by Amy Daws
She giggles. She giggles so hard that it turns into a laugh, and then she’s slapping her hand over her mouth to muffle it. Mumbling against her palm, she replies, “Yes.”
I frown and ask, “Then what brings you back here to the alley? Completed cars are parked out front. These back doors are employee entrances.”
Her eyes flash back to the door, and she begins gnawing on her lip. “Right. I, erm…was just…” She eyes the spare strand of licorice I have tucked behind my ear. “Coming out for a smoke!”
My brows lift. Smokers come in all shapes and sizes, but something tells me this luminous, ginger bombshell does not smoke.
“Great, can I bum one?” I ask, calling her bluff.
“Weren’t you just fake smoking with licorice?” she asks, pointing to the half-eaten piece that fell to the ground during the course of our collision.
My face heats. “You saw that?”
She laughs softly. “Before my triumphant fall, yes, I saw something that looked like a puff of make-believe cherry smoke floating all around you.”
I roll my eyes and jam a hand through my short, black hair. “It’s a thing I started doing when I quit smoking three months ago.”
“Does it help?”
I shrug. “Doesn’t hurt.”
“Maybe hurts the ego.” A dimple flashes in her right cheek as she fails to conceal a smirk. “How macho is it to fake smoke candy?”
Is she flirting with me? Or teasing me? I can’t tell, but I can definitely retaliate, and I must admit that her dimple is adorable. I lift my hand to grab the licorice behind my ear and flex and relax so my bicep tightens impressively. “My ego is never in danger, babe.” I pull down the candy and bite a piece off while shooting her a wink.
This makes her genuinely laugh. It’s a rich, full-bodied sound that projects all the way from her toes. “With book boyfriend arms like that, it’s no wonder.”
“Book boyfriend?” I ask curiously.
“Book boyfriend,” she repeats. “The leading male in a romance novel that readers claim ownership of because he doesn’t likely exist in the real world. Basically, the ideal man.”
“I’ve never heard this term before,” I admit, leaning back against the wall and eyeing her curiously. “I take it you’re into books or something?”
“Or something.” She smiles and runs her hand through her wild red waves. They have to be natural because no girl would touch hair that beautiful if it had been styled. “And it doesn’t surprise me you’ve never heard of it.” She leans in and whispers loudly, “You’re not my demo.”
I frown curiously, and with a parting wiggle of her eyebrows, she turns and resumes her walk down the alley toward wherever she was going. After staring at the globes of her ass for far longer than is appropriate, it dawns on me that I didn’t even get her name.
Cupping my hand to my mouth, I yell after her, “What if you’re my demo?”
She twirls on her heel to gaze at me, looking a hell of a lot more graceful than she did earlier. “We won’t know that until The End!”
“Fess up. Where have you been?” My neighbor and best friend since college, Lynsey’s voice snaps, nearly making me fall into my front door and drop my keys in surprise.
“Jesus!” I exclaim, turning toward my tiny brunette compadre who’s the scariest short person I know. “You’re like one of those annoying bouncing min pins that leap up into the air just to be eye level with humans.”
“Ha-ha, short joke, what a shocker coming from you. I’m serious, tell me where you’ve been.”
“The library! I told you in my text,” I reply, turning my back on her to resume my goal. Pushing the door of my townhouse open, I drop my mail, laptop bag, and keys on the entry table by the stairs right inside the door.
“Bullshit,” Lynsey barks, following me in like a little puppy. She reaches out to fist the hem of my shirt. She pulls it to her face and inhales deeply. “You smell like coffee and rubber.”
“Also known as freedom.” I sigh wistfully and yearn to be back there. I would have stayed longer if I could survive on coffee and cookies all day. But curses, I need some protein or I might die.
“You actually went back to Tire Depot?” Lynsey seethes. “Kate! They are going to call the cops on you.”
“For what?” I protest over my shoulder as I make my way through my living room and into the kitchen to grab a water bottle out of the fridge. “Stealing complimentary coffee and cookies? Come on. That’s not a thing.”
