“What? Sex hovel? Is sex hovel the phrasing you have a problem with?”
“You are the biggest pain in my ass.”
“The biggest?” he clucks. “Wow, Turn. You say the sweetest things.”
I sigh. “Hey, Cap?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“I implore you…stop talking about your cock’s extracurricular activities.”
“Okay. But only because I’m imagining you just said cock in the middle of the workplace and people are likely staring at you.”
I look up, cautiously, and of course, he’s right. Several sets of eyes in the room look up from their work, surveying me with new interest. Greer’s are wide and way too something. Something interesting and interested, and fucking hell, I can’t go there right now.
Son of a bitch.
His laughter carries through the phone, and I come damn close to hanging up on him.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, somehow sensing my retreat. “I had a reason for calling. I swear.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Tormenting me.”
I cut a stern look through everyone in the room, locking eyes briefly with Greer again, and then step out into the hall.
“Before I tell you the reason, I need to ask you something first.”
“And what’s that?”
“Have you banged out all your pent-up sexual frustration with the hot designer yet?” he asks, and I can actually hear a shit-eating grin in his voice. “I’m just trying to make sure the countdown on my desktop is correct.”
Obviously, it was too much for me to hope that he forgot about the whole Greer Hudson situation.
“I told you that’s not happening, you depraved bastard.” I ignore the fact that my chest constricts at my words and focus on ending this call before Cap has time to say anything else. “And now, I’m really hanging up.”
“Wait. Don’t do that, Turn.” He chuckles. “My reason for calling is Susie Gimble.”
“Who?”
“Susie Gimble,” he repeats. “Come on. You remember, we went to high school with her brother—”
“Gavin,” I supply, finally remembering who the hell he’s talking about.
I lean into the wall next to the door and pinch the bridge of my nose. Why the hell is he talking about people from high school right now?
“Well, she’s divorced and living in New Orleans now, and I told her you want to take her out on a date.”
My eyes pop open, and I jump, shoving away from the wall I’ve just settled into. “Jesus Christ, why would you do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says sarcastically. “Maybe to get you laid?”
“Cap—”
“You’re like a month away from becoming a monk, Turn. Just go on the date, fuck the woman, and then you can move on with your life.”
An image of Greer’s big blue eyes looking over at me after I said the word cock flashes in my mind, and I crumble.
Because maybe Caplin is right, and maybe he’s not. It’s truly a fucking toss-up, but before I know it, I’m actually agreeing to it. “Fine. When?”
“It’s not for a couple of weeks. She’s in Greece right now. You’ll have plenty of time to shave your balls.”
“Yep. It’s official. I’m hanging up now.” I shake my head and look to the ceiling. The energy his mind must dedicate to coming up with this ridiculous shit to say is mind-boggling.
He laughs. “Good chatting with you, Turn. Good luck finding your midnight mystery texter.”
“It’s not… They don’t text at midnight…” I struggle to explain, hating that he even knows this much now.
“Sure. Listen, I have to go because Thatcher Kelly just walked in, and there’s no telling what kind of legal trouble he’s in.” I hear our friend Thatch’s booming laugh in the background and cringe. The two of them in an office together must break some kind of law. I’ve never met two people with less of a filter than them. “But don’t worry, you won’t be a virgin anymore in two weeks!”
I tell him to fuck off, but he’s already hung up by the time I get the words out.
Everyone is looking at me again when I step back inside the room after getting off the phone, so I say the only three words that come to mind. Words that will get them out of my hair long enough to erase at least a tiny portion of their memories. “Go get lunch.”
Greer
There is only one thing I do on Tuesday nights—watch Ellen’s Game of Games.
Which is exactly what I’m doing now, all curled up on my couch in a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, popping popcorn into my mouth like a heathen with my eyes riveted on my favorite TV shenanigans.
Emory: I love how all the people always bounce in those sumo suits and flippers. Like, do their legs become rubberier or something?
And, occasionally—only during commercial breaks—I answer my best friend’s text messages.
Me: I think it’s Ellen’s glee. It fills their legs with springs. Or hell, maybe it’s a part of the show. Like, in order to participate, you need to fill out this contract that allows them to do minor surgery on your legs.