Chapter 9 Madmiral Briggs #3
Hi, it’s Duo. Are you traveling?
Hi, it’s Duo. Even five minutes a day can help?
In a way, Duo was his only friend.
Hi, it’s Duo. Get off your lazy ass and take a lesson, Harold. It’s not like you have anything better to do! By the way, great job showing Alice what you were made of the other day. I’m sure she was in a hot debate of who to choose between, you and Renzo.
The thing was . . . things weren’t getting any better.
How long had it even been since she’d left him?
The days ran together. And who cared anyway?
A day without Alice wasn’t a day at all.
He was sitting on hold, as if he had his phone to his ear listening to Muzak while waiting for the operator to return and say he could go back to living.
He hoped that Alice would surprise him and walk in the door any minute . . . No, that’s not true. He’d prefer a heads-up so he could shower and shave, make the bed, reset his watch so she couldn’t see his step count, and knock down the Leaning Tower of Pizza boxes while he was at it.
What if she didn’t come back to him, though? What if what they’d had wasn’t real at all?
Alice was out of his league in every way.
If only she knew the truth, that he wasn’t at all a successful entrepreneur.
That he lived with his mom! That he was a loser!
She was the kind of woman who could do anything, be with anyone.
She might even truly love this man, this Renzo, and he might convince her to stay in Italy forever, perhaps raise his children.
Harold winced at the overly graphic image that passed through his skull, that of Renzo slipping the panties off Harold’s Alice and . . . and . . . and penetrating her with his . . . Ugh.
He’d likely do a finer job than Harold, who didn’t have much experience. Should she give him another chance, he’d devote his entire life to gifting her orgasms that would turn the night into day, flashes of lightning in the sky of her carnal desires.
He pressed his eyes closed, wishing he’d worked harder. That he’d listened better, that he’d walked ten thousand steps a day. Dammit, he’d walk fifty thousand a day if she’d come back to him. And why hadn’t he learned Italian yet; why was he so damned ugly? Why did he have to be a nerd?
Hi, it’s Duo. Why are you such a fucking dipshit?
Who was he kidding, thinking that she’d stick with him. He was lucky enough to have enjoyed the time he had with her. It would have all come crashing down anyway once he’d confessed to his lies.
It was all lies, lies, lies!
A knock on the door stole him from his misery. His heart began to hammer.
Was that really a knock, though? How many times had he answered the door to realize he’d been hearing things?
Another knock, followed by a soft female voice.
Harold’s head swiveled like someone had tied a string to his chin and jerked.
What to do. Alice couldn’t see the place like this. Him like this. He hadn’t even brushed his teeth in a couple of days.
He tiptoed to the door and lowered to the ground, peeking under the crack. Shadows of feet in flats darkened the floor, but he couldn’t see if it was his strawberry love’s perfectly cast toes.
“Alice?” His voice cracked.
“Harold?”
It was her! Who cared about what he was wearing or what he looked like or how he’d let the place fall apart. She was here, back to him. Maybe fate did exist.
Suck an egg, Duo!
He cleared his throat and spoke a notch deeper than usual. Confident, relaxed, assured. “Yes, it’s Harold. What’s happening?” He looked down at his own scrawny frame—his tighty-whities!—ashamed of anyone seeing him this way.
“Sorry to bother you, but I was checking to make sure you were coming today.”
Wait, this person had a chirpy British accent. Was it the Moira girl from the bookstore? His heart fell from his chest and died a quick death on the floor. It turned into a congealed mess and slipped through the cracks like the monster in Stranger Things.
Heartless and broken, Harold cracked open the door a half inch. “Can I help you?”
With a black floppy hat drooping down over part of her face, Moira backed up and raised a hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. Were you sleeping?”
She had a strong accent that required an extra layer of processing. “Uh, yeah. Just a nap. I work odd hours. Clients in Asia.” His speech came out like bubbles from the mouth of a deep-sea diver.
“I wanted to remind you about the signing downstairs. I’m telling all the neighbors. Four p.m. on the nose. The author is going to read for us, then answer questions. Did you happen to get to her book?”
He stopped himself before saying, Are you kidding me? “No, I didn’t get a chance.”
“No problem. I suspect you’ll still get something out of the signing. And invite Alice, too, if she’s around.”
He didn’t bother mentioning that she was probably riding in the passenger seat of Renzo’s Lambo at that exact moment. “Yeah, okay, thanks for coming by.” With that, he clicked the door shut and let his head fall back. No way in hell he was going to a book signing.