Chapter 6 Penny
Penny
Should I redo the setting in platinum instead of gold?
That’d instantly make it feel brighter and more modern.
What about a halo surround? Though, at five karats, it’s already a door knocker of a stone and doesn’t need more to seem large and in charge.
Maybe I turn it into a set, using the baguettes for the wedding band and the round diamond as the engagement ring?
That’d increase my buying audience. Not to sound cynical, but love-drunk people are usually more willing to invest than sorry-I-fucked-up people, and if I can get someone both love drunk and rich, I’ll be skipping my happy self all the way to the bank.
I’m nearly skipping already, so lost in my own musings that I don’t notice the refrigerator-size shadow approaching until it’s nearly right on top of me, blocking my way and the sunlight.
“Are you talking to yourself? I guess what they say is true . . . simple minds can entertain themselves for hours with nothing more than the dust bunnies in their heads.”
I flinch, becoming aware of my surroundings in a whoosh and seeing Griffin standing directly in front of me, almost taking up the entire sidewalk. His arms are crossed over his chest in mocking sternness, and his eyes are filled with laughter.
He’s laughing at me.
Not on the outside—he rarely does anything as jovial as that. But deep inside that black heart of his, he’s laughing that he caught me mooning over seemingly nothing.
“Better than any conversation with you,” I snap back, then offer, “Wait, need me to dumb that down for you? You, no good talkie. Me, better without you.” I wave a hand dismissively like I’m shooing him away.
“That’s definitely true,” he mutters under his breath.
I’m so surprised at his agreement that I bark out a laugh.
He usually doesn’t agree with anything I say, to the point where I think he’s just decided to be on the other side of any fence—as far away from me as possible, verbally speaking—no matter the topic.
I could say the sky is blue, and he’d argue that sometimes it’s gray, or I’d say that cake is delicious, and he’d make a face of disgust, though I know he eats cake because I saw him put away a slab of the three-tiered chocolate-sprinkle one Mom made for Dom’s birthday.
So his easy agreement, especially with the hint of an almost sad smile at the corners of his lips, puts me on edge. There’s a shoe drop coming in three, two, one . . . but nothing happens.
I even glance around to see if I can find the hidden camera, because there’s got to be something weird going on. He doesn’t chitty-chat with me. He’s genetically averse to small talk. And he certainly doesn’t smile, or almost smile. Because he hates me.
He wraps a hand around his neck, pulling on it like he’s uncomfortable or nervous, two things I don’t think he’s actually capable of experiencing. “What’re you doing down here?” he finally asks.
And it is a question, not a demand for information. He almost sounds like a normal guy making conversation. Except we don’t do that, so I’m automatically on high alert, still searching for the trick.
“Shopping,” I reply slowly. “You?”
I can be conversational too. Hell, I’m one of the most talkative people you’ll ever meet. I just don’t talk to . . . him. But at this point, I think Mom would be proud of my politeness, given I haven’t told Griffin to fuck off . . . yet.
“Oh, uhh . . . there’s a place . . .” He looks over his shoulder, and I lean over to see what or whom or where he’s looking.
But all I see is the sidewalk, the usual stores, and a few people who aren’t paying us any attention.
When his eyes come back to mine, he seems even less sure about what he’s saying.
“Right around the corner, that I go to sometimes . . .”
He’s dragging out his answer like there’s an entire novel-length explanation for what he’s doing downtown, and suddenly it hits me. “You’ve got a booty call down here.”
“No!” His eyes widen, and the barked word is enough to tell me that I’m spot-on with my guess.
“All good, Honey,” I say, purposefully using his team nickname.
The official story on that is that he’s sticky on the ice.
The unofficial, probably truer story is that puck bunnies stick on him like flies on flypaper, so I’m not surprised he’s got a woman here.
I’d be more surprised if he didn’t. “I won’t tell Red about Downtownie, or tell Downtownie about Red.
” I mime locking my lips with an invisible key and throwing it over my shoulder.
Then, ignoring the locked lips, I open one tiny crack on the side of my mouth to ask, “Wait, are Red and Downtownie the same woman? Probably not, huh?”
“What?” His brow furrows as he shakes his head like that made less than zero sense, but it did. And we both know it.
