Page 119 of The Fake Out

My chest tightened. “Cacti are stupid.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I should murder them.” She gave me a pointed look. “Now, text Chris and ask him when he’ll be here because you need his help.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I pulled out my phone and tapped out a message.

Me: Where are you? We’ve already started.

Dreamboat: Running late. We’ll be there soon.

Me: Who is we?

When he didn’t reply, I shoved my phone back in my pocket. He would be here. Ali was right. He’d always come through for me. I guess I’d never given him credit for that. I guess I just always expected people to let me down; it was my default mode.

“Damn it,” Sue yelled and stomped over in her boots. “Just got a text message from Connie. She’s over at the pizzeria. The entire menu is seventy-five percent off.”

My eyes narrowed. Peter. This reeked of him, that petty jerk.

Sue held up her phone. “Connie said to hurry because the sale is from six to eight p.m. and the line is real long.”

The announcement seemed to suck all the air out of the room. The same hours of the auction. That wasn’t a coincidence. It was a pointed, deliberate attack.

“That man’s a real bastard.” Sarah Ellis looked as fierce as a woman of eighty-seven could look. “I hope you revoke his library card.”

Several others agreed.

I turned to the one person who might be devious enough to help. “Ali?”

She already had her game face on. “Oh, I am on it.”

As I watched her stomp out, I said a little prayer for the pizzeria. If it burned down in fiery flames later this evening, I would have no doubt she’d be responsible for it.

Mrs. Katz marched to the front of the room. “The whole town cannot be at that restaurant. Get your phones out and start calling everyone you know who’s close enough to drive in. Call in favors. Bribe them. Whatever you have to do.”

The whole room went to work. I was four calls in when the door opened, and Chris arrived.

And he was not alone.

FIFTY-TWO

Are you a magician?

Because every time I look at you, everyone else disappears.

—TENNAYA B.

Chris brought us help in the form of three of his fellow teammates, all of them giants with ready smiles. Between the four of them, they filled up our tiny library. They didn’t come empty-handed, either; they brought their checkbooks, and they weren’t afraid to use them.

“Why?” I asked Chris as I watched Sherrod Young, the insanely popular quarterback for the Oklahoma Stars, bid an ungodly amount of money for a floral arrangement.

“The flowers? Sherrod has to apologize to his wife a lot.” Chris grinned. “He says stupid stuff all the time. Once, in an interview, he said that his wife was just a stay-at-home mom. He had to sleep at a hotel for three weeks and buy her a very expensive necklace to go back home.”

I laughed. “Not the flowers. Why are these men here?”

He shrugged. “I asked them and they’re my friends. Plus, they owe me one.”

I leaned in and lowered my voice. “Were these the guys with you in Vegas?”

Chris nodded. “They feel bad for how that all went down. So, it only took a little guilt-tripping and one call to Sherrod’s wife.”