“But loitering is.”
My face freezes around the mouth of my water bottle. “You think they’d really do that?”
Lynsey looks slightly unsure. “I don’t know, but do you want the awkwardness of finding out?”
“I don’t care, Lynsey!” I exclaim with a huff. “I’ve found my words at the TD, and I’m not letting go until I’m done.”
“TD?” she repeats dubiously.
“Tire Depot is such a mouthful.”
“You know what’s a mouthful? Prison.” I roll my eyes, but she continues with her lecture. “This is a crutch, Kate. You have to see that.”
“It’s not a crutch.”
“You think you need it, but you don’t.”
“I do need it!” I snap, making my way back to the entry table and grabbing my mail. “I couldn’t write a thing before I went there. And writing is what keeps me in this posh townhouse on the outskirts of beautiful Boulder. If I want to continue being this stunning creature, living the high life in the foothills, I have to follow the vibe. And the vibe is strong at Tire Depot.”
I move into my sitting area and drop into an overstuffed leather armchair to begin sifting through the envelopes in my hand.
Lynsey perches on the edge of my coffee table in front of me. “Can we stop dancing around what’s really going on here?”
“Watch your hiney, Lyns, that’s luxury reclaimed barnwood that Mercedes Lee Loveletter afforded me.”
“Stop changing the subject. This is about your ex who happens to still live with you.” She points up the stairs to the master suite I shared with Dryston Roberts for the better part of the past two years before everything went to shit.
I scoff at that notion. “We’re playing a game of chicken right now, and there’s no way I’m letting that small-minded fucker take this house.”
“Even though you can’t even write in it? You want to fight for the house with no ‘vibe’?” she quips.
“That’s irrelevant,” I exclaim and ball my hands up into tight fists. Every time I talk about Dryston, my hands end up like this.
We met two years ago at a pool party, and I fell for his suave moves. It took me way too long to see that he had Peter Pan Syndrome written all over him.
Unfortunately, leasing this townhouse for three years was the one grown-up thing we did together, and now, it’s a disaster. Living for three months in the same house as your ex-boyfriend, a perpetual frat boy who will never mature, is about as bad as you can imagine.
The only silver lining in this situation is that he’s away for the summer. Thank God.
“There’s no way in hell I’m moving out,” I grind through clenched teeth and swing my eyes to Lynsey in accusation. “I live next door to my best friend! You don’t want me to move, do you?”
She rolls her eyes. “No.”
“Exactly. So that’s that. He’s a spoiled brat who has always gotten what he wants but not this time. He’s summering in the Hamptons, for God’s sake, so he can afford his own place. I’m staying put.”
“It’s like a Mexican standoff with you two…I can’t even!” Lynsey growls and runs her hands through her hair. “You enjoy living with your ex for the next year. See how that works out.”
“I’m perfectly happy living down here. This bedroom is actually bigger.” Never mind the fact that the upstairs room has the best views of the mountains. That room is tainted anyway. It reeks of preppy boy cologne and idiocy.
My thoughts are distracted when m
y eyes land on a familiar logo that I know better than my own for the Mercedes Lee Loveletter brand.
I look up at Lynsey with grave eyes. “It’s a letter from Tire Depot.”
“They’ve figured it out.” She gasps and covers her mouth like we just found out one of our friends is a murderer.
“Stop being so dramatic!” I screech defensively as my fingers squeeze tightly around the envelope. “You don’t know that they figured it out. This could just be like…junk mail or something. Maybe they’re offering a special on oil changes next week?”
“Have they ever mailed you anything like that before?”
“No!” I bellow as the realization sinks in and dread washes over me. I look at Lynsey with wide, fearful eyes. “What if this is it?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“What if this is the moment I’ve feared all along? They might be taking my mojo away!”
“You don’t know that,” Lynsey defends. Clearly, we both process feelings differently because now we’ve done a one-eighty, and she’s coming up with excuses while I’m circling the drain of despair.
