“Don’t what?”
“Don’t see this as an omen, a sign from the gods, or even karma somehow. You’re going on the date. You’re not canceling.”
I frown at the phone, not that she can see me. Even if we were on FaceTime, the screen is completely screwed. I’m going to need a put a Band-Aid on my finger just to operate it without getting glass in it. I’m honestly surprised it still works at all, but I’m not going to jinx it any more than I have to by saying something stupid. Like “nothing else can getworse.” ’Cause it can. A cracked phone screen is a minor issue in the larger scale of life. Summer and I both know that.
“All I’m saying is that since I said yes to this date, bad things have happened. It might just be the universe telling me not to go.”
“Really? You seriously think the universe has nothing better to do than make sure you don’t get laid? Girl, it was a chain that broke on your bay door. Those things are old. I’m sure they snap all the time if you actually looked it up. And the lights flickering and causing you to slip when putting on mascara so you made a streak the size of the Rio Grande down your cheek and were forced to redo your makeup is more common than you think. If you put more of an effort into makeup in the first place, you wouldn’t need lights on. It would just be second nature. And finally, you can’t blame nothing looking good on you because of the date. You’re going on a date. By definition, nothing’s meant to look good on the first date. You’re meant to freak and complain and say you have nothing to wear. And don’t say you didn’t. I was on the phone, remember? I heard everything. Also, now might be a good time to book an appointment with a psychologist after you get a new phone, because I don’t think it’s normal to talk to yourselfthatmuch.”
I mean, when she puts it like that…. Yeah, I’m not vain enough to think the entire universe centers around me. I barely think it notices me most days. Why would it suddenly take an interest now?
Sure, I’ve been known to see signs before and use it as a reason for certain things. Mostly I just use them as an excuse to not go out. I’m a home girl, sue me. I like comfy clothes and ordering tacos to go. I enjoy my own company. And I canalways fill it with work or just zoning-out time. Or sleep. I love sleep. And I swear you can never get enough.
But if I’m going to claim the universe is trying to get me to stay home, I also need to be honest with myself. I’m nervous.
Like first-time-in-a-fight nervous. I don’t get nervous. Okay, I do, but it’s manageable. I’ve done the fighting thing so much that it’s second nature almost. I still get the buzz in my stomach, and till I take that first hit from my opponent, I’m jumping around like a jelly bean. But other than that, I would say my nervous level in life is low. My art sells. I get critical reviews. I have awful days. But I’ve grown tough. My past has made me see beyond the superficial. I’m not as jaded as I guess I could be, but I’m definitely not the type to worry about every decision I make.
Except for this one.
I let my head hang as I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“You’re going to be fine, honey.” Summer’s words are identical to the whisper in my mind.
Nodding, I raise my head and look myself over in the mirror above the sink. I went heavy on the eyeliner, and it makes me feel sexy. I won’t even say how much time I spent on my hair to just give up on it and let it fall in small waves around my face. And let’s not even talk about how stupid I was to try on basically everything I own to walk out of the closet in dark ripped jeans, a long-sleeve black crop top, ankle boots, and a leather jacket that I think is divine as shit. Might not be the red-carpet look of the century, but I feel good and like myself. That’s half the reason to get dressed in myopinion. Just sort of forgot that part for the first ten minutes of picking out an outfit tonight.
Remembering that a person likes you for who you are and not for who you can be molded into can get in your head. Girl minds are crazy. I doubt Domino went through half the scenarios in his head as I did when I chose what color of ripped jeans I would wear.
“Right. Okay. Fine.” I take one more breath and push off the counter, grabbing the busted phone as I go to the kitchen. “I was going to text you where I’m going, but my screen is smashed enough that I don’t want to chance it. Instead, I’m giving you permission to turn on Track My Phone.”
Summer always wants to know if people are where they claim to be. It got worse when her sister died on her. She went crazy stalker on me for a bit there, then calmed down till she had kids. Being a mom seems to have spiked her paranoid side again, but this time, it isn’t going away. Guess it’s a motherly gene or something. To appease her, I allow her to track me, but only if I agree. Otherwise, she goes down a rabbit hole of just watching my every movement and calling every five seconds to make sure everything is fine when the tracker doesn’t move. Doesn’t matter if I’m working at my shop or not; she gets intense with it all. Usually I just text her the location for her to google and appease her inner worrywart, but that got nixed when the world decided to play against me and cracked my phone screen.
No, not the world. Just you being clumsy and not noticing things. Nothing’s out to get you. You’re a small pea in the world. Not worthy of it taking note of you, remember?
While I like that my inner thoughts are trying to calm me, I’m not sure if I should be concerned that somehow my inner beingdoesn’t think I’m that big a deal. Eh, oh well. A problem for another day.
Especially when I hear a knock on my door and look at the clock on the microwave to see he’s right on time.
“Gotta go, hon. Hang up for me, will you?”
“Sure. Love ya. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I slide the phone into my back pocket when I hear the line go dead, then put my mini wallet in my other back pocket. All it has is a twenty-dollar bill, one credit card that I use for tacos and drinks only, and my ID. I take one last deep breath and then open the door.
“Wow.”
I blink at his words and take in the sight before me. “Right back at ya.”
I slowly look him over and then do it again because why the hell not. He’s eatable. I’m sure people say that all the time, but this man is fine as hell. And from the smirk on his face, I know he knows it.
At least he owns it. Guys who are hot but either pretend they don’t know or are just that damn oblivious are not the type for me. I need a cocky bastard who can also shut the hell up when I need him to. Not sure if Domino is the type, but he’s at least walked away when I told him to. That’s a point in his favor. If he starts telling me what to order or how to dress, then I’ll pull the plug on this. After I kick his ass.
I might only do MMA with other women, but that doesn’t mean I can’t knock a grown man out. Just ask his friend. I wasn’t even trying, and the guy still went down. Now imagine what it would be like if I really got mad. The drugging thing was annoying. Didn’t even know I was drugged. I waspummeling the escort just because he kept touching my shoulder and it pissed me off. I told him no—twice. Usually only tell them once, but I gave him a courtesy one because of the extra cash he slid my way. Should have stuck to my one-touch-only rule. Guy was a fucking leech that I needed off me ASAP. I even gave Mack a mouthful about it the day after.
I figured he would have had something to say to me, too, especially about not being allowed to beat down on investors, or whatever people are called who bid on others to fight. But apparently he hadn’t heard from the guy. It’s been a week since that night, and still nothing to Mack from him. Either he realized he made a mistake and kept his damn mouth shut after taking the beating he deserved, or someone else got to him.
Someone who is standing deliciously close enough that I can smell his cologne. Not sure what’s it called, but it puts me in an instant happy place. I might let him screw me in the parking lot of wherever we’re going if I get too many whiffs of him. It also helps that his clothes are tight enough to reveal his definition. I’m not into the bodybuilder type, but show me a woman who’ll turn down a ride on a guy with an eight-pack that you can see through his shirt. Go ahead, look. I’ll wait. Right, not a single woman in history would do so—unless they were already in a committed relationship, that is.
“Where are we going?” I step outside and brush against him as I turn on my small porch to punch in the code to lock the door.
