A Favor for a Favor (All In 2)
“Sure. Yeah. What do you need?” He gives me a quick, somewhat jerky nod.
“He’s supposed to be here any minute. Maybe in, like, half an hour you can come back with the pizza, and I can pretend like I forgot we have a session? That way I won’t have to be alone with him for long, because I know he’s going to try to plead his case for us to get back together.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Now he looks seriously pissed. And I’m anxious, because Joey will be here any minute and I don’t have an exit strategy for him yet.
“Never mind. I’ll figure out an excuse. I’ll get Pattie to call and pretend there’s an emergency or something.”
“You don’t need to do that. I can’t believe that Assface thinks he actually has a chance with you after what he did. I can message you in, like, twenty and see where you’re at or if you need me to come by sooner.”
“Are you sure?” He sounds angry more than anything.
“Yeah. I’ll put your pizza in the oven to keep it warm, even though it means my apartment is going to smell like pineapple and olives.”
“It really doesn’t taste as bad as you think.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He turns around and heads back to his apartment.
“Thanks, Bishop. I appreciate you doing me this favor.”
He pauses and looks over his shoulder. “No worries. I owe you one anyway. A favor for a favor, right?”
“Yeah, right. A favor for a favor.”CHAPTER 17
PAIN-IN-THE-ASS EX
Stevie
Joey shows up less than two minutes after Bishop goes back to his apartment. I hate that Joey has the power to bulldoze himself right back into my life like this. He’s like a burr—clingy, prickly, and impossible to get rid of.
“Hey, baby.” He tries to come in for a hug, but I put my hands out to stop him.
“Don’t call me pet names.”
“Sorry. Old habits die hard.” He gives me what I think is supposed to be a chagrined smile, but it’s about as believable as a magic trick performed by a three-year-old. What did I ever see in this tool?
“Where’s my suitcase?” I ask as he slips past me into my apartment. I glance at Bishop’s door before I close mine, relieved he’s willing to help me out even though it’s stupid drama no one really needs.
“Oh shit, sorry. I knew I forgot something.” He lets out a low whistle. “Wow. This is a sweet pad. How come we didn’t rent a place like this?”
“Because we couldn’t afford a place like this.”
“Is Rook footing the bill or something?”
“Or something.”
He nods. “Cool. Wanna give me the grand tour? I bet the bedrooms in this place are huge. You got a king-size bed?”
“I’m not showing you my bedroom, Joey.”
He holds his hands up. “Whoa. Don’t get so defensive. I’m just trying to break the ice. I know you’re still holding a grudge, but we can get through this.”
I run a palm down my face. I’d really like to tell him to go fuck himself, but it will make this whole gala situation that much more difficult. I promise myself that once this is over and I have my suitcase back, I will tell him my grudge is going to last until the end of time, and possibly even beyond that, so moving on would be smart. “Can we deal with this fundraiser-decorating thing?”
“Yeah. Sure. Let’s get the work out of the way so we can catch up.”
Joey wants to sit on the couch, but I insist it will be easier to do online research at the dining room table. I should know better than to think it’s going to thwart him. He pulls a chair right up beside me and keeps slinging his arm over the back of mine, making comments about how nice my hair smells. Which is bullshit, because I haven’t washed my hair in days.
I get up to pour us glasses of water. His is lukewarm from the tap—I’m not offering him anything that will make him feel welcome—and I need some space from his breathing down my neck, literally. I don’t think it’s been more than twenty minutes, but I fire off a text to Bishop, telling him that anytime he’s ready, I could use an intervention. I’m not even finished filling my own glass when there’s an aggressive knock. I feign surprise and skirt around the counter so I can answer the door. Joey looks totally put out by the interruption.
“Oh! Hi, Bishop! What’s up?” I say loudly.
Earlier when he stopped by, he was wearing sweats and a T-shirt. Now he’s shirtless, with all his perfectly defined muscles on display. He’s wearing a pair of actual shorts, but they look like they’re from the eighties. They show off the bruises coloring the inside of his thigh. They’re no longer black and blue and purple. They’ve faded to yellow green around the edges, the center a mottled purplish pink. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a slight sheen to his skin. Or maybe it’s the lighting.