"The restaurant owner who won't give up."
Brody looks confused, but it's because I didn't tell him I have a shoot today, which is because we aren't dating, or friends, for that matter. Brody and I grew up together, kind of. Our parents are friends, but we only saw each other a few times a year when our families attended the same parties. Then, he ran away, I got busy, and our families became a bit distanced—perfect reason not to see someone for twelve years. But, yay for me, I ran into him last week. Now, it's like we're best friends who FaceTime each other. I've already informed him: A. I don't have best friends for a reason. B. I don't FaceTime for a reason.
However, I keep answering his call, which is a reason I'm not exactly sure about yet.
"A restaurant owner?" Brody questions.
"I had a job today. A shoot. I use those big devices, called cameras, and there's something called a lens, which you aim at an object and then click a button, and poof! A copy of the image is burnt into a digital chip. Magic, right?"
Brody's eyes drift to the ceiling of his apartment. I only know it's his apartment because I recognize the ceiling fan from when he gave me a virtual tour the first time he Facetime'd me. That was special. "I wasn't sure if you were talking about a weapon or a camera there for a minute, carrot-top."
I once had red hair, more than ten years ago, but he thinks I find it funny to call me carrot-top even though my hair is a dark shade of auburn.
"Journey, wait a minute, will ya?" Marco is diligently following me down the dark sidewalk. If I weren't talking to Brody, I might have pulled out my car key and shoved it between my fingers to make it look like a knife—one that would only give the dickhead an injury as mild as a paper cut.
"Seriously, are you okay?" Brody asks.
"I had a food photo-shoot at Chez Tru, but the owner wanted more than just the photos, so I'm walking away." I'm also out of breath from walking at the pace I'm moving.
"Stay on the phone with me until you get into your Jeep," Brody says, standing up from his couch.
"I'll be fine," I tell him.
"Is that him behind you?" Brody asks, tilting his head from side to side as if he can get a better view of what's behind me.
"Yeah, I'll handle it," I tell him, feeling less than confident about my statement.
My hands are trembling as I hit the button on my key-fob, thankfully seeing my headlights flash in front of me. Still, I'm not fast enough because Marco's burning hand is back on my shoulder.
"Hey!" Brody shouts through the phone. "Want to get your hand off my girl?"
My girl?In his dreams.
As if my shoulder is truly on fire, Marco rips his hands away, holding them up in defense. "I didn't realize—I just wanted to apologize."
"Apologize for what, bro?" Technically, this would be a good time to disconnect the FaceTime call, but I continue holding my phone up for Marco to see.
"He's got a wife, and a beard—can you believe that?" I counter with a scoff.
Brody closes his eyes for a quick second as if feeling defeated about his awful facial hair that I've commented on more times than he has called me.
"I'll make sure to let everyone know how fantastic your new restaurant is," Brody calls out. "Get in the Jeep, Journey." I narrow my eyes at Brody, lacking appreciation for the way he's speaking to me.
Despite my irritation, I jump into my Jeep, close the door, and hit the locks. Marco is walking back toward the restaurant with his hands in his pockets and his head hanging from what I can only hope to be an embarrassment.
"What are you doing walking around a dark street at night with a piece of equipment that probably costs more than a normal week's paycheck?"
I drop the phone down onto the passenger seat, leaving FaceTime on so he can stare at the ceiling of my Jeep. "I don't recall agreeing to be your concern, Brody," I tell him, starting the ignition.
"Well, I didn't ask," he counters. "As a human being with a brain in my head, I'm calling out the blunt fact—a beautiful woman like yourself shouldn't be walking down a dark street alone with expensive equipment."
"I can take care of myself. I've been doing so for quite some time now."
"Is it that you can take care of yourself, or do you tiptoe through life thinking you're tougher than shit?"
"Shit isn't very tough, bright one. It's actually pretty—"
"Okay, enough. I'm serious. Do you even lock your doors at night?"
