Chapter 4 #2
“Ancient?” I shriek. “I’m not ancient. I don’t even have gray hair .
. . or hair on my balls.” Her eyes widen, and I realize what I said.
“I mean . . . not like in a prepubescent kind of way, like the testes haven’t dropped yet, because they have.
They’ve dropped. I was just referring to my manscaping.
” I pull on the back of my neck. “Have you heard of manscaping? Uh, well, I have nice balls because of how I take care of them and lotion them. Not that you needed to know that, but old men don’t usually manscape.
They just let the hairs run wild, and that’s not the case here because I’m neither old nor ancient.
So, to conclude, call me Levi, I have nice balls, and I manscape. ”
Her smile is so bright as she says, “Don’t forget the lotioning.”
“Right.” I nod awkwardly. “The lotioning.”
She helps herself in and says, “And I meant in hockey years, you’re old.”
Ahh, yes, well, that makes more sense.
Trying to recover, I say, “Well, that just means I get to retire early on a mountain of cash.”
Ignoring my comment, she walks past me, and because I’m desperate and pathetic, I attempt to check out her ass, but her blazer covers it. That’s probably for the best. I shouldn’t be checking anything out.
She glances around my apartment, taking in the subtle decorations I purposely used to create a cohesive and well-put-together theme for my apartment. A theme I like to call electric thunder. I know what you’re thinking—how does one decorate with the theme electric thunder in mind?
Well, it’s a combination of dark, moody colors, pops of unsuspecting accent hues, and not too much texture where you think, whoa, my eyes are offended.
Unlike Halsey, who lived in a jail cell before Blakely came along, I have taste and a keen eye for interior design.
I have a personal Instagram account no one knows about, and I follow some of my favorite profiles, like Pottery Barn, Rejuvenation, and especially Joanna Gaines—I like her decorating style.
Very neutral design style while she’s moved away from some of the farmhouse trends and taken a more modern aesthetic.
I also follow a few baking accounts. One of my favorites is of a Turkish lady who makes the best bread-inspired recipes.
When she punches that dough after it rises . . . fuck me, it’s chef’s kiss!
But back to my apartment. I went for the whole dark cigar-room vibe even though I don’t smoke cigars—see, electric thunder.
Blacks and gunmetal grays span the walls and in tasteful accents while camel-colored leather furniture takes center stage.
An oversized area rug adds a cozy feel, tasteful art decorates the walls, and cream-colored curtains add a touch of lightness to the space.
“This is really nice,” she says. “I half expected to walk into a bachelor pad, but this is a man’s apartment. Like a man’s man.”
“Thank you,” I say, smoothing my palms together. “I’d consider myself a man’s man.”
“You clearly have the lotioned balls to prove it,” she jokes while gesturing to my crotch.
Heh.
Yeah . . .
Glad we can bring that full circle.
I pull on the back of my neck. “I go through a lot of lotion.”
Not something she needs to know.
“I can imagine.” Her eyes meet mine. “Any special type? Perhaps a burnt mahogany scent. Make that sack extra manly.”
Christ. Change the subject, man.
“Just regular,” I answer while clearing my throat. “Anyway, I, uh, I take great pride in my apartment.”
“I see that. You should. It’s really nice in here.” Her eyes fall to the coffee table in my living room, where I have three books stacked with a candle on top. “Do you even read those books?”
“Nope,” I say. “It’s all part of the design and feel of the apartment.”
“Ah, so you’re trying to portray intelligence when, in reality, there’s very little intelligence in this apartment?”
“Pretty mu—” I pause, thinking about it. “Uh, no. There’s intelligence in this apartment.”
She turns toward me and smiles. “Well, there must be intelligence if you’re wise enough to pair a camel-colored couch with a gunmetal-gray wall.”
“Some might say brave,” I say.
“Very brave.” She pats my chest, and I let out the breath I was holding in one giant swoop.
Her eyes meet mine as she says, “You know, I’m just trying to lighten the mood.
Make conversation. No need to hold your breath .
. . or your tongue. I know this is awkward for both of us, and I don’t want it to be awkward. ”
It’s awkward, all right.
It’s never not going to be awkward.
But I’m not going to say that to her.
“I’m not awkward. Are you awkward? Because I feel fine. Great actually. Rip-roaring and ready to go.”
Her smile grows wider. “Oh yes, I’m rip-roaring and ready to go as well.”