“They would have no other reason to send me a letter!” I shriek and inhale a shaky breath. “Damnit,” I growl and tear into the envelope to make my death swift.
I unfold the letter that’s printed on the Tire Depot letterhead and read aloud. “Dear Ms. Smith, We’ve taken notice of your enjoyment of our customer waiting area. We are very glad that you enjoy spending your days with us. You have, however, exceeded the limit for complimentary refreshments. Per company policy, enclosed you will find an invoice for the refreshments you’ve consumed in excess of the limit.”
“What?” Lynsey screeches. Jesus Christ, we’re both a fucking mess.
“It’s gotta be a prank,” I force out a fake laugh and look at the second page that lists the itemized products that I’ve consumed. Like a shot, I stand, the mail on my lap falling to the floor. “Holy shit! How did they know?”
“Know what?”
“I mean…this invoice has to be bullshit, but this itemized list is scarily accurate.”
“What do you mean?”
I thrust the paper at her and point to each line item. “I probably have drunk fifteen long espressos and thirty caramel almond lattes. That’s like…exactly my jam. I start my days off with a long espresso and then do two lattes in the afternoon.”
“Oh, Kate!” Lynsey gasps. “The calories.”
“But I don’t eat lunch!” I argue.
She nods, seemingly appeased by that reply. “So this is legit?”
“It can’t be,” I argue, but the growing pit in my stomach indicates I’m not fully convinced.
Here’s the thing. I’m not mad at the one hundred and eighty dollar invoice. Charging four dollars for a beverage is cheaper than Starbucks. But I’m livid over the nerve of Tire Depot! What kind of respectable business would charge a person excess consumption of complimentary coffee?
“This seriously can’t be real.”
“Oh, Kate! You missed a page.” Lysney says, scooping a sheet up off the floor. “It’s for the cookies. Honestly, you’re kind of disgusting. I don’t know how you’re not two hundred pounds by now.”
“Shut up!” I snatch the sheet out of her hands and am mortified at the list. Jesus, I do look like a pig when you list it all out like that. “Wait a damn minute…this says danishes on there. I’ve never had a danish there in my life! I’m being punked!”
I swerve accusing eyes to Lynsey, but she looks way too caught up in this scene to be the culprit. I rack my brain for who else would possibly send me a fake invoice. It could be any number of the people I begged to let me take their cars in…which was an embarrassing number. Or it could be my brothers, but honestly, the logo on the letterhead is way too perfect for it to be any ole friend or family.
My blue eyes meet Lynsey’s brown, and in unison, we both say, “Dean.”
Minutes later, Lysney and I are in my car to head toward our friend Dean’s house about a mile up the road. This little complex of townhouses is a bit of a hidden gem situated on the edge of Boulder. Full of twenty and thirty-somethings with disposable income but no longer riveted by the nightlife of Boulder and needing to be living amongst it. And since the property is expensive everywhere in this area, this spot seems a bit more worth the cost. Out here, you get more space, the wilderness, the views, and still a nice sense of community.
After college, I lived downtown, but as I grew older and began writing full time, living there felt too crowded. I hated how I was constantly swerving around hundreds of joggers when I went for a bike ride on the trails. Jesus, there are a shit-ton of runners in Boulder.
But the idea of moving back to Longmont in the same neighborhood as my parents, two brothers, and their growing families was such a depressing thought. I could see all too perfectly my parents inviting me over on Friday nights while they were babysitting and feeding me hot dogs with mac ’n’ cheese alongside my nieces and nephews. Don’t get me wrong, I love those little rugrats, but it’s really annoying being the oldest sister yet seen as the baby of the family just because I have a job that lets me wear sweatpants every day.
Not to mention, no family wants a smut writer to become their neighbor. What kind of kinky mail deliveries will be dropped at her doorstep?
Lynsey had moved out here about three years ago, and I followed with Dryston a year later. When we settled in, the words flowed like manna from heaven. The quiet roads were blissful, and the views were feeding my soul as well as my little fingers. I had my best friend right next door, and the words were plentiful.
