“I swear that evil trampvestite is the bane of my existence.”
I raised a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow in amusement. If Cassie was the expert of parodies, Dean was the single-most talented nickname giver I’d ever encountered. No two people were alike and no name was deemed off-limits in the name of political correctness. Basically, Dean did the dirty work and I reaped the benefits.
“Trampvestite, huh?”
“Oh, yeah,” he confirmed, pointing to his fluttering eyes. “Fake lashes to here.” He held both hands out generously in front of his chest. “And fake tits out to there.”
I didn’t bother to conceal my laugh.
“She’s had me running all over this goddamn place this morning, putting out fires and sweating through a five-hundred-dollar shirt.”
“You know what will make you feel better?” I cooed.
His green eyes twinkled under the fluorescent lights. “Twenty million dollars and a private island with Brad Pitt?”
“A hot turkey sandwich.”
“Hmm,” he mumbled as he pretended to consider it. “I guess that’ll work.”
I slid the bottom drawer of my desk open with ease, yanked my purse out, and slammed it shut with a bang.
“Let’s go. Feed me. Regale me with all of your tales of woe.”
“She’s been annoying you too,” he argued as I slid my arm through his at the elbow.
“She has,” I agreed. “You just play a much more convincing victim than I do.”
A small blush stole through his cheeks, and he leaned down to smack a kiss on mine. Compliments always cheered him up.
“I’ve had more practice,” he comforted me. Not that I needed to be comforted. This was still all about Dean and giving him what he needed. I didn’t have a dick, but I could do drama.
“Ah, yes, the struggles of an attractive gay man.”
“They’re like wolves, Georgia! One innocent cherub like me in the club and they swarm like bees.”
“Wait. I’m confused. Are they wolves or bees?” I teased as he pushed the button for the elevator.
“Shut your crimson lip-stain-covered trap!”
Perfect.
A distraction of cosmetic proportions.
“You like the color?” I asked as I backed into the rear wall of the elevator, propping my chin up on a posed hand and pursing my lips.
“Hmm.” He pretended to inspect me, fluffing the hair on both sides of my head. Consideration turned into a quick smile, and a wink popped his left eye closed. “Love!”
“Thanks,” I offered with a return grin.
While Dean proceeded to gab about his recent rendezvous with a cute bartender, I couldn’t shake a question that’d been nagging me. I needed an answer.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:52PM): So, if that wasn’t your dick, whose dick was it? I think I want to know the answer to this, but there’s another part of me that’s a little afraid…
BAD_Ruck (12:53PM): Afraid I’ll reveal that I’ve got a stockpile of other dudes’ dicks on my phone?
Hells bells, that answer was not reassuring.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:54PM): …
TAPRoseNEXT (12:55PM): For real “…” is the only response I have to that.
Okay, seriously, if he didn’t respond in the next two minutes, my trigger finger was going straight for the block button.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:56PM): …! (If I could use shouty caps for ellipses, I’d be doing it RIGHT NOW)
BAD_Ruck (12:57PM): I don’t make a habit of collecting other dudes’ dick pics or taking my own. But I do have a friend (who’s a bit of a prick) who loves “gargoyle dicking” people as a prank.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:58PM): My friend (who’s pretty hilarious) referred to the dick in question as, “The Hunchcock of Notre Dame.”
BAD_Ruck (12:59PM): If I were the kind of guy who used text acronyms, I’d definitely be responding with LOL.
TAPRoseNEXT (1:00PM): Question: were you purposefully withholding important information to get me worked up?
We crossed Fifth Avenue, heading straight for my favorite family-owned deli. The sidewalks were bustling with energy, but BAD_Ruck had become quite the distraction. I only willed my eyes to look away from our message box to avoid being run over by a taxi or knocking over my fellow pedestrians.
Dean cleared his throat. “Excuse me? Are you even listening? Or am I rambling on about Sir Sucks-A-Lot for no reason?”
“Sir Sucks-A-Lot?”
“Jesus.” He sighed. “What in the hell are you doing? Are you texting someone?”
I shrugged. “Just checking work emails.” No way in hell would I give Dean any kind of ammunition regarding TapNext. I’d never live that down.
He stopped in the middle of the New York sidewalk traffic, nearly causing a woman with her dog to trip over the leash. “Work emails? You’re so full of it.”
Uh-huh. I hid the screen of my phone. “What? I’ve got that big deal with Sure Romance I need nailed down by the end of the week…”
“You’re the worst liar. Seriously. It’s like you’re so bad at lying that I honestly wonder if you’re doing it on purpose.”
“I’m not lying,” I said, fighting a smile.