I glare at the boy. “You evil little troll.”
He points the marker at me. “I can make you look like an evil little troll if you want me to.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I stumble to my feet. Before I can stand up all the way, though, a set of fingers wrap around my upper arm, and I’m lifted to my feet as if I weigh nothing.
“Sorry about that,” a deep, male voice says. “Are you okay?”
I brush dirt and mud off my tights, skirt, and hands, but I only seem to make more of a mess. “Yep, just peachy.” Sarcasm drips from my voice as I elevate my gaze to him. “He’s kind of a …” I trail off.
The guy standing in front of me is younger than I expected—around my age—with green eyes, messy, brown hair, and a scruffy jawline. He’s definitely good-looking, but what’s really throwing me off is the strangest sensation that I know him. And the stunned look on his face makes me wonder if I do.
“Do I know you?” I ask, bending over to grab my box from the ground.
Right at that moment, the wind kicks up and blows up my skirt. I hurriedly tug it down, but I’m sure a few people passing by probably got a glimpse of the granny panties I’m rocking because I haven’t done laundry in, like, a month.
The guy scoops up my box, but instead of handing it to me, he keeps ahold of it. “No … I don’t think so.” He looks away from me as he says it.
He’s lying. I can tell. But why?
“What’s your name, then?” I ask.
His lips quirk. “You really expect me to give my name to some random woman on the street? A woman, I might add, who just flashed half the people walking by?”
I grip the bottom of my skirt, securing it down. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It was the wind.” And fate.
“How do I know that for sure?” he asks. “Maybe it’s your thing.”
“You think my thing is flashing people on the street? Really? Do I look that crazy?”
He eyes over my torn tights covered in marker and my muddy skirt and shirt, and his brow arches in insinuation.
“I don’t always look like this,” I say indignantly. “I’ve just had a shitty day, and he”—I wave my hand at the kid who is now scribbling on the side of a parked car—“made it ten times worse.”
“Yeah, sorry about Trevor. He’s going through a … phase.” He glances down at the little boy and frowns.
“You know that marker is permanent, right?” I say to the sexy stranger.
His eyes widen then he hastily hands me my box and gently pulls the boy to his feet. “All right, little man, hand over the marker,” Sexy Stranger says to the boy.
The devil child shakes his head. “You can’t take an artist’s tool away from him!”
“Trevor,” Sexy Stranger warns, trying to remain calm. “Give me the marker. Public artists don’t go around coloring on cars.”
The boy tucks the marker behind his back. “Some do. I’ve seen it on the internet.”
“Okay …” Sexy Stranger struggles for words. “Well, they don’t color on people’s clothes.”
“I don’t think you understand public art,” the boy says, backing away from him. “I have to color whenever the urge strikes me. That’s how it works.”
What a crazy—albeit smart—little weirdo.
“Need any help?” I offer, even though it’s the last thing I want to do right now.
“No, it’s okay,” Sexy Stranger waves off my help then warns the boy, “Don’t run away again. Your mom’s already going to be pissed off at me for that stunt you pulled at the toy store.”
“Art is art! And that display looked much better with my art on it!” the boy shouts then spins around and takes off running.
“Shit,” Sexy Stranger curses then runs after him, calling out to me, “Sorry about everything! I really am!”
I watch him run away, wishing I’d at least gotten his name. Then again, he’s probably married, so what does it really matter?
Sighing, I head back down the crowded sidewalk toward my apartment. I must really look like a crazy mess now because, while I’m waiting to cross the street, some old dude gives me five dollars and promises me that God loves all his children, even the hookers and sinners.
By the time I trudge into my apartment, I’m cold, wet, tired, and my eyes are nearly swollen shut from sobbing. I flop down on my bed, ready for the day to be over, like somehow overnight, my life will restart, and everything will be okay again. I know that’s not the case. I’ve been fired enough times to know I’m going to spend a couple of weeks applying to jobs and being called in for interviews, all while worrying if I’m going to make next month’s rent.
