4. Butt Nuggets And Butter
Chapter four
Butt Nuggets And Butter
Albany
M y phone rings at 7:59. One angry arm emerges from my nest into the frigid air of my bedroom and knocks half of the bottles of lotion and dick statues off my nightstand as I feel around for my phone. Once I’ve picked it up, I drag the offending noise maker to my face and swipe across the screen. “Piper, you rancid brat. I have two more minutes to sleep.”
“Not anymore, you don’t,” she trills. UGH. The reason why I chose a chirpy-ass morning person as a best friend I’ll never know. “Because I’m pretty, wicked smart, and I’d be on my way with the perfect spot and a shovel before you could call if you needed to bury a body, you lazy ho bag. Now, tell me about your private evening with Chef Pagliano.”
She coos out his name like a lusty morning co-host drooling over a CW star. “Ew. Stop. It wasn’t like that.” I pause, knowing she can scent my bloody lies like a shark. “Okay, it was a little like that. Actually, I call it, um, transcendent. Yes. Incredible. And we didn’t do it.” Pausing once more for effect, I smirk, knowing she’ll hear it. “I think I found my second-best friend last night, Piper.” I yawn, sucking in a loud, staggered breath after groaning into her ear.
I flocking hate mornings.
“You cheating slimebag,” she shrieks, the sound turning into a familiar groan as she stretches and leans over her car window. Beeps sound off in the distance. I already know she’s pushing the code into my gate. I thought buying a house with a gate that is already in a secured neighborhood was the ultimate bag of hoity-toity bullpoop when I bought this house four years ago. But I changed my mind after a stalker made it past security, past the electrified walls of my subdivision, and almost over my fence. Thank God my neighbor, an ex-personal trainer who has a regular gig on a daytime soap and a game show, was on a week-long filming hiatus. He’d been over twice in the last week asking me to come over for a barbeque, and the last time, he had insisted I put his number in my phone. He tackled the stalker like the NFL was on his resume. I refuse to feel bad that the scumbag terrorizing me broke his elbow and needed stitches on the back of his twisted melon.
I went to his barbeque for two. I baked him black bean brownies and gave him a code for a twelve-month membership and three free cam sessions at Behind the Lens, my place of employment. The codes are good for any girl but me. My neighbor was thrilled. The cost came out of my pocket, but it was the least I could do. I would never expect my girls to work unpaid. Besides, he isn’t a bad guy, he just loves himself more than he could ever—
“Get your stank ass out of bed!” Piper shouts. “Get in the shower. Five minutes. I’m almost to your door.”
“Coffee?” I grunt hopefully, swinging my legs out.
“Grande, double dirty chai. Hot, like the queen who’s about to drink it. Now get up.” The call disconnects. I toss my phone on my bed and almost skip to the shower. But that bitch is crazy if she thinks I can shower in five minutes. I have a strict grooming routine I adhere to on workdays.
I turn on the shower once all my products are lined up and I’ve changed my razor head. I’m working all afternoon and into the night, so I need to look my best. Saturdays are big money-makers. I’m testing a new skit tonight, so I’m looking forward to going in. But I want that chai hot, so it won’t hurt to get the lead out and make a moderate amount of haste.
Thirty minutes later, I’m thoroughly bare, sugar-scrubbed, and moisturized with all my specific products for my specific areas. My hair is wrapped, and I’ve donned a robe ratty enough to make Cousin Eddie proud. My Aunt Shelly bought it for me, and fuck anyone who has anything to say about it. I give my face mask one last press over my cheekbones and grin like a maniac through the holes. I’ve earned my coffee. I’ll brush my teeth one last time before I start recording in my suite at Behind the Lens.
The smell of bacon, eggs, and toasting bread hits my nose before I make it all the way down the stairs. Piper is leaning over my island, one foot kicked up as Sal carefully places a cradled fork in her mouth.
A white-hot burst of jealous rage has me grabbing the railing as I watch him feed her. She turns and smiles, saccharine sweet. “Good morning, bestie! You didn’t tell me you hired a personal chef. Is this sort of fare going to be on the regular menu?”
I narrow my eyes. She coughs delicately around her hand-fed mouthful of eggs and bacon. I wish she’d choke on it, but her mouth is too big, and there’s no way that bacon is undercooked enough for the fat to be stringy.
