anything.” Her shoulders tighten. “Er, butt…rear.”
“Derrière?”
“Cut it out.”
Dean can’t stop watching the blinding yellow walls. “I’m serious. Just tell me. Your paint isn’t that bad.”
“You’ve seen my place enough to know the answer.” She grows red and picks an arm scab. Malinta’s attitude jumps the rails and her face gets dark. “Fine, you want to screw around this morning, here’s an answer. I’m sick of playing this game,” she says, fishing a cell phone from her purse. “Talk to someone who enjoys your little stunts.”
The phone is ringing when Deshler presses it to a throbbing ear. He swears it’s an hour between buzzes.
“Lepsic here.”
Deshler’s confused morning growl says, “Thurman Lepsic?”
“You got him, who is this?”
“Deshler Dean…” The sensation of swimming and sinking pulls inside him.
A shotgun blast of recognition rattles the phone. “Ahhhhhh! My man! I thought that was Malinta’s phone number. Things must’ve worked out last night.”
The Cliff Drinker is paddling with a wrecking ball tied around his waist. Water sloshing at the neck, filtering salty into his mouth. “Errrrrr,” Deshler says.
Malinta’s head cocks, half-listening, half-burning a hole through his forehead.
“Well, I’m on my way to Miami for mozzarella testing. Help yourself to Old Man Findlay’s wine cellar. Just don’t touch the Dom Pérignon eighty-three.”
“Wouldn’t,” he says, faintly, “dream of it.”
“Perfect. Enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it. And I’ll see you in a couple days.”
“Thanks for the hospitality, Thurman.”
“Hey, what Mister Findlay doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Now seriously, you’ve earned it.”
“Stop.”
The phone vibrates with Lepsic’s chuckle. “One last thing,” his voice slinks into a whisper. “Squeeze Malinta’s ass when she’s on top. Drives her wild.”
Dry air hisses through the phone. Malinta pours another coffee. She has a wrinkled, confused forehead. “That wasn’t Findlay, was it?”
“Thurman Lepsic.”
The space between her lips splits wider. “I dialed Findlay’s phone number. God, it’s weird that he’d answer. What do you think that means?”
“He seemed pretty friendly…again.”
She stands and tucks hair behind an ear. Bare feet pace from the sink, across the room, to the refrigerator. “He should be friendly, being your other boss and all.”
“You bet.” Dean swallows scratchy, selling himself hard on this lie, forgetting he doesn’t know what Malinta’s talking about. Playing along, nodding. This is still more fun than parking cars , he thinks.
“How can you sit there and not be a little freaked out by this? We’re talking about the same man who practically puts a tongue in your throat every time he sees you. The guy who pays the Beef Club waiters to keep your whiskey glass full, no matter what. First, he tells you to crash at the CEO’s penthouse. And now he’s answering that same CEO’s phone?”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
She waits, sips, and waits more.
“They’re doing it,” Dean says.
“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”
Deshler’s body shrinks, his knees pull together and arms wrap around his chest. Familiar chills arrive. The same lonely confusion from that first night he and his brother spent in separate foster homes.
Malinta’s face is upset, changing shades of color. She speaks with whip-snap arms and hands. “Sometimes you don’t act like a rising star. I mean, you created the Monte Cristo Burger, for God’s sake. It’d be nice if you at least pretended to be Bust-A-Gut’s golden boy once in a while.”
“Ohhh,” he holds this noise for a breath. Her last words punt away lonely sensations like a boot in the abdomen. “Oh, you’ll believe anything you read on the bathroom wall.”
“Look, I’ve never told you this before. I didn’t want to give you a big head.” She tops off his coffee.
“Derrière?”
“Cut it out.”
Dean can’t stop watching the blinding yellow walls. “I’m serious. Just tell me. Your paint isn’t that bad.”
“You’ve seen my place enough to know the answer.” She grows red and picks an arm scab. Malinta’s attitude jumps the rails and her face gets dark. “Fine, you want to screw around this morning, here’s an answer. I’m sick of playing this game,” she says, fishing a cell phone from her purse. “Talk to someone who enjoys your little stunts.”
The phone is ringing when Deshler presses it to a throbbing ear. He swears it’s an hour between buzzes.
“Lepsic here.”
Deshler’s confused morning growl says, “Thurman Lepsic?”
“You got him, who is this?”
“Deshler Dean…” The sensation of swimming and sinking pulls inside him.
A shotgun blast of recognition rattles the phone. “Ahhhhhh! My man! I thought that was Malinta’s phone number. Things must’ve worked out last night.”
The Cliff Drinker is paddling with a wrecking ball tied around his waist. Water sloshing at the neck, filtering salty into his mouth. “Errrrrr,” Deshler says.
Malinta’s head cocks, half-listening, half-burning a hole through his forehead.
“Well, I’m on my way to Miami for mozzarella testing. Help yourself to Old Man Findlay’s wine cellar. Just don’t touch the Dom Pérignon eighty-three.”
“Wouldn’t,” he says, faintly, “dream of it.”
“Perfect. Enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it. And I’ll see you in a couple days.”
“Thanks for the hospitality, Thurman.”
“Hey, what Mister Findlay doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Now seriously, you’ve earned it.”
“Stop.”
The phone vibrates with Lepsic’s chuckle. “One last thing,” his voice slinks into a whisper. “Squeeze Malinta’s ass when she’s on top. Drives her wild.”
Dry air hisses through the phone. Malinta pours another coffee. She has a wrinkled, confused forehead. “That wasn’t Findlay, was it?”
“Thurman Lepsic.”
The space between her lips splits wider. “I dialed Findlay’s phone number. God, it’s weird that he’d answer. What do you think that means?”
“He seemed pretty friendly…again.”
She stands and tucks hair behind an ear. Bare feet pace from the sink, across the room, to the refrigerator. “He should be friendly, being your other boss and all.”
“You bet.” Dean swallows scratchy, selling himself hard on this lie, forgetting he doesn’t know what Malinta’s talking about. Playing along, nodding. This is still more fun than parking cars , he thinks.
“How can you sit there and not be a little freaked out by this? We’re talking about the same man who practically puts a tongue in your throat every time he sees you. The guy who pays the Beef Club waiters to keep your whiskey glass full, no matter what. First, he tells you to crash at the CEO’s penthouse. And now he’s answering that same CEO’s phone?”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
She waits, sips, and waits more.
“They’re doing it,” Dean says.
“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”
Deshler’s body shrinks, his knees pull together and arms wrap around his chest. Familiar chills arrive. The same lonely confusion from that first night he and his brother spent in separate foster homes.
Malinta’s face is upset, changing shades of color. She speaks with whip-snap arms and hands. “Sometimes you don’t act like a rising star. I mean, you created the Monte Cristo Burger, for God’s sake. It’d be nice if you at least pretended to be Bust-A-Gut’s golden boy once in a while.”
“Ohhh,” he holds this noise for a breath. Her last words punt away lonely sensations like a boot in the abdomen. “Oh, you’ll believe anything you read on the bathroom wall.”
“Look, I’ve never told you this before. I didn’t want to give you a big head.” She tops off his coffee.
Similar Books
