Me: Strippers should use those swipe-y things. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve run out of money at a strip club, I’d never run out of money at a strip club.
Georgia: Those are some deep thoughts, Cass. I’m a little disturbed you frequent strip clubs that often.
Me: I generally go for the steak and stay for the lap dances.
Georgia: Strip clubs serve steak?
Me: Only the good ones.
Georgia: Please don’t kill Thatch until after Kline’s birthday. He’s helping me plan the secret shindig.
Me: When is Big Dick’s bday?
Georgia: June 28th.
Me: Okay. You have my word. Thatcher will live to see June 28th.
Georgia: You’re the best.
Me: I’m ending this convo now, asshole. I’ve got some serious packing to do.
Georgia:
I laughed and tossed my phone onto my bed. It landed with a soft bounce beside a few stacks of clothes I had already managed to get out of my closet while chatting with Georgia. I had a plan to execute, and it needed to be in place by the time Thatch got home from work.
My original plan was to use the key Georgia had kindly given me and be sitting on his couch when he got home from work, but now the stakes had been raised.
And since I was pretty much in love with screwing with him, the Jolly Green Giant was about to be on the receiving end of the best prank I had ever come up with.
Oh yeah, let the games begin.
Worn out from one of the weirdest days of my life, I shoved the key in the lock of my door and turned it, and then pushed the door open cautiously so I could poke my head in without having to fully commit to entering.
Everyone kept assuring me Cass was only crazy in the sense of wild—not in the put-her-in-a-muzzle-and-straitjacket kind of way. And for the most part, I believed them. But I’d experienced a few things in the last twenty-four hours at her hands that I didn’t think anyone else in my circle of trust ever had, so a little skepticism was understandable.
All was quiet, and I could finally hear myself think as I stepped inside. I wasn’t exactly hating everything she’d thrown my way. In fact, I mostly felt the opposite—giddy and elated and anxious inside every time she said something that should have made me cringe. But that kind of reaction made me question my own sanity, and well, that’s a dangerous little loop of psychosis.
Moving into the space, I tossed my suit jacket on the back of my couch and my keys on the entry table and made my way into the kitchen. I yanked open the fridge and surveyed the contents. Not because I was actually hungry, but because I was antsy, anxious for something to fill the time and mute the downright excessive amount of thinking going on in my head.
In general, I was a pretty simple guy. Eat, sleep, laugh, fuck, repeat. If I was having a good time, I was at ease. I didn’t analyze or question, I just did.
Shaking my head, I closed the refrigerator with a slam and tugged at my too-tight tie. I needed to change into comfier clothes and just relax.
I moved toward my bedroom at a prowl, frustrated at myself for being disappointed that Cassie wasn’t here. Saddened that my evening would be like normal—relaxing and completely of my own making. Upset that I didn’t have to be on my toes every second of the night, watch what I said, or constantly dodge flying objects and tiny but aggressive fists.
I must have been losing my mind.
The end of my tie came loose with a final tug, and it landed somewhere in the middle of my bed as I discarded it with a mindless throw. Two buttons undone at the top of my dress shirt, I reached behind and over my head with one hand, tugging at the fabric between my shoulder blades until it gave way and slid over my head.
Still blinded by fabric, I turned the corner into my closet and ran so hard into an unexpected wall it nearly knocked me over.
“Ow! What the fuck?” I snapped, pulling the shirt free from my head. My gaze met cardboard.
Several moving boxes cluttered the walk-in space, the set I’d just run into stacked four high.
I pinched my eyebrows together as I peeked around it. More boxes but nothing else.
I moved deeper into the space and then turned around slowly, suspiciously, as objects clinked softly together in my bathroom.
I reached into the open box in front of me, grabbing hold of the first object my hand came in contact with and holding it loosely at my side in case I needed a weapon.
Yes, the chances of my needing a weapon are slim, but I’m pretty sure most robbers don’t ring the doorbell either, ladies. Yeah, I’m looking at you, crawling out of your living room so the person at the front door won’t see you. I know your game.
Vigilantly, I rounded the doorjamb into the bathroom and—