22. Accidental Dick Pic on Purpose #2
“I vaguely remember that you abandoned me,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Then you were scratching your crotch…” Rhys peers at me, eyebrow raised in mild discomfort. “Why were you doing that?”
“Sam Rylan is why!”
“I don’t want to know, and yet…” He sighs. “I suppose I need to ask.”
“He grabbed my ass.”
“He what?”
“He casually grabbed my ass in the parking lot while I was puking up that melon margarita.”
Rhys takes a step back, his hand furling into fists. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were so upset about striking out with your cougar dates. I didn’t want to trouble you.” I raise my head, unable to help myself. “Oh, by the way, the blonde one is his mom.”
Rhys does a double take. “Wait, say that again.”
“Jenna—”
“Jackie,” he corrects. “You’re telling me Jackie is Sam Rylan’s mother?”
I nod. “Mrs. Rylan.”
“I was on a date with the mother of CEO Grab Ass?” He takes a deep breath and scoots around the tiny bathroom. “I need to sit down.” He makes to plop down on the only seat available, a none-too-clean toilet, and rears back. “But I won’t.”
“Good call,” I say. “Why do you think Mrs. Rylan immediately ran to Sam after you blew the date?” I shake my head. “How unobservant are you?”
“There was a lot going on, alright?” Rhys snaps. “I walked into a circus. Jackie was yelling at me. Debbie, too. Sam was there for some reason, and you were scratching your crotch while Angie was cheering you on. It’s overwhelming.”
I suppose he’s got a point. For an extreme introvert like him, who’s not used to socializing with one, let alone so many people at once, I suppose what happened in the parking lot of Coyote Flame could be overstimulating.
For someone like me, an agent of my own chaos and a magnet for the chaos of others, it’s like another day at the office.
“Oh, that other lady, Debbie…” I say, taking advantage of our bathroom revelation time, “she’s Sam’s aunt. So I don’t know why you’re judging Michelle and her cousin so hard because it looks like you were about to engage in a little light incest yourself. Or at least witness it.”
Rhys audibly groans. “Is everyone related?”
“L.A. has four million residents, but it’s a small town and the Rylans get around. Anyway, Sam felt me up that night, and I did a pretty good job deflecting his advances, if you ask me. And now he’s sending me pictures of his dick after Angie just called and said our apartment was robbed—”
Rhys drags a hand through his hair. Information overload. Something is not computing. “Whoa. Whoa. Slow down.” He paces the tiny bathroom, then halts. “You were robbed?”
“Burglarized. They stole our living room furniture, our houseplants, and the food from the fridge.” I pause, recalling Angie’s inventory. “And the ice trays from the freezer. Then Sam blinds me with his penis.” As if on cue, my phone pings. “He’s replied.”
CEO Grab Ass
Sent by accident. Disregard it.
I frown, reading his response again. Well, this throws a wrench into things.
“What’s the matter?” Rhys asks, his eyes flickering over my confused expression.
“In response to the photo,” I say, giving him a play-by-play of how I handled the situation, “I replied with ‘Pardon?’ Just ‘paaardon?’”
Rhys nods. “That’s good. Keep it short and sweet, yet vaguely authoritative. This jerk’s got a lot to answer for.”
“And he replies to my reply with...” I hold up my phone.
Rhys squints at the message.
“Maybe it was an accident,” I suggest, doubt already setting in, “and he was trying to send his dick to his girlfriend?”
He snorts and rolls his eyes at the same time. “Absolutely not. He knew what he was doing.”
“But—”
“You don’t just accidentally take a photo of your dick and then ‘accidentally’ send it to the wrong person. He was testing the waters, seeing if you’re interested, which you’re clearly not...” Rhys tips his head to the side, studying me, his voice spiking with uncertainty. “Are you?”
I roll my eyes. “What do you think?”
“I never thought you were,” he says, sounding relieved, “but you never know. Anyway, now he’s trying to play the ‘accidental dick pic’ card to get himself off the hook. Don’t buy it.”
“Hm.” I nibble on my bottom lip. Rhys’ explanation would have more merit if his dislike for Sam wasn’t so obvious. “It’s possible he could’ve sent the photo by mistake. I’ve accidentally sent the wrong text to the wrong group chat before.”