It had better not be. Sal notices her attention is elsewhere and turns. “Good morning, landlady. I hope breakfast is a good start to working off my debt.” I finish clomping down the stairs, staring daggers at both of them, daring them through my eye holes to say one word about how I look.
Piper, having been the recipient of so many Albany-style nasty glares, has a high tolerance. “Good morning, sunshine. Grab a plate. Help yourself.”
“To my groceries?” I grouse, walking around Sal and grabbing a plate out of the cupboard.
“That he cooked. These eggs are out of this world. Any chicken whose eggs end up in your cart are going to need trauma counselling now that they know what can truly be done with their butt nuggets.”
This time Sal coughs. “Who taught you two to talk? The chicken obsession is unhealthy.” I slap a spoonful of eggs and two strips of bacon (okay, four) on my plate while Sal drops two pieces of buttered toast on the side.
I sniff at the bread. “What are those little green things?”
“You absolute heathen,” Sal mutters, insulting me. “Those are chives. There’s garlic in that butter. I made it fresh this morning.”
“You made butter?” I shriek in delight, my plate ringing on the granite as I scooch in next to Piper. She hands me the coffee, which is, bless the mother, still warm. I take a swallow and sigh, my body instantly righting itself as the first sip of two shots of espresso slithers into my bloodstream.
“I really, really, really love you,” I coo, batting my white eyelashes at her.
She nudges my shoulder, darting to the side to drop a peck on my cheek just like a mother hen. “I love you more. You better moderate that caffeine or your eyes will be jerking faster than your hand or your booty. I gotta run. I have practice at ten and classes the rest of the day.”
She snatches a piece of toast off her plate and lifts it to Sal. “Thanks for breakfast, guest house Chef.”
“My pleasure, bossy best friend,” he retorts. They smile at each other before Piper whirls and heads out of my house with her signature long stride.
“I wish I glided like that when I walk,” I mumble around a bite of toast.
“She’s really statuesque and beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but I prefer a sway and some jiggle over a powerful stride.”
I gape at him incredulously. “Did you just insult my best friend?”
“Absolutely not. I bet every single player and half of the married ones on the Commanders has a crush on her. She’s gorgeous. She’s just not my type.” The toaster pops. Sal butters two more slices of bread, blowing on his fingers before going for the eggs and bacon. He assembles himself a sandwich and leans over the opposite end of my kitchen island.
We eat in companionable silence. Eventually, with most of my beverage now buzzing through me, I find I can’t stand the silence I usually love. Not when there is someone else eating with me in my kitchen. “How did you find your lodgings?”
Sal swallows. “I love it! It’s perfect for me. I don’t know what your plans are for the place, but if I pass my trial period, I’d like to sign a short-term lease. Maybe four or six months. Just until I can decide what I’m doing and find my own place. That would really take the pressure off. I’m single, but I have no plans to bring anyone home. I promise I won’t intrude on the sanctity of your privacy.”
I think about what it means to have someone on my property. Am I going to feel like my privacy has been invaded when Sal’s shine wears off? “I don’t want this to come out the wrong way… But who let you in the house? You had to have been cooking before Piper got here.” I take another bite of my extremely delicious toast, quickly adding a bite of bacon and a forkful of eggs. I wish I had made a sandwich out of my food, too.
“I did let myself in. It won’t happen again,” he says quietly. “I only wanted to make breakfast. As a thank you.”
“It’s okay. I left that door unlocked. I didn’t know if you’d need something to eat or drink after we got home so late.” I set my fork down. “Sal, there’s a good reason why I brought it up. Before you decide to stay here for any length of time, there are some things about me you should know.”
I press my lips together at his expression and try not to be disappointed. Of course , he thinks I’m being dramatic. What kind of skeleton could a quirky, nondescript, average Jill like me have in her closet? “I had a stalker recently. He’d been sending me love letters via post. And harassing me through my contacts at work. Eventually, he escalated and started sending me letters with very specific threats. With bloody fingerprints all over them. He sent me pig eyeballs, Sal, and then he broke through security and the fence and almost made it onto my property.”
Sal’s eyes grow wider as I tell the story. “What happened?”
“I called Niko. He came over, yanked that piece of horse doody off my fence, and body slammed him so hard he broke the guy’s elbow.” That’s the only part of the story where I can muster up a faint smile if the listener needs one.
“Who is Niko?” Sal asks quietly.
