I haul her bumper off to the side of the road. I debate calling Peretti’s to let them know I have a piece of Andi’s car, but somehow, I expect that might not go over well if it’s a company vehicle. I figure I’ll give the bumper a nice little home on Lawrence’s street until I can order another pizza. I have to give it a few days before I call Peretti’s again, otherwise I’ll be in the stage-five-clinger zone.
Once I put a tarp over the top to keep the thing all warm and fuzzy, I head inside and retrieve the pizza from the front entryway. I throw it straight into the refrigerator without taking so much as a whiff. It’ll be gone the second Lawrence and Lilia get home, but I don’t care—I wasn’t even hungry to start with.
I just ate a massive lunch. What I’d really wanted was to see her again.
Andi.
The name fits her. It’s a normal enough name, but also a little bit feisty, somewhat bouncy—just like her boobs. Now, I know that’s not the classiest thing I could say, but it’s impressive when a girl can fill out a stupid red polo shirt like she can, and they were even more noticeable in the tank top she was wearing today. I’m allowed to comment on her chest—it’s that fantastic.
Also, she’s funny. Half the time I’m not sure whether it’s intentional or not, but the whole thing works for her. I want to get to know her better, and not only her boobs—her face too, and her personality, I’m just not sure how to get there. At the moment, the only thing I can think of is ordering more pizzas.
See, I’m only in town for a few more weeks, just until we get this business sorted out with the Ice Queen, and I’m not looking for anything long term. I’m not even looking for anything short term. I’m looking for one night, maybe—two tops.
Andi seems like the sort of girl who doesn’t have time for bullshit. She probably considers a one-night stand bullshit, and that’s completely fair. I want a no-strings-attached, fantastic night with Andi, and for once, I’m not sure how to get it.
Don’t get me wrong, I’d make sure it was fantastic for her, too—I’m not a pig. I just don’t have time for a relationship. I’m also honest and up front, so I’m not going to ask for something she’s not willing to give.
But even so… I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s rude to ask a woman if she’s up for a roll in the hay and a few orgasms? I intend to make it worth her while.
It makes everything more difficult that I didn’t have the balls to ask for her phone number while she was right in front of me—although, I really do think it has less to do with my balls than the fact that she distracted me with the news about my car, and that she glanced at my crotch, blushed, and then sent my mind spiraling toward dirty places.
Plus, it just feels like I’m being a perv if I ask for her number while she’s holding a pizza. She must get hit on all the time as a delivery girl. With a chest like hers and a smile that makes me want to hold her, take her inside, and never let her leave, it’s a no-brainer—she probably has dates lined up every night of the week.
To add proof to my theory, she did already turn me down once. I asked her to come inside for a slice of pizza, and while most girls would’ve dropped the pizza and taken off their clothes right there, she ran away so fast she left her bumper behind.
Now, I’m not trying to be cocky here, but when a young, single hockey player is having a great season and looking to sign the deal of the year, bunnies come running. I can’t help it; it’s a fact of life.
But I don’t want a bunny. I don’t get any satisfaction out of sleeping with a bunny, even if I’ve fallen victim to their charms once or twice. I prefer a girl with her head on her shoulders. Andi’s head might be a little awkward, judging by the things that come out of her mouth, but I can tell she’s a nice girl.
I’m pacing around my kitchen like an angsty teenager. Andi persists in my mind, no matter how hard I try to get her out. It’s not until I glance at my watch that I’m startled into action.
Exhaling a less-than-enthusiastic sigh, I head upstairs to get ready for my night out with the Blonde Bitch. We’re going to some hoity-toity restaurant in The Hills and then to some show at the Pantages to “talk” and “get to know each other.”
I have no clue why she cares about my personality—if I’m good enough on the rink, I’m good enough to be signed—but Lawrence set this up as a favor. As much as I sometimes can’t stand my brother, he’s gone out on a limb for me, and I won’t let him down.
As such, it’s time to shower, shave, and hit the road.
And try not to think about Andi. Though she left a temporary dent in my bumper, she left a permanent impression on my mind.
CHAPTER 9
Andi
It’s been another week, and I’ve heard exactly nothing from Ryan Pierce. I suppose crashing into a man’s car will have that effect on a relationship—not that what Ryan and I have between us is a relationship. It’s nothing at all, really.
Although, I did answer the phone once this week for Angela, and I thought I heard his voice. I hung up immediately. It might not be mature, but it was for the best. Our insurance companies can work things out without me getting involved.
In fact, it is best for the city as a whole if I cut off all contact with Ryan Pierce. I nearly totaled one car after a quick glimpse of his abs; if I saw Ryan naked, all of Los Angeles would be in flames. It’s safer if we don’t have contact.
In other news, it has been a promising week for the comedy business! I’ve had gigs more nights than not. I performed at seedy clubs and dark venues where it was probably best my car lacked a bumper, but at least it was something.
I even picked up a part in a movie—a low-budget movie, but the part paid a hundred bucks for the day and offered free food. I went for the food.
“Andi, quit talking to yourself in the mirror!” My dad pounds on the bathroom door at Peretti’s. “We’ve got an order for you.”
I’m not talking to myself; I’m on the phone with the insurance company, speak of the devil. Surprisingly, they’d heard nothing about a car crash between my old clunker and an uber-fancy Ferrari.
I pestered the insurance lady so much she finally huffed off the phone and said she’d review her records. It’s not that I want to pay for an expensive fix on a Ferrari, but I’d rather go in debt over it than have my dad find out.
“I’m coming!” I yell, whispering to the insurance woman that she’ll be hearing from me soon. “One second, I’m waxing my face.”
My dad makes a disgusted noise in his throat and yells at me about improper use of company time. I nod along in the mirror and take a look at my thighs. They might be a little bit skinnier because, for the past week, I’ve been parking the car around the block and running to and from our building every time I have a delivery. I haven’t figured out what to tell my dad about the missing bumper.
My dad’s footsteps march away, and I quickly hit redial. “Hello, Amanda, it’s me again…” I pause as Amanda the insurance lady transfers me at hello.
“Ma’am, as I’ve explained every day for the past week, I will call as soon as I hear something,” Tom says. Tom is the exasperated operator I’ve talked to every other day this week. Tom and I are friends.