Grimacing, I kick off my shoes and drag my butt out of bed to grab my ancient laptop off my desk. While it’s booting up, I slip on a pair of boots and jog across the street to order a sinfully delicious slice of pizza with the five bucks the guy gave me. On the way back inside, while I’m stuffing my face with greasy goodness, I pick up my mail.
I haven’t gotten it in a few days because I lost the key and just found it last night. The box is filled with a ton of magazines and junk mail. The only thing of importance is a letter from my landlord.
I tear it open and my heart nearly stops. “An eviction notice? What the hell?”
I’m never late on my rent. I feel like banging my head on the wall. Could this day get any worse?
Chapter 3
After making a call to the landlord, I find out the bank returned my last month’s check because of insufficient funds. When I check my bank account, I discover a long list of charges not made by me.
“I can promise you,” I tell the very snide operator on the phone. “I didn’t spend two hundred and seven bucks at Gary’s Extravagant and Extraordinary Sex Toy Adult Shop.”
“I understand your frustration ma’am,” she replies in a dry tone. “And, like I said earlier, we’re looking into it, but it might take seven to ten days to process a refund.”
“I don’t have seven to ten days,” I huff out in frustration, tossing the statement onto the table. “This is such bullshit. I mean, what does extravagant and extraordinary even mean? Does it sell extra long vibrators with fur on them or something? Because that’s just creepy and very unpractical.”
The line grows awkwardly quiet.
Okay, okay. I might have gone a little too far with the whole furry, extra-long vibrator remark, but when I get too frazzled, I sometimes speak without thinking first. My mom calls it the curse of being an Ashford woman.
“Your dad’s mom once told me about her sex life and all the positions your grandpa and her used to do,” she said to me during a very uncomfortable conversation when I was thirteen. “She only did it because she was stressed out at work and was pissed off at your grandpa for breaking the bed frame. Anyway, she later apologized and explained that every Ashford woman has a habit of saying whatever pops into their head, especially when they’re stressed out.”
I didn’t believe in her curse theory at the time, but now I’m totally on board with it.
“That’s why we offer our multiple security programs,” the operator finally breaks the silence. “Perhaps you’ll want to consider signing up for one of them.”
“Why? So you can protect the negative three hundred and twenty-one dollars I have in my account right now?” I press my fingers to the brim of my nose. “Look, is there any way we can speed up the dispute process?”
She answers with a big, fat no, only using words that make it sound as if she’s giving me a sweet deal on something. By the time I hang up, I have no idea what to do next. Even if I get my money back and catch up on rent, I haven’t been called in for any interviews yet, and I’ve applied for almost every job within my salary range. I’m broke. Jobless. My car’s broken, and after talking to a mechanic, I found out it’s probably going to cost almost five hundred dollars to fix it.
I could always downgrade to a lower costing apartment, but let’s face it, I already live in a shithole—there??
?s not much farther down I can go.
Even though I hate being a charity case, I decide to call up my dad and ask him for help. He tells me he can probably scrounge up enough to fix my car, but they’re in the process of remodeling their bookstore right now and don’t have a lot of extra cash lying around.
“You could always come home for a little bit,” he suggests with a hint of hope in his tone.
My parents never were fans of my choice to leave Fairville and move to Denver. Me, I couldn’t wait to get out of the small town I grew up in. I dreamed about it from the time I was twelve and my dad took me on a trip with him to the city. Everything was so big and seemed to be constantly changing. It was a breath of fresh air compared to Fairville, which always seemed to remain stuck in the same place.
I used to call it Hellville because, growing up where everyone knew everyone, that’s what it felt like sometimes. Everyone knew everything about me. They witnessed every awkward phase I went through, knew all the nicknames that made me cringe, like Lexi t-rexi, a name given to me in sixth grade when my body grew faster than my arms. Eventually, my arms grew in proportion to my body, but by then, a new nickname had caught on. They were never cool names, either—like Lexi Sexy—and no matter what I did, I could never escape the teasing … until I moved to Denver.
