A Bad Bit Nice (4 page)

Em surveyed what seemed like a million boxes.

“Hm. Maybe I
do
have too much stuff,” she muttered to herself.

She looked in delight at the shelves that lined the tall windows. She was so glad that she had display space now. She’d missed seeing all her pretties.

Em was tempted to unpack her glass collection first thing, but she wanted to make cookies or cupcakes for the widower downstairs for being such a good sport about having his day disrupted by moving vans and huge guys clomping up and down the stairs.

She had just pulled the last batch of cookies out of the oven when Ashley called.

“Remember, karaoke tonight, Em! We’ll get some drinks and pick up hot Irishmen! It’ll be great! And if we don’t, we can still have fun. We haven’t gotten to hang in ages.”

“Ashley, I just technically moved out this morning,” laughed Em.

“You’ve been out of town for two weeks! You’ve been working so much and on the road, I barely get to see you. I thought you might be more social once you got rid of Assclown Tripp and started staying with me, but I barely see you! It’s work, work, work, all the time. That new boss of yours seems like a slave driver.”

“Ashley, he’s on the road as much, if not more, than I am. He’s a true working boss. He’s really dedicated.”

“Is he at least attractive? Y’all spend so much time together; I hope he’s at least easy on the eyes. Maybe it’s time for mixing a little pleasure with your business, if you know what I mean.” Em shook her head. Ashley had a one-track mind.

“You know that I’m not going to defecate where I masticate anymore, Ash. That’s what got me in the situation with Tripp in the first place.”

“Do not ever utter that phrase again, Em. It’s horrible.”

“I’m trying not to curse as much.”

Ashley laughed so hard that she almost dropped the phone. “Em, you wouldn’t be you without your fussy knickknacks, granny furniture, and foul mouth. Don’t ever change, sugar.”

Em ignored her friend’s commentary but answered her question. “Yeah, Rory is hot, but in addition to being my
boss
, Ashley, he isn’t really my type at all. He’s just up your alley, though: red hair, wicked Irish brogue, and smooth moves. He probably spends as much on shoes and grooming as you.”

“He
does
sound like my type, but quit trying to distract me from my goal, which is to get
you
situated in the man department. You need something different, Em.”

Em sighed. “I know, Ashley. Tripp was never really my type anyway. I dated all those broken creative types in college. They never had money, or transportation, or jobs, or really even any talent. I took Tripp’s interest in me as a sign. He seemed to be just what I needed.”

Ashley’s heart hurt for her friend. Em was beyond confident at work, but Tripp had really done a number on her personal self-esteem.

God, she hated that guy. He constantly tore Em down but in such subtle ways that Em didn’t even realize that it was happening. Little digs about the way she dressed and talked, and when they moved in together, Ashley couldn’t find one bit of Em in that condo. Ashley shuddered. The townhome was so cold, like Tripp, with none of the homey warmth that Em had radiated in the past.

Em had always had a little wild streak, but it was tempered with selflessness. She was the first person to offer to cook if someone was sick or caring for a loved one. She volunteered at various charities, giving time and money whenever she could spare either.

Em was kind of a Mom—a foul-mouthed, tattooed mom, but a real nurturer, which was another cruel irony. That fucker Tripp hadn’t even visited her in the hospital when all of
that
had gone down.

Em had put on a brave face, but Ashley knew she had been devastated. Ashley suspected that Em’s barrenness had been more of an issue in her relationship with Tripp than she let on. Ugh. Yet another reason to dislike Tripp. It wasn’t like Em really had a choice in the matter. It broke Ashley’s heart to see her treated with such callousness.

“So what
do
you want, Em? I’m curious. If Mister Ideal walked through the door right now, who would he be? What would he look like?”

“Mister Ideal? Hm. I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”

“Oh shut up. You know exactly what you want. Don’t think about it. Just tell me what’s in your gut.”

“Mister Ideal would be tall and lanky with tattoos covering him and a big beard. A take-charge guy, but with a sensitive side. He’d have a good job, but not be a workaholic, maybe something that combined practicality and the creative, like an architect. He’d be someone who isn’t obsessed with sports; a reader, someone who really likes music but isn’t into the club scene. My age or older, but not a lot older. Oh, and someone who makes my toes curl when he kisses me, and can’t wait to get me naked and make me scream. I guess that’s about it.”

Ashley whistled through her teeth. “You don’t want much, do you? Good God, woman.”

“You said to be honest, not realistic,” Em laughed. “I know that man doesn’t exist, but he’s fun to imagine.” She sighed.

What in the world had she been thinking, dating Tripp for the past ten years? He was none of those things, not one. Okay, he wasn’t a workaholic, but he was too far in the other direction. Content to rely on his father’s hard work and reputation, he had no ambition at all.

“Well, Mister Ideal is not going to magically appear in your backyard, Em. You’ve got to get out, and not to go to the airport and back. I’ll be over at eight o’clock tonight to help you pick out an outfit for karaoke.”