“Great.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels. “Because I think if we keep everything super professional, we can make the most of this situation. Possibly excel as the best boss/assistant relationship.”
“Wouldn’t that just be fantastic,” she says. “Imagine the accolades we could win by not being awkward but rather rip-roaring professionals. People around us might be so impressed that they write to the Foreign Press. Tell them there needs to be an award made just for us.”
I know she’s being sarcastic.
I know she’s trying to lighten the mood.
But, Jesus fuck . . . I’d be fucking thrilled to win an award documenting my excellence in professionalism and managerial skills.
“What would the trophy look like?” I ask, feeling myself drift off in thought.
“Maybe a statue of a man with a woman at his feet, clutching his leg and looking for direction.”
I glance her way and scratch my jaw. “Uh, not exactly what I was thinking.”
She chuckles and places her purse on the coffee table, then pulls out a notebook and a pen. “Maybe we can brainstorm later, but for now, why don’t you show me around and tell me what I can do for you.”
Right, what she can do for me.
Focus, Posey.
If you want to mentally win the award, you have to act like the boss who’d win it.
But for the record, I’d like it to be known that everything I’m going to ask her to do are tasks I can do for myself. Things I’ve been doing for years with no problem. I want it to be noted that any wild or obscene shit I tell Wylie to do should not be held against me.
I’m merely a pawn in the battle between Coach Wood and his daughter.
And despite being a man’s man with perfectly manscaped and lotioned balls, I clearly have no idea how to say . . . no.
“Well, as you can see, this is my apartment.” I stretch out my arms as if showing off the place...even though she’s been here for the past few minutes.
She presses her hand to her chest. “Is it? Wow, I had no idea.”
“Cheeky,” I say as I continue. “This is the main living space, which is, uh . . . off limits for you. So no lounging around on this camel-colored couch.” I point at the couch. “And, uh, no watching TV on this gigantic screen. And, uh . . . no, uh, no rolling around on the area rug.”
“Ooo, really? I was really hoping to get my rolling done in here, but I can find a new place.” She makes a note in her notebook, then looks up at me. “Where should I do my morning staring? Should I keep that to my own space, or am I allowed to come in here and stare at the wall?”
I work my jaw to the side, seeing how easy it is for her to make fun of me. “Your own space will suffice.”
“Noted.” She marks something on her notepad again.
“But you are allowed in here for certain reasons.”
“Like restocking the lotion,” she offers.
“Yes,” I say tersely. “And cleaning, restocking the groceries, and delivering whatever I might need. Other than that, you must stay in your own space.”
“Got it. Don’t bother Mr. Posey.”
“Levi,” I say.
“Don’t bother Levi. Shouldn’t be a problem. I can manage whatever space you offer up. Like I said, it’s a real help.”
“Sure, yeah. Should I show you that space now?”
“That would be great. That way I know what I’m working with.”
I gesture toward the open-concept kitchen, and we both walk that way.
I hate this.
I hate how uncomfortable this is. Clearly, she’s trying to be grateful for the opportunity, and I’m preparing to rain down hell on her day. It’s the last fucking thing I want to do, yet here I am, about to introduce her to a hole in the wall that she can sleep in despite my lavish apartment.
And you’re probably wondering, did I spruce it up?
Did I make it as inviting as I did when Blakely was moving into Halsey’s place?
The answer is no. I didn’t even wipe down one cobweb.
Not even sure what the hell is going on in the hole because the door hasn’t been opened in years.
But I kept it untouched to help dissociate myself.
Makes me feel like I’m taking on the boss role rather than the caretaker.
“The entrance to your room is right back here,” I say, leading her past the open kitchen, past the pantry off to the left, and down a narrow hallway toward a door at the very end.
“Not sure the condition of the place because I’ve never used it, so, I’m sorry in advance.
” I open the door and switch on a light, highlighting the small room, less than two hundred square feet.
There’s a twin bed off to the right with no mattress—huh, she’s going to need one of those—and a nightstand with one dilapidated drawer.
There’s one overhead light in the room, one of those traditional boob lights that every tract home has installed in a hallway.
Just past the bed is a door leading to the bathroom, where you can wash your hands and sit on the toilet at the same time.
I know this because I joked about it when I first viewed the apartment.
There’s also a stand-up shower that I couldn’t really fit in, but she will do just fine.
A separate entrance from the outside is at the other end of the room.
It’s much bleaker than I remember.
Maybe a touch spooky.