Anymore? Did he ever?
Potato, potahto. Semantics has never been my forte.
I set the cooler on the floor and the grilling tools on the counter, along with the card I bought that reads When my roommate said he was going to kill whoever was taking all of his stuff, I nearly shit his pants and set the red envelope on the counter.
Beyond, in the yard, it looks like everyone has arrived, and I glance over at Hollis, whose eyes are glued to the pool area—and Marlon, his arm around what could only be a jock chaser.
Real classy, bringing a groupie to your teammate’s house to make someone else jealous.
Hollis shakes her head to clear it then shoots me a forced smile. “Wait! We can’t go out there yet.”
“Why?”
“We never settled on a safe word.”
Shit, we didn’t—the one thing we didn’t discuss in the car on the way over is the word we’re going to use if she wants to bail on this party.
“Marvin Gaye,” I suggest.
“That’s two words.”
“Right, but then everyone will just assume you want to go get it on, and no questions asked—boom, we slip out the back door.”
Hollis stares blankly. “How about something simple, like spaghetti?”
I feign a yawn.
“What? I can just say, ‘Oh, I’m making sauce from scratch tonight for my spaghetti,’ and then no one will think I’m being rude.”
“What’s rude is talking about food when I’m hungry.” Which reminds me… “I like tacos—what about something having to do with that?”
“Hmm,” she muses. “That would make more sense if it were Tuesday.”
I disagree. “Taco kitty.”
“I refuse to say taco kitty in public.”
“How about ‘These are na-cho tacos’?” I pause. “Get it?”
“No to tacos.”
“Would you care to revisit my earlier suggestion of wieners?” I pronounce it veener, a good old-fashioned German pronunciation, though if I recall from my languages class in high school, it’s a schnitzel auf Deutsch. “I notice there are no hot dogs on the grill.”
We can see through the glass, and I suspect everyone can see us too, but if they’re anxious for us to come outside or want to meet the girl I brought to the barbeque, no one is showing it.
“I wonder if he’s told them anything about me,” Hollis murmurs, gazing through the patio doors at Marlon, who has wandered and is posted up near the pool’s elaborate grotto, surrounded by women—as usual. Where they came from is beyond me; no one else would have the balls to bring randoms to a teammate’s house. This isn’t a fucking party at a club—this is someone’s private home.
Daymon is a jackass.
Hollis stares out at him, so I jar her with a gentle nudge. “That safe word?”
Without averting her eyes, she opens her pretty little mouth and sighs. “What happens if you’re the one who wants to leave?”
“It could happen, I suppose.” Not likely, but possible. “How about this: if one of us has the sudden desire to leave, you have to say, ‘I forgot something in the car—do you want to help me find it?’”
It’s a bit weak as far as exit strategies go and could lead to questions from anyone within earshot, but at least it’s not a ridiculous word like phallic or wanker. Bummer, that.
She nods.
I glance down at the top of her head, her glossy hair hanging prettily, and I want to touch it, sniff it to see if it’s as delicious as it was the other day at the benefit thingy.
“You’re cool if I touch you, right? For show.”
Another nod. “Yes, I’m cool if you touch me, but don’t get handsy—someone might get the wrong idea.”
Don’t get handsy? What kind of pervert does she take me for? Pulling the sliding glass door open so we can step through, I wave my hand out in front of me so she goes first. “The same wrong idea they’ll get when you tell everyone you forgot something in the car and you need my help getting it?”
“Huh?” She looks confused, so I explain.
“As soon as you need me to follow you to the car, they’re going to assume you want to go outside and bang.”
Hollis’s face turns red in a flash. Apparently, she hadn’t thought of that scenario. “You jerk! They are not!”
I laugh again.
She shivers.
“Yes they will.” I give her a light tap on the ass and usher her onto the patio.
Hollis turns shy, self-conscious when everyone seems to turn toward us, greeting me with waves and her with curious stares, this mystery girl I brought along. All eyes are on us—on Hollis—especially those of the women present, and beside me, Hollis raises her chin a fraction higher, straightening her back. These women don’t know her, but the mood is particularly WAGgy and I know they’re judging her.
WAG: wives and girlfriends of professional athletes. From what I’ve gleaned and seen over the course of my short professional baseball career, they’re not known to be the friendliest bunch. Catty. Petty. Competitive.