Em groaned. “I had hoped you had forgotten about karaoke.”

“Not a chance girl. I’ll see you at eight, and I’m driving. I don’t trust you to not ditch me and be back in your apartment, drinking whiskey and dancing around with that giant cat of yours by a quarter ‘til nine.”

Em laughed out loud at that. “Oh, you know me so well, Ashley. I’m lucky I have a friend like you. Let me go and at least try to get a few more boxes unpacked. See you tonight.”

Em shook her head. Ashley was a mess. It wasn’t that Em didn’t like to go out. On the contrary, she enjoyed going to live music shows and concerts and all sorts of things, but those things weren’t something Ashley enjoyed at all. Em wasn’t in town much, so they stuck to dinner and movies.

Em looked out her living room window, thrilled with the big backyard that she shared with her neighbor. She made a note to go introduce herself later and discuss yard maintenance.

Her eyes roamed over the backyard, resting on the detached garage. Besides the nine-foot-tall windows that lined one wall of the living room, she was most excited about that garage. It was set away from the house, so she still had to deal with the rain, but at least the car wouldn’t be iced over in the winter.

She contemplated at the garage, debating the merits of an automatic garage door opener when she saw a figure out of the corner of her eye—and holy cow, what a figure he was!

The very tall man was casually dressed in a pair of gym pants and Em could see his lean, muscled back through his thin t-shirt. Tattoos snaked around his arms and she could see the tips of color peeking from the collar of his shirt. His wore his longish hair pulled back, hidden under a slouchy hat. She couldn’t see his face, but when he turned to the side, she could see a strong profile, with a straight nose and a masculine jaw that was covered in a full beard.

Em gaped at the man from her window, watching his arms flex as he raised the garage door. Surely this wasn’t the widower? Em decided that Mister Ideal was probably the son of the widower and was just storing the car in the garage.

Em finished putting the cookies in a bakery box and dashed off a note, then secured the box with twine. She resolved to make some introductions the next day. Just maybe, she’d meet Mister Ideal.

*****

Mick had watched the movers take what seemed like a million boxes into the upstairs unit while the blonde realtor supervised things and talked on her cell phone.

So many boxes! The apartment was going to be full. Mick wondered what was in them. He noticed that almost half of them were labeled “Glass.” Glass what? Drinking glasses? Shards of glass? Her last name is Glass? He was intrigued.

He had marveled earlier that they were able to actually get the huge Victorian divan up the stairs and didn’t have to hoist it by crane through the French doors on the balcony. Impressive. The other furniture he saw was either white or rustic or both. It was very feminine, but not overly fussy.

He couldn’t quite convince himself to go up and make an introduction. Mick was a solitary sort of man on a good day, and today, after yesterday’s whirlwind business trip to New York City to deal with a know-it-all rapper for whom he was building a studio, he just couldn’t stomach small talk and social niceties. He’d go tomorrow, maybe bring a plant or something to the new neighbor, maybe a potted violet. That furniture looked like it would belong to someone who would appreciate violets.

His phone rang and he groaned when he saw Rory’s number. He debated letting it go to voicemail, but decided that it wasn’t worth Rory’s continuous pestering.

“Hey Rory, whaddya at? You back to terrorize the southeast?”

“Oi, Mick. Don’t forget I’m picking you up tonight for karaoke. And you’re absolutely
not
going to sit on a stool, nursing a whiskey, and keeping mum all night. I challenge you to at least talk to a woman, and not just the bartender or waitress or karaoke hostess.”

“If I promise to show up, can I take my own car? Half of the time, if you drive, you meet a woman and I end up having to fold into your ridiculous vehicle or taking a cab home and then having to haul your ass back to the pub the next day.”

“My car is not ridiculous,” protested Rory. “It’s not my fault that you’re six and half feet tall. But okay, we’ll meet there, but if you’re not there by nine o’clock, I’m coming to get you, and that’s not an idle threat.”

“Any automobile that costs a quarter of a million dollars is ridiculous,” Mick said with a snort.

Rory made a noncommittal sound in response. “Anyway, your arse is going to be there and be social if it kills you.”

“Oh, fine.”

“Oh, and Mick?” Rory quickly added, “You have to stay until at least 11. None of this leaving 15 minutes after you get there business.”

Dammit, Rory knew him too well. M
ick sighed. “Fine. I’ll see you at nine o’clock at the pub.”

Mick checked his watch and decided that he had enough time to run to the warehouse store; he needed supplies to make lunches for the rec center kids he coached. It had been a couple of weeks since he had been able to make it to the little center, and he knew that with school ending—and with it, free lunches and breakfasts—a lot of the kids weren’t going to be eating. He remembered those lean days when he was younger and would never wish that on anyone.

He went outside to the detached garage. As he bent down to grasp the handle to the garage door, he thought he saw someone looking out a window in the upper unit.

