“It was a pleasure and I––uh, you know––wish you luck in your endeavor.” He’s obviously a fan of smiling so I give him one, a super forced one.
“I think we should have dinner sometime this week––to hammer out the details.”
My mind draws a complete blank. I blink. I blink some more, taking my sweet time to ascertain whether I heard him correctly. Then I explode with laughter––in my mind that is. In my mind, I’m rolling around on the ground in laughter.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t going to work.”
He looks positively gobsmacked. “What do you mean, it isn’t going to work?”
The syrupy drawl is gone, replaced by a much more tolerable version.
“You’re not––” This is awkward. “Uh…what I’m looking for. Nice meeting you, though.”
He looks offended, kind of. I must’ve hit a nerve. I must have because the lazy indifference is gone. Yep, he’s offended. Wow, that’s rich. Talk about a sense of entitlement.
“Bye.”
Without further ado, I take off down the narrow sidewalk of Prince Street. Unfortunately, he follows. I know this by the dark shadow he casts over me.
“You think you know my character based on the two words we shared?”
The scratchy baritone is closer than I want it to be, right over my shoulder to be precise. The taunt is enough to make me pause, however. Turning with a half-cocked eyebrow and smug knowledge glaringly obvious on my face, I make a show of staring at the black eye.
“I know enough.”
“Darlin’, let me spare you the embarrassment of having to apologize later––I’m what every woman wants.” And then he pats himself on the chest.
Did I step into an alternate universe where men still said stupid shit like this? I would laugh at his audacity, but I don’t want to encourage this knuckle dragger.
“Not this one.” Holding up a hand, I add, “Quick, somebody call Guinness World Records.”
All puffed up, he struts around me, stepping in my way. And that’s when an old memory strikes and it dawns upon me, who he reminds me of––or better yet, what.
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
Down the street I spot a taxi with its light on. Desperate to get away, I flail both arms. Except, he keeps swaying in my way, blocking my line of sight. Which is not hard to do if one is the size of a wooly mammoth. This annoys me beyond reason.
“Listen up, Foghorn Leghorn. I can assure you that you are not even remotely close to what I want. Now kindly step out of my way.”
The taxi comes to a hard stop at the curb, screeching tires and everything. I step around Foghorn, who seems to be in the midst of a serious internal debate, his expression frozen in the bewildered position, and reach for the door handle.
“Gramercy Park,” I bark at the driver as I slip into the back seat of the cab.
Before we take off, I hear a deep male voice yell, “The Matrix called. They want their wardrobe back!”
Whatever. Tapping on the screen of my cell, I pull up my spreadsheet.
Chapter Five
Dane
Foghorn Leghorn?
I don’t do anger. That’s not how I roll. Not when I had no fuzz on my peaches, not even when I was playing professional football. Heck, taunting them with gratitude was always more effective.
On the field, every hit was answered with a tip of the imaginary hat, or a handshake. And if it was a particularly nasty tackle, it was either, “Damn, baby, if you wanna dry hump, buy me dinner first.” Or, my personal favorite, “I get hard as fuck every time you touch me, sugar. Hold me closer next time.”
That usually got stunned looks followed by angry stares. The next hit, however, was always less violent.
Occasionally I got the once-over and an invitation to drinks. Which I turned down with a wink and a promise that if I ever let my rainbow flag fly, he’d be the first phone call I made. But I never reacted in anger.
Until now.
Foghorn Leghorn? A cartoon character? Hell no. Helllll no. This pintsized porcupine has gotten under my skin in the worst way.
On the way back to my Fat Boy, my cell phone rings, my father’s name flashing on-screen.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“My word, you’re in a sweet mood. What happened, some girl dump you?”
Leave it to dear old Dad to find the bullet hole and pour salt in it.
“First off, I haven’t dated girls since junior high. I date women. And bite your tongue, if anyone’s doing the dumpin’, it’s me.”
“I didn’t call to do a Dear Abby session, son. Your business is your business.”
Bullshit. My father’s the nosiest man I know. If there’s family gossip, we all find out from him. “We need to discuss the ranch,” he says, any amusement present in his voice a moment ago now absent.
“I think it’s time to sell,” I say as gently as possible. I know how sensitive he is about it. This is the only topic he and I argue about. “Carson is willing to buy the land without the house. You won’t have to move and you won’t have the expense of keeping it up. We can sell off what’s left of the stock. The horses can stay...”
“What about Levi?”
Levi’s got plans of his own but I can’t tell him that. That’s Levi’s burden to deal with.
“He’s got enough saved to do whatever he wants.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m saving it for Georgia’s girls.”
“Georgia’s girls are six and nothing. We aren’t keeping the ranch for the next fifteen years to find out later they don’t want it.”
My sister’s pregnant with her second girl. She and her husband, a Navy pilot, are living in San Diego. The last thing they all wanna do is go back to ranch livin’ which is a helluva lot harder than people understand. Something occurs to me then.
“And what about my kids? How do you know my kids won’t want it?”
“Your kids?”
“Yeah, mine.”
“Is this a joke? I’m being serious, Dane. Stop foolin’ around.”
Stop fooling around? What the… “What are you saying, Dad?”
“What I’m saying, son, is that if I have to wait to hand this ranch over to your kids I’ll be waitin’ ’til the end of time.”
“You don’t think I’ll have kids?”
There’s an uncomfortable pause. He exhales. “You’re not the type.”
My temper sparks again for the second time today. We’ve never discussed this before. I assumed my own father was in my corner. It never occurred to me he didn’t think I could handle it.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that part of
you is a lot like your momma. It’s impossible for you to commit to something long term––a miracle how long you stuck with football.”
He might as well have hit me upside the head with a brick. His words stop me cold in my tracks.
“Dane? You still there?”
I’m speechless. Hurt and speechless. Comparing me to my mother is just about the worst insult he could have thrown at me. A betrayal. The last thing I thought I would ever hear come from my father’s lips.
People move past me. Some pause to take a second look. In this city it’s almost impossible not to be recognized. My face is plastered on billboards all along the West Side Highway and the local papers. In no mood to deal with fans, eyes cast down, I head back to my bike.
“I changed my mind, Dad. We’re not selling the ranch. I gotta go.”
Before he can respond, I end the call.
Two days later my anger is still on low simmer. I lay awake for two nights weighing the pros and cons. Then I called one of my best buds.
“He’s not entirely wrong, sweetheart.”
I swear Noah Callahan was born to bust my balls. “Whatdya mean, asshole? You siding with my pops?”
A heavy sigh comes through the phone. “Football is the only thing you’ve ever committed to. He’s right about that. And being a parent is nothing like football. It’ll be a long time before it gets fun. We’re talkin’ sacrificing your personal life for a decade or more. You ready for that?”
I give his words the consideration they’re due. Noah, Jermaine, and I have been a triple threat since kindergarten, and the only ones I can always count on to give me the ugly truth. Aside from all the ribbing, his and Jermaine’s are the opinions I value most.
I can’t consult Jbear ’cause I know where his head’s at; he’s got five already. No, I needed an unbiased perspective. That’s why Noah. He’s eternally single for an entirely different reason than mine, and therefore, a neutral sounding board.
“All I’ve ever had is a personal life. I’m damn sick of it,” practically explodes out of me. Even I’m taken aback by the force of my words. “I’m ready for more. I want the family. Minus the woman telling me what to do every minute of every day before she tells me she’s leaving me ’cause she’s feelin’ neglected.”