Denver was my restart, my be-anything-you-want-to-be. I just wish that, after eight years of trying, I knew what I wanted to be.
I sink down into the sofa and rest my head back, staring up at the water stain on the ceiling. “Thanks for the offer, Dad, but I still have some jobs I can apply for.”
“Oh, okay.” The disappointment in his tone makes me feel guilty for not visiting more. “You’re still coming out for Christmas, though, right? You haven’t visited in over five years. And as much as your mom and I love coming out there, we’d like you to come home once in a while.”
I massage my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “As long as my car’s fixed, I’ll come out. I promise.”
“Your car will be fixed. In fact, I’ll wire you the money tomorrow. I hate the idea of you having to walk everywhere.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I start to choke up. “It means a lot to me.”
“Don’t cry, Lex. Everything’ll be okay,” he tries to assure me. “It’ll all work out in the end.”
He spends the next five minutes giving me one of his famous pep talks about keeping my chin up and being a go-getter. By the time I get off the phone, I’m a bundle of emotions. I miss my parents, even if they are a little insane sometimes and have absolutely no filter. I miss my job, too—I miss putting a party together and watching everyone enjoy it. I’m terrified I’ll never get another job, that I’ll get kicked out of my place and have to return to Fairville.
Deciding I need to start coming up with some alternative plans, I call my friend Sophie to see if she wants to hang out and watch a movie, subtly hinting we should do it at her place because it’s way nicer than hanging out in my living room/kitchen/bedroom.
When I get there, I fully plan to ask her if I can take her up on the offer she made a few months ago to move into her spare bedroom because she needs the extra cash. I turned her down at the time because it was too far away from work, but now that’s not a problem.
Look, a silver lining. Score!
“Sure,” Sophie replies after I call her and ask if she wants to get a pizza and maybe watch Bad Teacher. “I just can’t stay up too late. I have a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Who has meetings on a Sunday?” I slip on my jacket, grab my keys, and head for the door.
“People who want to move up the ladder instead of down,” she says condescendingly.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I need to get my shit together.” I don’t take her tone personally. “I’m headed over now. See you in, like, thirty.”
I’ve known Sophie for almost three years. We met in a bar after both of the people we came with had ditched us for guys. I’ll admit I was a little bit tipsy, which meant I came off more outgoing than I am.
“Seriously, haven’t they heard of chicks over dicks?” she asked me as we bounced around on the dance floor to the music.
Both of us sucked at dancing and probably looked like a couple of whacked out bobbleheads, but I was too drunk to care.
I nodded and then made a toast. “To hell with them. From now on, you and I’ll be besties, and they can go have their hot, sweaty sex.” I made a face as if I detested hot, sweaty sex.
She moved to clink her glass with mine, but then paused. “Well, I kind of want to have hot, sweaty sex, too, sometimes.”
“Yeah, me, too.” I paused, lifting my glass again. “To hot, sweaty sex.”
“Hell, yeah!” some guy beside me said, fist pumping the air.
I knocked back my drink and glanced around the bar. When I spotted a very in shape guy with gorgeous blue eyes chilling at the bar with his a-little-on-the-gangly-side friend, an idea struck me.
“I have an idea,” I said to Sophia. “We could be each other’s wingman.”
When confusion masked her bleary eyes, I explained how I wanted her to be my wingman so I could go hit on Pretty Blue Eyes at the bar. She could talk to his friend, and in exchange, next weekend, I would do the same for her.
“Fine, but you owe me.” She tripped in her heels as she spun around and marched for the bar.
By the time we made it to Pretty Blue Eyes, though, he had a curvy blonde in his lap. Sophie, who had just downed her six shot, took it offensively, like he had somehow been cheating on me, and threw her drink in his face. He jumped to his feet, nearly dumping the blonde on the floor.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked, his jaw nearly hanging to the floor.