I turn and face the space I was just standing in. “What happened to the stalker, Albie? Where is he now, Albie? Do you still feel safe here? Are you safe here?” I ask the questions he should be asking me for him, then sidestep and face the place I was just standing. “My stalker went to jail and got eight years, no parole. So maybe I feel safe for another couple of years until he gets out.” Switch. “Thanks for asking the right questions for me, Albany.” I whip back to the other side. “You’re welcome, Sal.”
Sal scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I am not myself right now. That’s no excuse, I know, but please, forgive me. I’m functioning in a fog of epic proportions. Probably will be thick-headed for a few weeks at least.” He grabs his chest with his right hand, his fingers contracting over his heart. His eyes go round, his face morphing into the beggiest of begging goodest boys. “I need you, Albany. When I woke up this morning and thought about last night… It wasn’t the mind-blowing kiss, or your innate kindness, or that crafted-specifically-for-me body,” he drags eyes that make me feel naked over my seventeen-year-old robe, “that made me want to leap out of bed and feed you. And not that those things aren’t right here,” he taps the side of his head, “being savored on repeat. What kept me up staring at the ceiling with a stupid grin and a heart full of wonder was the connection . I’ve never experienced anything like it.” He walks around the island and holds out his hand, waiting for me to place mine in his.
My heart is beating erratically, blood whooshing through my veins at a dizzying pace. I can’t deny the truth he speaks. I felt it, too: The invisible string that snapped into existence in his kitchen last night. I place my hand in his, closing my eyes to savor the way his thumb massages my knuckles. “The moment you ask me to leave, I’ll disappear. I would never, ever impinge upon your safety or your privacy.” He bends, his mouth brushing my ear as he whispers, “But…if you should desire it, I’ll keep the stalkers, strangers, and staring fools away. I’ll disappear anyone who looks at you without your permission.”
I swallow hard. Jagged breaths jerk and heave out of my chest as his clean, spicy-sweet heat draws a prickly bead of sweat from between my shoulder blades. “I’m broken, Albany, and I believe you are the only one who can heal me. Please let me stay.”
Crap sticks. He’s begging. Every word drips raw, unfiltered honesty. I can feel the reverberation of his truth in my bones. My heartstrings have been tugged and tuned. Sal is a master heart harpist.
“You saved me last night,” Sal whispers. “I was hurting so much I couldn’t breathe, and you were so tender. So intuitive and open… One encounter with you, and I found myself aspiring to be like you. I went from feeling completely empty to longing for the life that I might find after a broken heart. The life I might be able to sculpt with a friend like you by my side.”
The whooshing slows, and the music dies down. He said friend. He wants to be pals. I seek out the hole in the sleeve of my right arm, rotating my wrist and turning my face away from his to inspect it. “I got that from hot oil when I attempted popcorn in a pan a couple of years ago.” I can see his quizzical expression in my mind as my eyes burn. He knows I’m hiding something. Because of the connection. I feel it, too. So hard. Am I upset he wants to be friends? When I know I can’t be in a relationship right now? When he’s admitted he’s had a breakup with someone he was obviously in love with?
A breakup I haven’t asked him about, even though I gave him hell for not asking me the things I thought he should about my stalker.
Spinning, I wrap my arms around him in a hug, burying my face in his shoulder so he doesn’t see my face. “I’m sorry, Sal. Sometimes the silliest things trigger me. I absolutely want you to be my closest neighbor. I want you to cook for me whenever you want and make my house your home as well. I’m as single as your last dollar bill, so there is nothing for you to interrupt.”
“Yes!” He jostles me with a fist pump behind my back as he returns the hug. “What time do you have to be at work?” He steps out of the hug. “And what time will you be home? I want to make dinner.”
A small piece of me is relieved he didn’t ask what I do for work. I’m proud of what I do, but I’m no stranger to the judgment that comes with the announcement of my career. I don’t know Sal well enough to guess at how he might take my job. Just because we vibed in a moment doesn’t mean his morality or upbringing won’t influence his reactions. “Let’s lay it all out on the table, Sal. Rent, shared meals, extra security, and private lessons for a guest house, main house access, and the best friend you’ll ever have?” I stick out my hand, spitting on it for good measure.
Sal doesn’t bat an eye. In fact, his Kelly-green-in-the-morning-light gemstones lock onto my pale violet ones as he spits on his palm and slaps his hand into mine. We shake on it.
He’s a spitter. I bite my lip, but I can’t hide my smile. I love a confident spitter.