“Got it, hoss,” I say, taking the printed schedule from him. I notice that almost all of the classes have either a red or blue asterisk next to them. “What do these mean?”
He checks the spreadsheet over my shoulder. “Those are amputee-friendly classes, meaning people can generally do them wearing their prosthetics. The blue asterisks mean that they are meant to remove their prosthetics.”
“Okay, during those classes should I be concerned about the logistics of where the prosthetics go? Or does everybody just sort of leave them in a big pile by the door?”The thought galls me.
“We usually have people place them neatly up against the wall. Though the last time there was some confusion between two guys who were about the same height, so if you think of a better arrangement, feel free to implement it.”
“If you don’t mind, maybe give me the number to the office you got your prosthetic from, and I can see what they use to sort out the different limbs.”
“All right, yeah. That might work. What’s your number?”
Shit. I don’t even know if my number is good anymore; it’s been forever since I’ve had enough cash laying around to add minutes. I hate that every conversation is a tap dance around the fact that I’m broke dick and starting at nothing.
Seeing my hesitation, he continues. “Never mind, I’ve actually got the card in my wallet. You can call them from here.”
He walks behind the counter, grabs his wallet, finds the card, and silently hands it to me. He stares for an awkward moment, but it’s not the judgmental up-down he’d given me before. This is curiosity; this is him trying to figure me out. I’m not sure that I like it, but I don’t hate it.
Thankfully, the weird moment is interrupted when Jean-Pierre Fucking Sehene walks into the door, sunshine in human form, and right behind him, Scout Martinez and a woman with gorgeous lavender hair.
“Elijah! So glad you’re here, and I can’t wait to talk through the services we provide our veterans.” The giant man-boy punctuates this with a rib-crushing hug that takes my breath away. It’s not just the lack of oxygen, you see; it’s that I haven’t been touched in a long time. Bit of a shock to the system to be enveloped by nearly seven foot of man all at once. I look to Nick, not sure how to act, and that assessing expression returns to his face.
“Jean-Pierre, maybe put the nice employee down before you break him,” Scout Martinez says, ever so coolly. That’s me—I’m the nice employee she’s talking about. Scout Martinez is talking about me and knows who I am. And so does Jean-Pierre Sehene. And whoever this woman with purple hair is.
Seemingly reading my mind, she sticks out her hand, which I shake. “Hi, I’m Evie. Scout’s wife. These two cannot be relied upon to be socially appropriate, and for that I’m sorry. There really is no excuse,” she says with a smile on her painted red lips. I like her immediately.
Scout Fucking Martinez slaps her hand to her forehead and offers the other for me to shake, which I do. “Oh yeah, sorry about that. I’m Sophia Martinez, but most people call me Scout. And I’m this one’s sister.” She gives Nick a hug and a noogie, which I find endearing and hilarious in equal measure. He’s less amused, which I find even funnier.
Standing next to each other, the family resemblance is striking. Both have beautiful, medium olive skin and shiny black hair. While Scout has a cool undercut, Nick’s hair has a nice fade at the sides and thick, slightly longer hair on top. They both have killer cheekbones along with those full, expressive eyebrows, and as they stand there, I realize Scout is almost an inch taller than her brother. He tries to look annoyed at her lack of propriety, but something approaching affection crosses the man’s face, which makes me think maybe he has an emotion chip after all. Either way, it moves one tick mark from the dislike, avoid-at-all-cost column over into the hot-as-fuck, avoid-at-all-cost column. While both columns lead to the same road, one has a distinct masturbatory advantage over the other.
I mean, who among us hasn’t hate-jacked it to some gorgeous asshole?
Just me?
Fine.
Fuck, I’m dazed from these famous people talking about me. Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it. Is surreal a better word? I dunno. Evie stands next to me and bumps her shoulder into mine. “It’s a little crazy to consider that these people are my family, and they’re also like, basically the closest thing we have to gods. Sometimes I look over at them and I think, how is this my life?”
I greet her with wide eyes. “Literally the last twenty-four hours have been me staring in the mirror going holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, how did this happen? I mean, I’m living—”
Shit, I almost told a complete stranger way too much about my personal situation. Not smart. If she thinks the weird pause is, well, weird, she doesn’t let on.
“Anyway, does it ever stop being surreal?” …is really the question I want to ask.
“Yes. Yes, it does. Especially when you realize Scout Martinez burps like a gassy trucker, Jean-Pierre Sehene can’t tell a joke to save his ding dang life, and both of them are giddy as schoolkids to conduct what is essentially a new hire orientation because they love this place.”
“Wow, gross and amazing and… really?”
She nods and leans in, her eyes sparkling. “Uh-huh. Scout woke up early this morning and put together abinderfor you. I mean, she’s never put together an employee binder for the pizza shop, but that’s ’cause she knows I’ll kick her butt if she messes with my baby.”
Scout looks over at us and narrows her eyes at Evie, whose smile lights up the room. Scout goes from hawkish admonition to puddle of human goo in the space of three blinks. Damn, she has it bad. I catch Nick checking us out and adopt a conspiratorial tone. “Of course, then you’ve got the slightly grumpy Mister-Sacrificed-My-Leg-For-My-Country-War-Hero-With-Abs-For-Days over there, aka Keto Spice, making us all look like Class A Losers, so…” I end with a shrug.
Evie laughs loudly, wheezing as she bangs her hand on the counter. “Keto. Spice.Oh my dog, I’m totally calling him that from now on.”
“What?” Nick asks, knitting his eyebrows. “What did you call me?”
I stand in front her, which only causes her to laugh louder. “Nothing. Not a damned thing. Not every conversation revolves around you.”
“Yeah,Keto Spice. This isn’t about you,” she says, now completely bent over, barely able to breathe. Scout bites her lip at the scene her wife is making and walks up behind her, palming that spectacularly generous ass of hers. Evie makes a little surprised chirping noise and turns around. The heat they generate from whatever silent conversation is going on between them damn near melts the counter.
