we need to get a move on.

  Grams and Gavin step through the door, and my face heats to the point where someone could fully defrost a burger on one cheek. Shit.

  Agnes claps her hands. “Find a seat in front of a banana. We ain’t getting any younger.”

  She fronted the bill for the fruit, too. Sweat pops at the base of my spine.

  Grams, Gavin, and Agnes take up seats in the first row. So does Mr. LaMar—the guy Agnes called out for erectile dysfunction. He drags his chair even closer to Agnes’s seat. She glances over at him and bares her teeth. She may have hissed—I can’t be sure w
ith all the sound of chairs scraping against the tile floor.

  He says, “Hiya, toots. What’s a classy broad like you doing in a place like this?”

  “Our girl, Phoebe, will teach us about rubbers. Next class she’s going to tell the ladies how to get rid of creepers.” She stares pointedly at Mr. LaMar. “Like you.”

  Firmly turning her face away from him she says, “Get started.”

  Grams picks up her banana, and little black specs dance in front of my vision. Gavin rolls his lips inward after glancing at me.

  I’m going to focus on a spot on the wall. I refuse to make eye contact with anyone.

  “Umm. You can all put your bananas down for now.”

  One of the students says, “What did she say? I can’t hear her.”

  I clear my throat because this crowd needs loud. Inhale. Exhale. “Put the bananas down. I’ll show you first, then you can all try it out.” My voice cracks on the last word, but otherwise in my head it sounded like I was screaming at everyone. “First off, we need to talk about the necessity of condoms. You won’t need them to prevent pregnancy, but everyone benefits from practicing safe sex.”

  Someone in the back says, “Stanley Stiles is patient zero for the clap. Why isn’t he here?”

  Murmurs, snickers, and at least one argument breaks out. I frantically wave my banana trying to get control of the situation. “Hey!” I yell as loud as possible.

  The noise dies off.

  “No shaming allowed. Ladies, you don’t have to rely on the man rolling on a condom. I’ll teach you how to do this yourself.”

  “Damn straight,” Agnes says.

  Tearing open a condom pouch I lift it to show everyone in class what it looks like when it’s still rolled tight and ready for business. “You don’t want to unravel the condom before rolling it onto…” My mind hits a rut. Light flashes before me. It might be the wrath of God. I’m not going to say penis in front of all these grannies. “…your banana.”

  I wipe the sweat that popped at my hairline. My hand shakes as I reach for the yellow pretend penis in front of me. Positioning the banana in my left hand I carefully roll the condom onto the tip of the fruit. Lifting it high for the class to see.

 

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