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“Yeah, you play?”
“Hate it.”
Confusion crinkles his forehead. “Then why the reaction?”
“I don’t know. Could be because having your own personal golf course in your backyard isn’t just guy I met at the bar normal shit.”
This time he lightly chortles. “Fair. Sometimes I forget what ‘normal’ even entails. I’ve been working for Wes for so long that what shocks and awes others often just feels like another Tuesday to me.”
“It’s Wednesday.”
He laughs a little harder and shakes his head. “Shut up, Uhura.”
“Which Uhura?” I playfully poke. “And tread wisely, son. I can spend hours outlining the best qualities of both Nichols and Saldaña.”
“See, but that’s my kind of night.” Additional chuckles shake his blue suit and black turtleneck bearing frame. “Which is not something I should probably admit out loud to the opposite sex.”
“Eh,” girlish giggles precede a small shrug, “everyone knows the best bitches are Trekkies.”
“That was so not the lesson I learned growing up, watching Star Trek: The Next Generation through the neighbor’s blinds because we had to pawn the T.V. again for groceries.” The beverage soars for his open mouth. “The lesson I learned was the best bitches are the ones willing to share half their PB and J with you if you listen to them talk about their favorite episodes of Hey Arnold!”
“Star Trek: The Next Gen was my dad’s favorite shit, so those reruns pretty much ran our TV life. When he was home, that’s what he wanted to watch. And when he wasn’t?” An almost wistful smile touches my lips. “That’s what I wanted to watch to make it feel like he was.”
Before our conversation can continue, there’s a hard banging on the open door that seems to vibrate the entire room. The fury in each pound causes J.T. to wince, yet my victorious smile to grow.
See.
I know people.
They’re rarely as complicated as they would like to pretend to be.
“J.T.!” A smooth, unhappy voice bellows from the other side of the threshold. “Out here. Now!”
His second in command prepares to do exactly what he’s told when I lift a single digit in the air to stop him. Sauntering over slowly, I’m somewhat surprised to find a large framed male with his back to the door.
From head to toe his figure bears only black clothing. The hood to his outwear is pulled up, refusing to expose so much as a strand of his hair while the workout pants stationed on his hips barely give a clue to the ass, I’d bet money on having a glorious shape.
He’s left nothing to be seen.
Examined.
Judged.
And why not?
What’s he hiding?
What is it he doesn’t want the world to know?
For a second time this morning, I lean against the frame. “Good morning, Mr. Wilcox.”
There’s an unmistakable tensing to his entire frame. “Wes.”
“You want me to call you Wes? Then you should introduce yourself to me as such.” I lift my coffee mug upward for a drink before adding, “Directly.”
“And if I do, will you let me call you Bryn?”
His rebuttal manages to catch me completely off guard. “Is that actually what you wanna call me or just what you don’t want Puppet Boy calling me?”
