I start to laugh, ignoring the rich-people-are-so-weird look on Sonya’s face, then go check the security feed from last night on my phone. Bobbi stopped by at 11:54. She is scorching hot as she glares at the security pad out by the gates and punches in a number. Given that there was no alert, she remembered the date.
And again, she input the right combination for the door. Did she also recall what I told her when I gave her the code? Did that remind her of what she means to me?
I watch her mix something in a bowl, then sabotage the croissants. Jesus, she’s sexy as hell. And the intense look on her beautiful face? I want to blow it up, print it out and frame it so I can hang it in my bedroom.
Maybe I should do it and text Bobbi a snapshot. Sure, it’s immature, but I need some validation—no matter how inconsequential—that I matter enough for her to react. It’s possible I never grew out of the tug-the-girl’s-hair-for-attention phase of boyhood, although I never felt the urge until I met Bobbi.
I laugh again as she flips the ceiling off.Yes!It might not be love, but I don’t care! As long as she isn’t indifferent to me. Disgust, dislike, even hate… I can work with that.
But first. Her excellent effort shouldn’t go unrecognized.
–Me: You didn’t have to be so cruel, my love. Wasting perfectly good croissants… Think of the starving children somewhere in the world.
I pour a cup of coffee from one of the pots Sonya’s team has laid out and count. Three… Two… One…
–TLOML: Señor Mittens sends his regurgitated regards.
That must be the cat. He disapproved of me, but absolutely hated Lorcan. What a good, sensible little kitty.
–Me: I love you too, light of my life.
–TLOML: I hope you choke on a gaggle of dicks. Heavy on the gag.
–Me: Not my thing, but I could do an MMF if you really want. Just as long as nobody gets to touch you but me.
Three dots appear then disappear. Although I wait a good minute, nothing happens. Probably too overcome to respond.
My phone vibrates with a new text. I raise my hand eagerly, then glare at a photo my dad sent.
–Dad: What do you think? Erika is five-eight. D cup. Nice ass. Holds a brilliant conversation.
The photo is a woman, naked from the waist up. She has hair so bleached it looks like straw and plastic tits with nipples the size of dinner plates. Her face is spray-tanned to the point of looking more tangerine than human.
The only correct thing is likely her name and her cup size. But that’s only because I know it’s Joey doing the menial job of texting me. And unlike my dad, who still can’t remember his daughters-in-laws’ names, Joey keeps track of such details.
Besides, is he blind enough to think I’m going to downgrade to Erika after Bobbi?
–Me: My walls can probably hold a better conversation.
–Dad: But can they give you a baby? Josh Singer just got another grandchild. She sings like an angel.
–Me: Newborns don’t sing like angels. They scream and cry like demons burning in eternal hellfire, day in and day out.
Except for my nephews and nieces, but then they’re the most precious, precocious babies. And since my brothers are smart, they keep our father and Joey away from their offspring. Nothing good comes from being around those two.
–Dad: His does. And I want you to create a child who can outdo her!
By that, he means outdo Josh Singer. Dad has some kind of weird psychotic rivalry with the man. Who the hell knows why. Not even Joey can explain it. I’d bet my left nut that Josh Singer doesn’t know, either. And I’m not having a baby just to hand it over to my dad so he can parade it around as a prop to boost his already overinflated ego. Children deserve to be loved, not used.
–Me: If I ever have a baby, it’ll outshine everyone just by existing. Now go away, Joey, before I decide to get myself snipped.
I open one of the eight social media apps on my phone. Everyone thinks I’m addicted to these brain-rotting sites, but actually they’re search engines and intel for government assets. I scroll the feed—a lot of general gossip about celebs and stuff—so that if anybody happens to see my screen they won’t notice anything unusual. Then I stop at a post of an apartment building. In front is a tree heavy with red pomegranates.
I can’t believe moving means saving 50% on rent! But then my landlord is a jerk.
It’s one of the profiles we use for communication, and I asked Keelan to keep an eye on Bobbi and my brothers. A picture with red fruit means it’s about Bobbi. I skim the comments.
So much greed, man!
