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“What’s wrong with Sublime?”
He was serious?
“Nothing!” I backpedaled. “They’re awesome.”
“Then, what is it?” Ken arched a brow and leaned against the balcony railing, enjoying watching me squirm.
I enjoyed watching him watching me squirm.
“Um, literally all they sing about is drinkin’ forties and smokin’ weed.”
“And child prostitution,” Ken deadpanned.
“Oh, right.” I giggled. “How could I forget about ‘Wrong Way’?”
“I don’t know. It’s basically the greatest song ever.”
“Hey,” I said, distracted yet again by his appearance, “I like your outfit. Why’re you so dressed up?”
God, I hope that didn’t sound as creepy as it felt.
“I had to work. I’m usually off on Sundays, but a buncha assholes called out because of the Super Bowl, so I had to go in for a while.”
“Guess that’s the problem with being the boss, huh?”
Ken was the general manager of a movie theater, but he refused to let me come see any movies for free because I’d called him an asshole one time.
“Yeah, especially when all your employees are fucking teenagers.” Ken smirked. “No offense.”
“Whatever,” I scoffed, throwing a pillow at him from Jason’s love seat. “I haven’t been a teenager in months.”
I had terrible aim, but Ken reached out and caught the projectile before it flew over the railing. The movement was so effortless I think he could have done it in his sleep. Ken smiled and cocked his arm back as if he were about to bean me with it, but as soon as I squealed and covered my face, he gently tossed the pillow onto my lap.
Asshole.
Lowering my hands, I tried to give him an eat shit and die look, but one corner of my mouth wouldn’t quite cooperate. It kept pulling up instead of down.
“You should try out for Cirque du Soleil with those skills.” I rolled my eyes, pretending not to be as impressed with his former football-star reflexes as I was. “Then, you wouldn’t have to work with teenagers anymore.”
“Yeah, just carnies who don’t speak English,” Ken quipped.
“Excuse me? Those people are performance artists, sir.”
Ken regarded me for a minute with a semi-smile and then asked, “Have you been?”
“What? To Cirque du Soleil?” I could hear the pitch of my voice already beginning to rise. “Oh my God, it’s, like, my favorite thing ever. I leave there, and I just feel so…I don’t know…stupid? Or uncreative or something. The stuff they do, the things they imagine, it’s just…gah. Have you been?”
Ken watched my fangirling in amusement, then shook his head.
I gasped. I audibly gasped. “Oh my God, Ken! You would love it! You love art and music and Europe—I mean, you don’t love them, obviously, because you love nothing, but—” Ken grinned at my usual jab. It was a joke but a truthful one. That fucker didn’t feel strongly about anything, except for avoiding fun. “It’s all of those things but better! They come every spring! You should go!”
“Maybe I’ll check it out.” Ken’s face suggested that he was not going to check it out.
“Oh my God,” I groaned, the Johnnie Walker in my bloodstream making itself heard. I pointed the red-hot tip of my cigarette right at his smirking face. “You’re not gonna go because it costs money!”
Ken laughed, really laughed, and I wanted to hold the sound above my head like a trophy.
“I forgot I was talking to a future psychologist.” He chuckled.
