Page 35 of Legs

Things just kept getting better. “He used a different name.”

She twitched her button nose. “What name?”

Why, why, why did he have to be so persistent, programming Six and toying with my mind? I could tackle Ainsley and reclaim my phone, or feign ignorance, but she had on her “don’t mess with me” face. I wouldn’t win this battle.

“Six,” I said.

“Six?”

“Yes. Six.”

“Like the number?”

“Exactly like the number.”

Gwen plucked the phone from Ainsley, the two of them intent on cracking Jimmy’s code. “Is he like a divergent? Like Four? What’s with the number?”

Lying and diverting their attention tempted me again, but they’d caught the scent of juicy gossip, the hint of my drama like tossing a live chicken to wolves. “He claims he made me orgasm six times.”

Gwen sipped the last of her wine, placed the glass down, and slid it aside. “Honestly, the fact that you don’t remember that night is a travesty. We need to remedy this situation.” She raised my phone, but hesitated. “Does that mean you came from oral?”

If there was a God. “Supposedly, and give me my phone. I’ll text him.”

“Damn,” was all she said, and handed it over

I could back down, stash my cell and make a break for it, but these two hound dogs were out for blood. And fighting the urge to see Jimmy again was a losing battle.

My text was short and sweet: Are you around?

His reply came quickly: At work. Get off in an hour. You should come by.

I chewed my cheek and flexed my toes, then I wrote: Sure.

Time to discover the woman I was meant to be. Once he sent the address, I stuffed my phone away and faced the girls. “I’m meeting him at work.”

Ainsley clapped. “Excellent. When should we leave?”

Come again? “I must have heard you wrong, because it sounded like you said we.”

Her bright eyes shone with glee. “If we leave this in your court, you might chicken out and do your overthinking thing. I also think we should suss him out. Make sure he’s not messing with you before another round of Naked Twister goes down.”

On that note, I stumbled after them, unsure how I’d lost control of the night.

Eleven

Jimmy

The bar was winding down, Sundays never busy. I kept glancing at the entrance, waiting for Rachel to show, unsure what the hell to expect. Her messages were short. Nothing flirtatious. No mention of the name I’d programmed into her phone.

I shined a glass, then stared at the door. I stocked the beer fridge and snuck another glance.

Rudy’s Tavern was more dive than bar, the wooden floors roughened by herds of work boots. The women drank as hard as the men, the pool tables home to soured bets and raised voices. Rock anthems played on repeat. Conservative Rachel would be quite the sight in here, sitting all proper on a wonky stool. A sight I’d happily drink in.

My phone buzzed, hopefully not her backing out. It wasn’t, but seeing my mother’s name was just as frustrating. A text this time. I’d deleted her emails, considered blocking her number. She could beg me to visit their new apartment all she liked, but I wasn’t stepping within a mile of the place.

A few more customers left, only the diehards lingering. A crew from the neighborhood talked over one another as they finished their pints. Rick, the ironworker, was talking shit to Mel as she bussed tables, a tango they’d perfected. It usually ended with her flipping him the finger, and him begging for a date. She was thirty years his junior.

As I wiped down the bar, the front door swung wide. I straightened, fisting my towel and crossing my arms. No one entered. A few second passed, then a few more. I was about to stride over and poke my head outside, when Rachel stepped in. Her eyes darted from the classic rock albums on the wall to the ceiling fan that looked a minute from falling. She brushed at her jeans, tugged down the edge of her black top. Her brown hair fell loose around her shoulders, her freckles not as visible in the dim light. She was a vision.