“What did he say?” I blurt out.
“Not to tell you he called.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know . . . I forget,” he lies.
“You’re covering for him?” I gasp.
“He’ll call you, don’t worry.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, is he calling you back?” I ask him.
“He said he’ll call me tomorrow.”
“Oh . . .” I go over the conversation they had, desperately trying to work out what it all means, and we walk in silence for a while.
“He likes you,” he says.
My eyes flick up. “Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to.”
“Well then, how do you know?”
“Men know these things . . . and besides, how could he not?”
I smile. This adorable young man is everything and more. I link my arm through his, grateful for his friendship. “Let’s get an ice cream on the way home too.”
Eddie smiles broadly. “Okay.”
CHRISTOPHER
The restaurant is busy and bustling, loud music is playing, and in typical New York style, everyone is out on a Monday night.
The city that never sleeps.
My brothers laugh and chat, and with every moment that I spend with them, I feel a little more myself.
Jameson holds his hand and makes a fist. I’ve seen him do it a few times today.
“What’s up with your hand?” I ask.
“Fuck knows.” He opens his hand and makes a fist again. “My two middle fingers are sore, like, aching.”
I sip my scotch. “Did you injure them?”
“No.” He opens his hand again. “It’s in the knuckle and up into my fingers and down into the palm of my hand.”
Elliot winces. “That can’t be good.”
“RFI,” Tristan replies casually into his glass.
“What’s RFI?” I ask.
“Repetitive fingering injury.”
I snort my drink up my nose. “What?” I cough.
“No shit,” Tristan says in all seriousness. “It’s hard work keeping these women satisfied.”
“Right,” Jameson agrees. He opens his fist and closes it again.
Tristan holds out his two middle fingers and curls them up, simulating his fingering action. “Does this hurt?”
Jameson does it, and he winces. “Yes. It does.” His eyes flick around the table. “I do fucking have it,” he snaps, horrified.
“It’s all downhill from here,” Elliot says. “You’ll never get laid again if there is a kink in the warm-up chain.”
“Fucking hell,” Jameson mutters under his breath. “The warm-up chain is already well and truly fucked up by the three cockblockers who live in my house rent-free.”
“You mean . . . your children?” Elliot mutters dryly.
Jameson narrows his eyes as he crunches a piece of ice.
I smirk, amused.
“I’m hearing you, man. I got a huge-ass lock . . . so now instead of barging in, they just stand out there banging, screaming, ‘Open the door!’” Tristan curls his lip in disgust. “And now, with the RFI kink in the warm-up chain . . . I’m basically fucked.”