Once in the garage, he glanced over at the orange Karmann Ghia on the other side of the barrier.
Huh.
He hadn’t heard the garage door go up, but then, he had the stereo on and Rory yapping in his ear. Surely that was the same car the he had seen circling the house for months.
Who is this new neighbor, anyway?

When he got back from his errands, Mick found a white bakery box on his doorstep. He scooped it up and took it into the house. Unwrapping the baker’s twine, he opened the box, and his face broke into a wide grin. Cookies! Giant cookies, both chocolate chunk and oatmeal raisin. Mick took a chocolate chunk cookie from the package and went to sit on the couch. He opened the note taped to the top of the box. The same neat handwriting thanked him for his flexibility and patience, and hoped the cookies were to his liking. He grinned. Then he bit into the cookie.

This is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in years.
Just the right amount of chewy and crispy, the chocolate dark, and just a hint of something that he couldn’t quite place.

He resolved to definitely go over the next day and introduce himself.
He might be an introvert, but he wasn’t necessarily rude by nature. And who knows, he just might need a nice cougar to break back into the dating scene.

He frowned. He wondered if, at 44, he was too old for a cougar.

Yeah, right. I’m going to need someone to break me in.

“You’re wearing THAT?” Ashley asked. “Oh, no. No, no, no, absolutely not. It may be a smoky pub with drunken Chris Martin wannabes, but you’re absolutely
not
wearing that out of the house.”

“What’s the problem with what I’m wearing?” Em looked at her Shakespeare’s Pub shirt (“Two Beers or Not Two Beers”) and her jeans and sneakers. She was neat, not stained, and comfortable. This was fine for a pub.

Ashley looked pained. “Em, if I had a rack like yours, I would be topless as much possible.”

Em watched as Ashley started rummaging through her closet, muttering to herself. She pulled out an orange chiffon blouse and held it up triumphantly.

“
This
blouse is a prime example of what you should be wearing all the damn time. You’re racktastic, Em, so flaunt it some. Why do you never wear this shirt?”

“Maybe I don’t want to flaunt it, Ashley. It’s not like a fat girl having big boobs is some sort of achievement.”

“Missy, you didn’t answer my question.” Ashley put her hand on her cocked hip and tapped a Louboutin-shod foot, signaling that she wasn’t going to accept a non-answer from Em.

“It’s too sexy to wear to work.”

“Are we going into the office to hang out with the nerds? No, we aren’t. It’s perfect to wear to the pub tonight. Come on, chop-chop. You can wear the jeans because they make your ass look fantastic. And wear those boot things—those are hot. But I see that pair of Weitzman in your closet. You need to break those things in so you can wear them out. “

Em sighed with resignation. Ashley wouldn’t give up and the sooner she got to the pub, the sooner she could come home and relax in the deep claw-foot tub with a nice whiskey and a book.

“WHAT is THAT?” exclaimed Ashley, gaping at Em in horror as Em changed clothes.

“What?” Em looked down at her body.

Ashley put her hand over her eyes. “Em, Em, Em. What am I going to do with you? Cotton granny panties? Beige functional bra? You make good money! Why don’t you buy good underwear?”

“This
is
good underwear. It’s supportive and covers everything that needs to be covered.”

“No, that is emphatically
not
good underwear. You’re too practical for your own good, Em.”

“I don’t like those molded cups, and I need underwire. And these panties don’t give VPL like bikinis do.”

“That thing covering your ass is not ‘panties’; it’s practically a body stocking. And thongs don’t give VPL.”

Em shuddered. “Baby steps, Ash, baby steps. That blouse you’ve got me wearing tonight exposes half my chest. That’s adventurous enough for the time being. Besides, no one sees my undergarments.”

Ashley sighed. “Okay, Em,” she said grudgingly. “But at some point, someone is going to see your panties besides me, and you’re going to want them to be pretty.”

Em rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Ashley. No one really cares about what underwear looks like. They just get taken off. Why bother?”

“‘Why bother?’ Ashley boggled at her friend’s attitude. “It’s part of taking care of yourself. You won’t be sexy and beautiful until you feel sexy and beautiful and…”

“...And having a string of material between my asscheeks is not going to make me feel beautiful, Ashley, so give it up.”

“Hmph. Fine then. But we’re going to go lingerie shopping very, very soon, missy.”

“Oh, you’re serious now, because that’s twice you’ve broken out the ‘missy’ on me. Okay, we’ll go next time I’m in town. I’m back out in two days. That’ll give you time to find stores that have big girl sexy stuff.”

Em finished dressing and struck a pose. “There, happy?”

“You look so great!” Ashley squealed. “Karaoke won’t know what hit it. Seriously Em, you look fantastic.”

Em blushed. She didn’t know if this was a good idea, but she was doing it.

“Okay, we need to leave before I chicken out of wearing this shirt, Ash.”