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Finger-combing her strawberry-blonde hair, Josie grimaces at her reflection. “I knew running off to that crazy club right after Wynona said to was a mistake.”
“Well, you drinking my drink was your first mistake,” Wynona shoots back with her own glare.
“You were toppling over so much they kicked us out,” Josie snaps.
Wynona just folds her arms across her chest. “It’s called interpretive dance. Look it up.”
“Sierra,” Josie says through her mouthful of Doritos. “What are you going to do?”
“Well,” I say sagely, “I could try putting my TV on craigslist. That should stave off ruin for another week at least.”
She swallows with a garbled chuckle. “I meant about the phone.”
“Oh.” I glance over to see the jerk’s fancy IPhonee where I can hazily remember us leaving it on my bedside table. “Guess I can call up the club and return it.”
“That would be the ethical thing,” Wynona says in a dubious, disapproving voice. “Although… it’s probably worth $700, at least.”
“I’m not that hard up,” I say, frowning at her and picking up my own phone, already Googling the phone number of the comedy club restaurant place.
Wynona must really have a killer headache if she’s suggesting I pawn some jerk’s phone. For all her tattoos, piercings and old Cary Grant movie pirating, Wynona is such an upstanding citizen that Josie and I have to bully her to even jaywalk with us sometimes.
“Miller Comedy Club and Restaurant on Bank, Rod speaking,” a low baritone voice says.
“Yeah, hi,” I say. “I’ve got the phone of someone who bumped into me at your place. Mind if I stop by and drop it off later today?”
“Of course. Hold on.”
Muffled voices, then, a minute or so later, there’s another voice on the line: “You’ve got my phone?”
Weird that I’m attracted to a voice—especially when that voice is so frustrated-sounding.
“I think so?” I say coolly. So much for a freaking thank you. “It’s an IPhonee 12 Pro?”
“If the case is chrome, that’s it.”
“It is,” I say, turning the chrome-cased phone in my hand. Still waiting on that ‘thank you’…
“You’ll bring it over now?” is the next thing he says.
My grip tightens on the phone.
Wow. Talk about a tool. Part of me is feeling sorry that I didn’t pawn it instead.
“I need it ASAP,” he adds, in an even cooler tone.
Who the hell does this guy think I am? His maid?
It takes a good minute of silence before the guy says, “Hello?”
“Yeah, I just woke up,” I say, taking his cool tone for myself. Two can play at this game. “I can probably head there in another hour or so.”
“That’s your definition of ASAP?” he says, his tone light. Although something tells me that his face definitely isn’t.
My fists ball. OK, screw this assholey tool. Maybe he’s hot and maybe, yeah, we had a moment, but that moment is definitely over. I’m doing him a freaking favor here.
“Oh, sorry,” I say sweetly. “You’re completely right. Would tomorrow work? Or maybe next weekend? Or you know what? Maybe I could just duct-tape it to my door and you could—”
“In an hour works,” he growls.
“Great,” I say.
“Great,” he says.
I hang up, glaring incredulously at the phone in my hand.
“Told you you should’ve pawned it,” Wynona chimes in helpfully, right before throwing several chips in her mouth.
“I still can,” I reply smoothly.
Josie winces. “That bad, huh?”
I nod. “Worse. This guy was acting like he was the one doing me a favor.”
“Tool,” Wynona grumbles.
“Tool,” I agree.
“Tool,” Josie agrees.
“You should get his number and sign him up to a bunch of spam call lists,” Josie suggests, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she studies her newly panda-eye-free reflection—thanks to liberal use of makeup pads—in my mirror.
“Done,” I say, entering the number into my phone.
Who knows, maybe getting spam calls from people claiming to have his social security number and bank information or whatever might humble the guy. Probably not, but at the very least it’ll make me feel vindicated. Somewhat.
“You know what you need?” Josie says, starting on her lip balm now. It’s a light sparkly hue that only looks good on her—I’ve tried.
“What?” I say.
She hands me the chip bag.
“You sure?” I say, taking a handful and trying to hand it back to her.
“I’m not,” Wynona grumbles, although she makes no move to take the bag.
“Oh, shut up Wyn,” Josie says, shoving her with her shoulder before arranging her face into a firm yet kindly smile. “We’re sure. Trust me.”
After we finish the chips, we have a half-hearted breakfast of some stale Cheerios I’d forgotten I had, then the twins leave. I do a load of dishes, but my heart isn’t in it.
“Might as well get this over with,” I mutter to myself.
On the car ride there, I have to reject a call from Mom. Probably her updating me about Horatio and checking in about how the job hunt is going. As if she didn’t know my prospects so far: a big fat nothing—and as if she wouldn’t secretly be pleased about it.
