That might be a slight exaggeration, but the man has at least five baby mamas, and those are just the women willing to come forward and cop to the fact that they were fooled into believing his bullshit.
Allegedly, Edgar talks a great game while he’s trying to get into a girl’s panties, but as soon as she’s knocked up, he contracts a serious case of amnesia. Suddenly, he can’t remember the encounter that led to yet another bouncy baby boy or girl and maintains that he isn’t the father, no matter how many paternity tests prove otherwise.
Desperate to keep the state from garnishing his paycheck for child support, the jerk does all his work under the table for cash. On any given day, you can find Edgar running old refrigerators to the dump in his truck, stacking firewood, or selling water bottles at popular traffic stops around town—usually with a sign begging for help feeding the five children he’s never given a dime or a moment of his time.
Basically, he’s the worst.
But he also happens to be the most beautiful thing the Goddess ever plunked down on this sweet earth. With shaggy blond hair, artic blue eyes, a dazzling smile, and a chiseled body any movie star would kill for, he’s never had any trouble getting women naked and horizontal. And by eighth grade, he had a rep for knowing exactly what to do with them once he got them there.
If he’d slap on a condom, he’d just be an easy-going slut who women could enjoy for what he had to offer and leave behind when it became clear he wasn’t into love and commitment.
But he isn’t that guy.
He’s the guy who complains condoms are too tight on his giant schlong, swears he’ll pull-out, and then vanishes into the ether when a positive pregnancy test enters the picture. Not to mention the fact that he’s probably infested with crotch cooties. I’m not about to slut shame anyone—even Edgar—but condoms aren’t just for preventing pregnancy. Refusing to wear one as you plow your way through hundreds of women every year, is a recipe for a cornucopia of venereal diseases.
I know better than to get within ten feet of the guy. Heck, on a normal night, I wouldn’t even risk eye contact. I find him that utterly repulsive.
But Derrick doesn’t know that.
Derrick will think I’ve been lured in by Edgar’s man beauty, like so many innocent young women before me. He will feel compelled to step in to protect me from myself.
And that’s when I launch Operation Bait and Switch.
In my buzzed head, it’s a brilliant plan.
Nearly foolproof, in fact!
I’m so focused on what to say to Derrick after he gets rid of Edgar, that I don’t spare a thought for what I should say to Edgar himself until I’m a few feet away from where he’s drinking with his friends not far from Derrick and his slightly older crew.
Edgar looks up, fixing me in his icy gaze. He arches a curious—but not at all lecherous—brow, and I suddenly remember that I’m wearing the giant “Mermaid Hair, Don’t Care” sweatshirt I dug out of Leslie’s trunk when it started getting cold.
The shirt is cute and soft, but not the least bit sexy. It hangs to my mid-thigh and is baggy enough to conceal all my curves, leaving me resembling a pink cake pop with two scrawny sticks sticking out of the bottom instead of one. With my hair in a ponytail and nothing but mascara and blush on, I probably look about fifteen years old.
Maybe even younger.
I’m tall, but I have a baby face, a fact that ensures not a single bouncer in the state of New Jersey has ever fallen for my fake I.D. and I still get carded at R-rated movies.
Anxiety tightening my throat, I slow my steps, debating whether I should take the sweatshirt off before I get closer to Edgar and his friends, or if that would make this entire thing too weird and obvious. Then I wonder if the lacy blouse I’m wearing underneath the sweatshirt would be much of an improvement. It’s form-fitting, but it doesn’t show any cleavage. And it’s vintage from the 1960s, meaning it’s scratchy as hell and smells like dusty mothballs, no matter how many times I soak it in dish soap overnight.
And who wants to make out with an itchy dust mite?
Or a human cake pop with a baby face?
Maybe this isn’t a brilliant plan…
Maybe it’s a stupid drunk girl plan, and I’m about to become the laughingstock of the entire town. What would it say about my sex vibe if I’m turned down by the one guy who never turns anyone down, not even Lisa Chiddle, who has beef jerky breath and a rabid donkey laugh?
I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t bode well for my chances of losing my V-Card before I head to college in the fall, especially not to the guy I’ve fantasized about being my first. Derrick would never be interested in an Edgar Smithfield-Watson III reject. He dates gorgeous women with shiny hair and perfect bodies and grown-up jobs.