“I didn’t know the two of you were…” Marlon’s voice trails off, his finger pointing back and forth between Trace Wallace and me as Trace slips a protective arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “A thing.”
“A thing? Oh, I don’t know about that—lovebirds, perhaps? And from the looks of it, you’re upsetting my poopsy-whoopsy here.”
Oh Jesus. Somebody make him stop. Where is he getting these endearments from, the Cliché Guy’s Guide to Horrible Nicknames, circa 1950?
I swallow back the saccharine vomit creeping up my throat.
Madison laughs. “The three of us could be a thrupple,” she jokes, only half joking, poking Trace Wallace’s muscle with a fingernail, once. Twice. Three times.
It’s as if I’m not even standing here.
He promptly removes it, plucking it off and returning it to her like it’s rancid. “Uh…yeah, no—let’s not get carried away. No one is thruppling anything, ever. I don’t share.”
Dear God, make it stop, Lord hear my prayer.
“Since when?” Marlon blurts out.
“Since none-yo-business.”
Marlon stares. Glares? Turns red.
In all this time, I haven’t managed—or needed—to utter a single word, Madison and Trace Wallace coming to my rescue from a man I didn’t want to see. Dreaded seeing. Now that I have, I’m enjoying his humiliation at the hands of his peer. His teammate.
Why did Wallace come over here to bail me out?
“So,” Marlon finally says. “I assume you’re bringing her to the barbeque at Harding’s house tomorrow?”
“Say what now?” Madison interjects. I elbow her as best I can, hindered from jabbing her good by the weight of the massive arm still draped around me. “Did someone say party? What’s this about a team barbeque?”
“I wasn’t planning on going,” Trace tells Marlon, shifting on the balls of his feet.
“Oh, you’re going—and you’re taking your girlfriend.” My best friend bumps Wallace with her hip, causing our bodies to press closer together still and I catch a whiff of his aftershave. Body wash? Masculine cologne—something. Whatever it is, it smells sensational.
I almost sniff the air like he sniffed my hair.
“Babe, do you want to go to a team BBQ?”
He says barbeque like B-B-Q, pronouncing each of the letters individually, and Lord help me, I smile. What a moron, this big goof. I don’t even like the guy, but for some reason, I’m grinning up at him like a damn fool. “Not really. Babe.” I throw that in for good measure, pleased by the surprise crossing his expression. It’s there and gone in a flash.
“You know what?” He ups the ante. “I think you’d actually have a good time, so we should go. You would love Noah Harding’s girlfriend. Remember, I’ve been telling you about her?” He presses his lips to my forehead. “We’re definitely going.”
“Um.” I rack my brain for something intelligent to say. “I can’t.”
“Sure you can, my little cactus flower.” He boops me on the tip of my nose. “Mmm, you smell like honey, little sugar bee.”
“Oh my god.” Madison busts out laughing. “Stop it! Now you’re making me want to throw up—get a room you two.” She glances at my ex-boyfriend. “They’re always hanging all over each other. She is sooo into him.”
“You never let me call you babe,” Marlon pouts—actually pouts, crossing his meaty arms and scowling.
“Oh yeah, Daymon?” Trace is grinning from ear to ear. “It’s probably because you have a small dick, so…”
“Shut the fuck up, Wallace. You’ve seen my dick—you know it’s not small.”
Trace rolls his eyes, squeezing my upper arm conspiratorially. Winks at Marlon. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
“I do not have a small dick!” My ex-boyfriend’s voice booms at the same time the band stops playing, the deafening silence in the room followed by a snicker from my best friend.
“I hate you,” he hisses at me, the glare so odious I shrink into Trace Wallace’s big, warm body.
“See you tomorrow!” Trace calls to him as he stalks off toward the exit, his large, brooding body crashing through the doors. Trace wiggles his fingers in my ex’s direction, even though he doesn’t look over his shoulder.
Madison bounces up and down, boobs bouncing too, and I will her to stop with my laser-like glower. Shrug Trace Wallace’s heavy arm off from my body, easing out from under him, slinking to stand next to my friend—who is not helping these matters at all.
“What time are you picking her up?” She wastes no time getting down to business, as if she’s my manager making a deal on my behalf—once again acting as if I’m not here.
“I’ll grab you at noon, if that’s cool? We can be casually late—unless you want to be casually early? That’s usually my thing. Harding loves when I drop in on him unexpectedly.”
Somehow, I doubt that. “Seriously, I appreciate the sentiment and I appreciate you getting him off my back, but it’s not necessary to entertain me tomorrow.”
“Noon is so late in the day,” Madison informs him. “Hollis is an early riser—why don’t y’all do coffee then make your way to Harding’s? That will give you time to get to know each other before you get there.”