Beauty and the Baller

I find a better position and lean back against the walled porch.

“And . . . that’s it, folks. She’s walking away from the house. Stops, turns! Will she go back? No. The beauty has failed and is leaving the property. She arrives at her car with a pout. Dang. Her lover has missed out on some yummy goodness—”

“Not her lover,” I mutter.

“She places the scarf back on her head. She turns to get in the car—wait—she’s turning and . . . holy shit . . . waving . . . at . . . me?” Nova rises from her seat and sends her a wave, a smile plastered on her face. “Damnation. She’s in her car. Destination: my house.”

I groan. “Don’t tell her I’m here. Please.”

She fluffs her hair, then rubs at the drool on her face. “How do I look?”

I skate my eyes over her, lingering on the curve of her breasts in her tank top. “I think you know.” Hot.

“Delightfully disheveled?” She shrugs. “This reminds me of that time I had Jimmy Lockhart hiding in my closet. He’d crawled in my window, and we tried to be quiet, but he accidentally knocked a lamp off my nightstand. I covered him up with clothes and stuffed animals. Nearly peed my pants when Mama walked in my bedroom to check on me. Of course, I liked Jimmy. He had a great personality. You do not.” She stands and straightens her tank top. “She’s here. Sit tight, Fancy Pants.”

And she’s gone from my view, walking down the porch in her bare feet.

When I can’t catch their words, I crawl closer to the edge to get a glimpse of what’s going on. My foot hits something—dammit—and I turn to see a planter rocking back and forth, an orange pot on top of a wire plant stand. I reach over to grab it, but the pot topples over the porch and lands with a thud on the grass below.

“What was that?” Melinda asks, her voice rising. “Your plant just fell.”

“Sparky. He adores pushing plants around.”

“Isn’t that him in the window?” Melinda asks.

Shit. I glance at the front window and see the cat on the back of the chair. His eyes lock with mine and convey, Busted.

Nova clears her throat. “Yeah, um, well, you see, I have lots of cats.”

“Are they all as vicious as that one?” Melinda asks.

Nova goes into her spiel about Sparky being the dog of the cat world, and I stifle a laugh.

“Is someone on your porch?” Melinda asks.

Nova coughs. Once. Twice. “Nope. That was me. I, um, think I have the flu. You shouldn’t get too close.”

“It’s not flu season.”

Nova coughs. “You never know. Sorry. You’d better go.”

I hear more murmurings between them until finally the engine of the Mustang comes to life. The radio picks up with Britney, then fades as she drives away.

“She thinks I’m a sickly, crazy cat lady,” Nova grouses as she climbs back up on her porch and plops down next to me. She crosses her legs and puts her elbows on her thighs, her hands resting under her chin as she gazes at me. She doesn’t look at the scars—no, those irises lock with mine and don’t let go.

“You owe me a petunia,” she says. “On the flip side, Melinda apologized for parking behind my car last night and promised she wouldn’t do it again. According to her, she’ll be over here a lot, and she’ll be using the driveway. Also, her father adores you. He’s a booster, yes? I recall he was a football player back in the day.”

I nod.

“You have to buy me a cat as well. I hate lying to people.”

I mimic her position and face her. I hear the chirp of a bird, the knocking of a woodpecker, a car, but it all fades . . .

There’s a strange tension around us, a thickening of the air.

She breaks it by looking away from me. “Sparky needs a buddy. I warn you; they’re expensive. I’ll pick one out, yes?”

“Sure. Thank you for the help.”

“I like seeing you squirm,” she murmurs.

“Why?”

“Payback.” A slow blush works up from her neck to her face as she mutters something under her breath.

“What was that?”

She clears her throat. “Just . . . life has a funny sense of humor.”

Before I can ask her to elaborate, my phone erupts with the chorus from the Steve Miller Band’s “Take the Money and Run.”

“Excuse me a moment.” After standing up, I walk to the other end of the porch, keeping my voice low, my back to Nova. “Reggie. Hey, man. Been a while. Whatcha got for me?”

He lets out a gruff laugh, and I picture him in his high-rise in Manhattan, his huge U-shaped desk, the pictures with his arm slung around athletes on the wall behind him. One of the biggest agents in sports, the man never stops working. “How’s it going down there in Podunk, Texas? You bought yourself any cowboy boots? I’d like to see that, actually.”