“Or Blondie either.”
And that’s when recognition dawns on his face. I can see the light of understanding in the depths of his dark-brown eyes. For the tiniest second, he almost looks shocked, and then a sly grin forms on his face. “You jealous, Pen? You don’t need to be. I didn’t go home with that woman at Pro-Bowl.”
I hate it when he says my name. No, I hate it when he says it like that. Like I’m an annoying brat he has to put up with, not a whole person with feelings that get hurt. Ignoring that, I also notice he didn’t argue about having a fuck buddy downtown again.
“I’m not jealous.” I stomp my foot to prove that point, which in retrospect, probably does the opposite, because his grin grows even larger and the light in his eyes turns into a twinkle of teasing in a blink.
He knows I’m lying through my teeth, since there’s one thing I’m not good at .
. . well, there’s a lot of things, because I also can’t do calculus, but that hasn’t come up as often as the undeniable reality that I’m an awful liar.
“Just worried about you passing the STD screening at next month’s physical exam. ”
I know the guys on the team get physicals all the time, including a full panel of lab work every month, because Dom always whines about the needle stick. Some guy full-sending a puck right at his noggin? No biggie. A teeny-tiny needle prick? Terrifying. My brother is such a baby.
“I always pass. No worries there.” He chuckles like that’s funny for some reason.
I shrug like it’s not my concern either way.
“So if you’re not here for a hookup, what’re you doing?
” I don’t know why I ask again. Maybe because it seems like he really doesn’t want to tell me, and that makes me that much more curious?
Curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but at least he died with answers to his questions.
“You really want to know?”
I nod, but doubt is starting to creep in at the return of the taunting tone in his voice.
“Unless it involves spiders. Hate those things.” I feign horror, although it’s only half feigned.
I do hate the little fuckers. “I shouldn’t have told you that, should I?
You have to promise to never put one in my bed.
I will freak out so bad that I’ll jump out my apartment window to my death, my last action on this earth being to light the building on fire to destroy the spider and save the world like the hero I am. ”
Griffin stares at me in confused silence, which I wish I could say was a unique reaction to the things I say, but it’s not. “No spiders, promise.”
“Good,” I say, whooshing like I’m utterly relieved at that.
I tilt my head and quietly confide, “I’m actually not that scared of them, but they are creepy-crawly, you know?
All itsy and bitsy . . .” I wiggle my fingers like spider legs and promptly lose my grip on the brown bag I’ve been clutching tightly for the whole run-in with Griffin.
He catches it easily and hands it back to me. “What’s in the bag?”
Shaking my head vehemently, I taunt, “Nuh-uh, you first. Tell me about this quote-unquote ‘place around the corner,’ and maybe I’ll tell you about the absolutely, most amazing, awesomest thing I’ve ever bought.
” I hug the bag to my chest, all too aware that I’ve got my life in my hands, literally . . . well, financially.
“It’s jewelry, isn’t it?” he says flatly.
“Okay, that was a good guess, but you still have to show me yours before I’ll show you mine.”
He makes a choking sound like his spit went down wrong, so I step around him to pat him on the back. “You okay there, big fella?”
But rather than worrying about him choking to death on a city sidewalk and me being publicly responsible for the death of one of our city’s favorite hockey players, I’m suddenly acutely aware of how high I have to reach to hit his upper back, and how muscled that back is, and how hot he is even through the light jacket he’s wearing over his white T-shirt and black jeans.
Not appreciating my life-saving maneuvers the way a civilized person would, he shrugs me off and grunts, “Come on, let’s get this over with. I’ve got shit to do today that doesn’t involve an impromptu tour of downtown.”
“I’ve got shit to do, too, you know,” I say.
My busy schedule involves such exciting things as unwrapping my newly purchased ring, staring at it with naked eyes and then again with loupes, and then squealing in excitement and nerves as I dance around my apartment, imagining what I’m going to do with it.
After that, I’ll have an existential crisis, hyperventilating as I worry that it’s too much and yelling at myself for maxing out my credit card.
Eventually, I’ll move to phase three: calming myself down with a bag of sour-cream-and-onion chips before I pull out my sketch pad to start forming some ideas. So yeah, we’re all busy, bucko.