Then, the breakup happened, and my creativity dried up like the homemade granola our complex manager gives us every year for Christmas.
Since really only one other douchebag on the planet knows of my struggles with words and my recently found solution to that problem, that means he’s getting junk punched this fine Friday evening.
“Okay,” I whisper to Lynsey as we stand in front of Dean’s front door. His windows are pouring light down on us as the sun sets behind the hills. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to kneel here…you knock on the door, and when he opens it, his eyes will land on you, and I’ll give him a right hook to the ball sack.”
“Kate!” Lynsey chastises, her thick brows furrowing together. “That’s so extreme. What if he didn’t do it?”
“Surely, he has a junk punch coming for something. He’s a mountain manwhore. They always have it coming.”
I stare back at my friend, and she looks so young with those big, brown, innocent eyes. It’s no wonder Dean was drawn to her when they first met.
Shortly after I had moved here, Lynsey and I came across Dean during his daily run while we were out for a walk. I could tell instantly that there was a spark between them. They went on a couple of dates but ultimately decided just to stay friends. However, I think Lynsey still has a soft spot for the little prick.
Rolling my eyes, I concede to her wishes and stand to knock on the door. “Why are you so mature?”
A minute later, Dean whips his door open and props his arm on the frame in that impressive, masculine way he has about him. Dean is the picture image of a Boulder businessman—tall, dark, handsome, and bearded. Plus, he wears these dark-rimmed glasses that make him look really fucking smart, which he is.
But as a whole, he’s part nerd, part mountain man, and part hipster rich guy. He wears these plaid slacks and slim button-downs with peach colored jackets and manages to look masculine and stylish while doing it. He’s the only guy I know that could pull off a look like that and not have other people convinced he bats for the other team. Sometimes he wears no socks with his loafers, and I don’t know why it looks good, but it does. Dryston tried to mimic the style, but it was awful. Super trying too hard.
But Dean, he’s just got that undeniable swagger.
He’s also got the coolest backstory. Dean inherited a boatload of money from his grandparents when he was eig
hteen. Instead of going to college and getting a high-priced education like his parents begged him to do, he decided to educate himself on the stock market.
Apparently, he had the Midas touch. Lynsey told me he doubled his inheritance in the first year. Now he’s some kind of stockbroker during the day. I don’t know much about what he does, but he has an office downtown that he goes to every day in his fancy, hipster suits.
Without warning, I thrust my fist into his meaty stomach. Okay, hard, chiseled stomach, but whatever. I don’t think of Dean that way. All the air expels from his mouth as he hunches over, clutching his stomach.
“You’re a dick, and I know that fake invoice was from you.”
He growls in pain, but I know he’s just being dramatic so I won’t wallop him again. “Nice to see you too, Kate,” he croaks.
“Just be grateful she didn’t junk punch you,” Lynsey chirps from behind me. “I saved you from that.”
“Thanks, Lyns,” he groans and steps back, silently welcoming us inside.
Dean’s townhouse is identical in design to mine and Lynsey’s, but he’s got the minimalist bachelor pad thing going for him. Which is weird because he’s rich. Maybe he spends all his money on clothes because the only furniture here is bean bag chairs and uncomfortable barstools. There’s no dining room table in sight even though there’s a light fixture where one should be.
I stride past him, head straight to his fridge, and help myself to a beer. I grab one for each of them and say, “You’re so obvious.”
“How’d you know it was me?” Dean asks, rubbing his stomach and still wincing in pain as I hand him a beer that he passes to Lynsey.
I hand him another, and the idiot actually untucks his button-down to apply the cold glass to his chiseled abs. He looks up at me and waggles his brows suggestively.
I ignore his lame move and reply, “The letterhead was too perfect, and I know you know how to use Photoshop. You should try to suck more.”
He half-smiles and adjusts his black-rimmed glasses. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
