Alexander has created good content this week, it’s true. Those props I had him buy have been put to surprisingly great use.
The tap-dance video was a hit—he was right about that. The next night we did a pic of me (fully dressed in my racing suit) sitting in the unfilled bathtub with that stupid rubber duck perched on my head. Then one of me peeking seductively over the top of a vintage sexy detective novel calledA Not-So-Nice Girl. He even posed for a “revenge pic” Priya took last night, where I’m holding the prop knife to Alexander’s throat and he’s looking comically terrified.
He’s been a little bit fun. But it’s not like we’re friends or anything.
“I wasn’t writing just now at any rate,” he assures me, re-rolling his left sleeve so it’s more symmetric with the other.
“Lemme check.” I beckon. “And no clicking anything away.”
“Are you daft? You’ve no right to my laptop.”
“Whatsa matter, Sandy? Afraid I’ll see your porn tabs?”
He gives me a lofty look. “Contrary to your delusion that you own me, pet, I’m untrammeled by your authority.”
“Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Captain Thesaurus. What is it you don’t want me to see? It’s something time-pegged, if you can’t resist checking it.” With a squeak, I clasp my hands. “Oh my God… Are you on a dating site DMing with a girl? Lemme see.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Aww, c’mon,” I coax. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Nothing good starts that way.”
“Everythinggood starts that way.”
His slate-dark eyes flick to his watch, and after pinning me with a long look of consideration, he cracks the laptop open. I jump up and dash around to his chair, hip-checking his knees to force him to make room as I perch on a corner.
On the screen is something called plumvinylauctions.com, and there’s a picture of a boring-looking record with a plain white label. I reach for the track pad and Alexander gives the back of my hand the tiniest scolding pat before refreshing the page.
“Fuckin’ A!” I exclaim as I zero in. “Twenty-threethousanddollars? For a record?”
“A very rare John Coltrane test pressing.” He angles closer to the screen, long lashes dipping as he squints in disapproval. “Bugger all. Takahiro…why? Just let me bloody have it.” His fingers fly across the keyboard as he ups his bid by another grand.
“Who’s Takahiro?”
“A rival collector.”
“Itsooootracks that you’re one of those superior assholeswho listen to jazz and collect rare vinyl. Could you get any snobbier?”
“Stunning. None taken.” He leans toward the screen again, and with his movement is a waft of a smoky-ambery cologne. He refreshes the page. “Forty seconds ’til close. I’ve got him on the ropes.”
I sit back to settle in for the end of the auction, leaning slightly on Alexander. “I dunno, dude. Jazz leaves me cold. It always sounds like Linus is about to explain the meaning of Christmas to Charlie Brown.”
“Little savage,” he says with an edge of affection.
“And the whole ‘Ooh, vinyl just sounds better’ thing—what horseshit! A bunch of hissing and popping isn’t an improvement. Digital is way smoother and more efficient.”
“Is a vibrator an ‘improvement’ over a partner?” he asks lightly.
I’m a brazen loudmouth, but I didn’t expect the comment, so I feel my chest and neck heat in a blush of surprise. “Uh, what the fuck?”
His pretty lips tilt in agotchasmirk. “Plastic is smoother, and a motor is efficient, wouldn’t you say? A recording on vinyl is warmer and more real. Like human skin.”
Our eye contact holds for a few seconds; then with a small gasp he shifts his eyes to the screen, leaning in with a serious look and submitting a bold final bid with a three-thousand-dollar jump. He seems to hold his breath, waiting, and upon next screen refresh, it’s confirmed that “A£exandertheGr8” bagged a ridiculous piece of thirty-thousand-dollar plastic with four songs.
“Congrats, I guess?” I say. “You win at having more money than sense.”
“Such a brat,” he pronounces, rolling his eyes. “This is precisely why I didn’t want you to look. I don’t need the fuckin’ grief.”