“What’s wrong with me is guys like you always hitting on cliché women. When you want a real woman, call me.” Then she smacked his ass, linked arms with me, and hauled me out of the bar.
“Holy crap, I can’t believe you just did that,” I muttered as we reached the corner of the street.
“Yeah, me, either,” she replied, pressing her hand to her forehead. “That was so unlike me. I’m blaming it on the alcohol and my ex, the bastard. He’s got my head all messed up.”
“It was kind of funny.” I grinned as I replayed the look on his face when she slapped his ass.
She lowered her hand from her face. “The look on his face was priceless.”
“And at least you made an impression. He probably gets hit on all the time, but he’ll never forget the crazy girl who threw her drink on him and slapped his ass really, really hard.”
“Was it that hard?”
“I think the whole bar heard it.”
She shrugged. “I think he clenched, though, so maybe that softened the blow.”
We traded a look and then busted up laughing so hard I peed my pants a little bit.
After that, we became best friends. And, oddly enough, Sophie ran into Pretty Blue Eyes, whose real name is Flynn, a few months later, and the two have been dating ever since.
When I step outside and see that it’s raining again, I backtrack to Miss Finikey’s apartment to beg her to let me borrow her car.
I knock three or four times before the door swings open.
Miss Finikey leans against the doorjamb with her arms crossed. “What do you want?” she asks me, tying up her silk robe.
My eyes start to water from the smoke in the air and the strobe light flashing inside her living room. “I, um …” I trail off at the sight of Mr. Welford standing naked in the living room, holding a pillow over his man parts. On the television, a woman wearing a leotard and leg warmers is doing squats and counting backwards from ten.
“Hey, Lexi.” Mr. Welford waves to me. “We were just, um … exercising.” He gestures at the television as if that explains everything.
“Oh, sounds … fun.” I tear my attention away from the scene and focus on Miss Finikey and nothing else. Nothing else at all. “Can I borrow your car?”
?
??Did that piece of shit of yours finally break down?” she asks with a snarky grin on her face.
Sighing, I nod. “And it’s raining, so I’d really appreciate the favor.”
I expect more of an argument from her, but she must be eager to get back to “exercising” because she grabs the keys from the table and tosses them to me.
“I’ll probably be busy when you get back, so leave the keys under the mat,” she says before slamming the door in my face.
Shoving what I just saw way, way into the back of my mind where I can never replay it again, I hurry out to her car. Surprisingly, I don’t run into any problems during the drive to Sophie’s, and the radio even plays my jam.
By the time I’m knocking on her door, I think maybe my luck has changed.
When Sophie throws the door open, she lets out an ear-splitting squeal. “I’m so glad you’re here!” She claps her hands together and jumps up and down.
I jump up and down with her. “Me, too!”
We jump up and down, holding hands and celebrating that I’m here.
“Wait? Why are you so excited?” She stops jumping and her brows knit.
I shrug. “That I’m here?”
She motions for me to get inside then shuts the door. “I have exciting news.” Her voice gets all I-just-sucked-helium-from-a-balloon kind of high.
I clap my hands together, so excited for her even if I have no clue why. “What is it? Did you get another promotion? Or that new bedroom set you’ve been wanting for forever? Oh, wait, did you finally try a blueberry muffin from Tamy’s Fantastic Bakery?” The last one’s a joke, but the blueberry muffins there are amazing.
“A blueberry muffin? Really, Lexi?” She shakes her head and makes that disappointed face she always does whenever I’ve said something she thinks is ridiculous. “Like I would be this excited over a muffin.”
I put my hands on my hips and give her a teasingly stern look. “Clearly, you haven’t tasted her muffins.”
“Who’s tasting whose muffin?” Flynn strolls out of the bathroom, grinning and dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist.
This is the second time I’ve seen a nearly naked man tonight, but this time, it doesn’t make me want to jab my eyeballs out with my fingers.