The welcome screen is bright and cheerful, and as I open it and begin to create a profile, my mind wanders back to my failed relationships throughout the years. Truth be told, I’ve always wanted what my parents and sisters have - a happy, committed relationship with the love of my life. I’ve always seen myself as a family man, and I want the kids, wife, and picket fence-type scenario. I’ve never been able to find the right girl, though. It feels like all the girls I meet are either puck bunnies who only want me for one night of rough sex or girls who are simply not interested in me because they think I’m just some dude-bro jock. No one ever seems to want me for me.
The last girl I really wanted… was Rylee. I haven’t been able to get the night of Jensen and Grace’s wedding out of my head. I think about it more than any encounter with any other woman I’ve had. It’s wild - I’ve never been so turned on as I was that night, or wanted a girl more. At the same time, I’ve never been so humiliated as I was when she called me by another man’s name.
Fucking Kodiak… whoever that bastard is.
I just hope I have better luck with the girls I meet on this app than I did with her.
CHAPTER FIVE: GIRL TALK
RYLEE
Walking into my apartment,I release a breath of relief. It’s later than I was thinking I’d be home, but between meeting with the magazine’s travel manager, arranging for other photographers to take over my current jobs, and typing up instructions on photo editing jobs I’ve been working on, I wasn’t able to leave the office until over an hour after typical quittin’ time.
Now I’m in a rush, because I’m supposed to head to Mom’s for the weekend, and that’s a twenty-five minute drive. I’d called her earlier this afternoon to ask if she wanted to have dinner because I wanted to tell her the good news about my new assignment, and we decided just to make a weekend of it. I need to hurry and pack and grab Gizmo…
A fuzzy blur suddenly darts from the shadows of my apartment and jumps onto my leg, wrapping its paws around me and clinging on tight.
“Ah, there you are,” I say, gazing down into the blue eyes of a wanna-be killer in a fluffy, Ragdoll cat body. “How are you, baby? Did you miss Mama today?”
Gizmo rubs his head back and forth against my leg before chomping down on my calf.
“Ouch!” I hiss, reaching down to pull him off me. “I told you not to do that!”
As I cuddle him in my arms, he bats at my chin, but allows me to hold him. I adopted Gizmo when I first moved back to Nashville, after graduating and getting my job at ICON. I was leaving college and my roomies behind and didn’t want to be lonely, and when I saw him at the shelter, I immediately knew he had to be mine. This cat has the definition of resting bitch face, with a squarish head and ears that stick out to the side. His fur is a mixture of gray, white, and tan, and the reason for his name is because he looks exactly like Gizmo from the Gremlins movie. He also is a Gremlin, as demonstrated by his immediate attack when I walked through the door.
“Come on, buddy,” I say, moving further into the loft-style apartment with its exposed-brick walls, slanted ceiling, and open floor plan kitchen and living room. I make my way toward the bedroom area of the loft, which is separated from the rest of the space by a folding room divider screen. Setting Gizmo on the bed, I grab my suitcase and start packing for the weekend.
“We’re going to see Grandma,” I tell Gizmo as I stuff clothes into the bag. “And then, we have to figure out everything we’re taking to Denver. You want to go to Denver, baby?”
In response, Gizmo turns, presents me with his butthole, and then curls up into a ball in the middle of the bed.
“It’ll be fun,” I tell him with a grin. “I promise. You’ll get to see Grace, Skyler, and Stacey, and all the hotties they hang out with. Exciting, right?”
He ignores me, which I take to mean that yes, he is excited. Why wouldn’t he be? This is an incredible opportunity, and if I can do a good job, he’ll be swimming in toys and catnip, living like an emperor, since he already lives like a king.
So long as we survive the trip there, that is. But that’s what kitty Xanax is for.
Driving up to my childhood home, I feel a wistful nostalgia wash over me. It’s a ranch-style, modest little thing with a perfectly manicured lawn and rose bushes lined under the front windows. I remember when Mom planted those bushes. I was about ten and she’d spent hours out there in the sun and heat, cultivating her flowers with tender care until they bloomed.
They’re still lush and beautiful, though past their prime blooming time.
As I park in front of the two car garage, the front door flies open and Mom pops out onto the cement steps leading up to it.
“There’s my girl!” Mom exclaims as I get out of the car with my bag and Gizmo’s carrier. She wraps me up into a tight hug.
“Hey, Mom,” I gasp, barely able to breathe with how hard she’s squeezing me. “Sorry we’re late.”
“Oh, don’t be sorry,” she says, letting me go before I suffocate. I look her up and down and brush my fingers through the ends of her blonde hair. “You got it cut short. I like it.”
Her golden brown eyes crinkle at the corner as she grins and fluffs her hair. “Thank you, sweetheart. I wanted to try something new.”
“Well, I love it.”
She bends down to look into Gizmo’s carrier. “How’s my grand-kitty? Still a little hell spawn?”
“You know it,” I chuckle.
When Mom straightens, she flutters her hands like a startled bird. “Come in, come in! Dinner’s on the stove.”
