Page 161 of Trading Paint
It then sprung up with the message, “Call Failed” again.
Tossing the phone in the seat, I continued to navigate. I think most of my frustration was fear of why was he was coming here?
I could understand maybe if it had been a while since we’d seen each other but as it was, I just saw him not more than a month ago.
When I finally found the airport, much later than I should have, Jameson was lying on a bench outside of the said closed airport, asleep.
He looked adorable.
I felt like an asshole having got lost so many times. I’m sure it didn’t help that I was speeding to try and get here and I missed a few turns due to poor handling and visibility as a result.
When Jameson awoke, no longer adorable, he was not amused with my tardiness and replied with, “Nice of you to hurry.”
I also wasn’t amused because in order to navigate accurately the last leg of my adventure, I ended up sticking my head out the window. I now looked similar to a drowned rat or cat.
“Get up lazy ass.” I kicked him.
“Get up? I just spent the last two hours waiting foryour ass.” He finally looked at my hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“I don’t have windshield wipers. I got lost and I had no cell reception.” I shrugged swiping a few wet strands out of my face while one stuck to my cheek. “It’s your fault. Now let’s go get some ice cream.”
He smirked. “I could use some ice cream right about now.”
So we ate ice cream at Dairy Queen and then headed back to my apartment I was renting off campus this year.
When we walked in, Jameson looked around before slumping on the couch and kicking his feet up on the coffee table, well not really. My coffee table was two sprint car tires holding up a piece of sheet metal.
“This place is a shit hole, Sway.” His eyes focused on the table. “Nice table by the way.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Well...not everyone makes millions.”
“Neither doI,” he replied defensively.
“Fairly damn close and I know you’re lying when you add on what you make with the sprint car team and all those foam fingers.”
He shook his head drinking his chocolate milkshake. “I haven’t made shit off that sprint car team. All the profit goes back into the team right now. Although, those foam fingers may be my retirement someday,”
I was about to ask him how his sprint car team was going until my perverted neighbors began making noise.
Those assholes made me so jealous lately that I had to invest in a vibrator. I’m no audiologist or anything like that, but a quick assessment told me those were sex noises—sex noises that were not coming from me.
With the way our apartments were laid out—you could see into their dining room from my bedroom. Not once had they been in the dining room but there was always a first in the heat of the moment I guess.
So there Jameson and I were, lying on my bed watching Sports Center when I sat up to grab the remote, catching a glimpse of my porn star neighbors. “Holy shit, they’re doing it on the table.”
Jameson sat up.
“Who is?” his eyes frantically searched for what I was pointing at.
He hadn’t shown that much enthusiasm since the time, when we were fourteen, and had found a porno in the VCR of his parent’s living room, compliments of Spencer.
“My neighbors,” I giggled with a snort. “Right there pile driving her on the table.”
He burst out laughing and moved by my window for a better view. To be fair, webothwatched.
“This feels wrong.” I said watching closely.
When he pulled back and lowered his head, I cringed. I didn’t want to watch this just out of plain jealousy.
