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“Okay, so Bubby is a poli-sci major. He’s in my Philosophy class, and he has great hair.” Juliet chalked the end of her cue and eyed the front door of Last Call, the pool hall across the street from Fuzzy’s.
“I’m sorry. Did you say Bobby or Buddy?” I asked, accepting the little blue cube of chalk from her.
“Buh-bee,” she over-pronounced, leaning over the pool table to rack the balls.
“What the fuck is a Bubby?”
Juliet snorted. “I asked him the same thing! He said his little sister used to call him Bubby, then the whole family started calling him Bubby, and then his friends started calling him Bubby, and now he’s sticking with it because it sounds like a good name for a politician.”
“Only in Georgia.” I rolled my eyes.
Juliet looked over my shoulder as she removed the plastic triangle from the cluster of balls she’d just set up. I followed her gaze and saw a guy waltz in the door, dressed like he thought we were playing golf instead of pool. His baby-blue polo shirt matched his blue-and-white plaid shorts, and his blond hair was coifed in what I assumed hairdressers referred to as a Businessman Special.
A guy who looked like he shopped at the same store and went to the same barber glided in behind him, his dimpled chin held just as high.
I wanted to leave immediately. Not because they were preppy or overly confident, but because they smelled rich.
Rich people scared me.
The Ken dolls walked over to our table with Vote for me smiles plastered on their clean-shaven faces.
Ken Doll Number One fixed his blue eyes on me and said, “You must be BB.”
I plastered on my best fake smile and nodded. Extending my hand, I said, “You must be Bubby.”
He let out a hearty chuckle and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, completely ignoring my outstretched hand. “BB and Bubby, together at last!” he announced to the whole bar, squeezing me into his side.
The competing smells of expensive cologne and aftershave and hair products all assaulted my nostrils at once. Ken didn’t use any of that shit. The only thing he ever smelled like was Irish Spring soap and fresh laundry.
Blondie’s audacity and complete lack of boundaries made me want to stomp on the top of his foot with the heel of my combat boot. Or vomit. Or both. I felt gross, just being near him. His brunette friend didn’t seem so bad, but Bubby—I shuddered, just thinking his name—had a nasty aura of scumbag oozing out of his perfectly exfoliated pores.
I sidestepped my way out of his embrace and quickly put the entire pool table between us. Standing next to Juliet, I mumbled, “One game, and I’m outta here.”
Turning her back to the guys, Juliet whispered, “What’s your problem? I thought you liked preppy guys now. You dated Ken for, like, six months, and he wears a fucking tie!”
Ken.He wasn’t preppy; he was just…Ken. He wore a tie to work because he was the manager. He wore athletic wear when he was off work because he was usually working out. He didn’t have an image, and he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t command attention when he entered a room because he didn’t want it. And he damn sure didn’t touch girls he didn’t know.
He barely even touched the one he did know.
“Yeah, but Ken’s not a douche bag,” I whispered back.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Bubby and his sidekick clink beers and smile in our direction.
Bleh.
“Whatever. I can’t keep up with your taste in men. You don’t like Zach, you don’t like—”
I swung my head back around to glare at her. “I like Zach better than this prick.”
“Well, go talk to him, dumbass.” Juliet pointed toward the front door with the neck of her beer. “He’s working right now.”
“But he never called me.”
“Pssh. It’s been two days. What’s the rule in Swingers? Like, six days. Guys wait, like, six days now.”
“You mind if I break, ladies?”
Juliet and I both glared at the future politician as he leaned over and lined up his shot.