“Trust me,” Rhys rocks back on his heels, his hands tucked in his armpits, steady in his reading of Sam’s intentions, “you would be more careful with sensitive photos like that.”
How could he be so sure? I narrow my eyes. “Have you ever sent anyone a photo like that?”
His mouth curls at the corners. “I don’t make a habit of taking photos of my dick, and I don’t have anyone to send it to if I did.”
“You’re right. It’s pretty narcissistic when you think about it. All the effort involved in posing and propping it.” I shake my head. “I can’t imagine being in a relationship with a man who fusses so much about his penis.”
“Especially considering he may have an entire camera roll of just dick selfies,” Rhys adds, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Probably doling it out to everyone.”
“Passing it off like a Christmas bonus.” I catch his eye and, despite this strange pickle of a work situation, not to mention the fact that I’m being sexually harassed and visually assaulted by my degenerate boss… we both burst out laughing until we have tears in our eyes.
“Okay... Okay... Stop. It’s not funny.” I exhale, holding onto my sore sides. “I have a giant dick-shaped cloud hanging over my head.”
Rhys nods, schooling his features into solemnity. “The phantom penis menace.”
“Threatening to rain on my parade,” I say.
“Are you sure that’s rain?”
“Stop it!” I gnaw on my inner cheek before I give in to another laughing fit.
We’re in our thirties. We need to stop acting like thirteen-year-olds.
It’s occurred to me that you never stop acting like dumbasses no matter how old or successful you are.
That being said, at least we’re doing it in the privacy of a cafe bathroom instead of subjecting the world to our juvenile jokes.
Regaining my composure, I smooth down my hair and slip back to the matter at hand. “The reason I’m here,” I say, in my most capable-sounding tone, “your date. Let’s deal with that first, everything else can wait…”
The mention of his date sobers him up. He swipes at the coffee stain on his sweater. “My date is a disaster.”
“No, no! That’s the thing,” I grip his forearm, my eyes shiny with the prospect of finally delivering victorious news, “it’s not a disaster at all!”
Rhys shakes his head. “Don’t joke with me.”
“I’m not joking! Michelle’s having a great time.”
He snorts, his skepticism unbroken. “How could she be? She looks bored out of her mind.”
“That’s just her face.” How can I explain to Rhys, unseasoned in all things related to women, the nuances of an apathetic beauty in the high fashion world?
“We’ve run out of things to talk about and have resorted to communicating through text.
I’ve somehow been suckered into a puppy GIF text chain.
Look!” He shows me the gist of their in-person texting, a long chain of adorable puppy memes peppered with Michelle’s responses: heart emojis or the occasional ‘LOL so cuteeeee!”
Okay, so they’re not having the most stimulating conversations, but if you ask me, Rhys is being incredibly picky for a man who couldn’t last five minutes on a date without getting a drink tossed in his face.
“She likes you. Told me so herself.”
“Really?” he squeaks.
I nod.
He narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “I barely know what to say to her,” he says, sounding horribly disappointed. “So I just keep my mouth shut, just like you said.”
“And it’s working splendidly!” I perk up. “She’s really eating up your strong and silent act.”
Rhys frowns. “But sometimes you can only be mute for so long. I have a few things I want to say.”
“Well, maybe you should think about emoting with your face instead of your mouth from now on. Your mouth only gets you into trouble. Besides, I thought our objective was to catch a woman, any woman, preferably a hot one. You never mentioned that she had to be a rousing conversationalist.”
“Well...” he shrugs, hitting me with a long, hangdog stare. “Some conversation would be nice. I like banter.”
Now he tells me. I fight the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Listen, banter is overrated. We banter all the time, and where has that led us? Crammed into a bathroom talking about another man’s dick. You can’t say it’s enjoyable.”
“I enjoy it,” he counters.
“Conversing about dicks?”
“Conversing about dicks with you,” he says, ushering in a beat of uncomfortable silence. I take a step back, training my eyes on the lavender incense sticks on the sink. What’s he saying, exactly? That he could have everything with Michelle if only she were a little more like...
Like me?
“That’s…” My brain fails me. “Crazy.”