I pointed. "Look, you can shit and shave at the same time." This was no joke, but it was funny just the same.
At this, he turned and gave me a look so sour, it could've curdled milk.
Then came the fridge moment. I'd scoped it out last week and left it as-is, containing half a stick of butter, off-brand soda, and a bottle of mystery mustard. I strode forward and opened the fridge nice and wide. "Look, something to go with your pastries."
He didn't look amused. Clutching the pastry box in one hand, he stalked forward and shut the fridge good and hard before turning to ask, "Where's the fish?"
I put on my innocent face. "What fish?"
He frowned. "The place reeks of it."
He wasn't wrong.The tang of dead fish hung thick enough to taste. Call me a bastard, but that wasmydoing, having paid a local fisherman to clean his latest catch near the dock.
Did that make me an asshole?
Probably.
But hey, anything to jolt Griff out of his rut.
I flashed him a grin. "Hey, Ididsay waterfront."
He didn't even smile. Then again, I hadn't expected him to.
What Iwasexpecting was for him to consider how lucky he was that he'd left dumps like this firmly in his rearview mirror. And if hedidn'tconsider it? Hey, I was just the guy to remind him. "Just like your place in Chicago. Am I right?"
When his jaw tightened, I had to say it. "Home sweet home."
He looked one good shove away from decking me – which, honestly, I might've deserved. But he didn't. Instead, he looked toward the balcony, and for the first time, I saw something new flicker in his eyes.
Sounding puzzled, he said, "It can't be the same one."
I kept my gaze trained on Griff. "The same what?"
He pointed. "That seagull."
I turned to look. Sure enough, through the grimy glass of the balcony door, I saw a big white bird perched on the railing. It was staring inside, watching us like it had a beef.
It was my turn to frown. "What's it looking at?"
Griff scoffed. "Don't ask."
We both fell silent. The bird stared. We stared back. Eventually, I gave up and turned back to Griff. "So…you ready to quit?"
I wasn't even sure what I wanted – for him to cave, so I could gloat, or for him to stick it out, so he'd finally get it. Either way, I'd call it progress. A few nights in this dump, and his Chicago penthouse would feel like paradise.
Griff's reply was instant. "Hell no."
The guy was no pussy, I'd give him that. Still, I had to ask, "You sure?"
"Positive."
Huh. Apparently, he needed this more than I thought.And now, I was thinking ahead. "So I've gotta ask, how much money was in your wallet?"
I wasn't merely curious. I was concerned, even as I worked to hide it. Under the terms of the bet, the loser had to survive onnothing more than the cash in his wallet, which ruled out credit cards, wire transfers, and even checks.
Griff's jaw flexed as he replied, "Just over three hundred."
Shit."Dollars? For thirty days?" I forced a laugh. "No fucking way. I figured you'd have a grand at least." I nodded toward the pastry box, still in his hand. "Damn, I should've bought you two dozen."
