“Did I say fifteen? Could have sworn I said twenty.” And there was that one checker who needed my help, so . . .
Gabi’s eyes narrowed. “You smell like cheap perfume.”
“Gross, right? Who wears Vanilla Fields anymore? I think your grandma still buys that shit, but she’s eighty. She’s allowed to be a creature of habit.”
“You did it again, didn’t you?”
“Did what?” I played innocent while I unpacked the shopping bags. Gabi lived a few blocks away from the University of Washington campus, and I, in turn, lived a few miles away from her. It was convenient for both of us.
I made sure no idiots plagued her with their existence.
And she cooked for me.
Sometimes she even packed me little-kid lunches with smiley faces.
I’d probably starve without her. A point she liked to make on a daily basis.
Gabi rolled her green eyes and quickly pulled her long auburn hair into a low messy bun. “Sometimes I want to kill you.” She exhaled. “Wow, I feel so much better getting that off my chest.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” I winked. “Your own personal therapy.”
She scrunched up her nose. “Seriously. You smell bad, dude.”
I held up my shirt and winced. “How the hell did five minutes with Shopgirl lead to me being a walking perfume commercial?”
Gabi sighed, then pointed upstairs. “Go. Shower. I’ll put out the food. Your extra clothes are still in my room. Just”—she sneezed and wrinkled her nose—“get rid of the skank.”
“She has a name,” I teased. Not that I actually remembered it. But in my defense, while her lips were wrapped around me, her head was blocking the view of her name tag. See? Not my fault.
“One day.” Gabi shook her head. “You’re going to get smited.” She frowned. “Or is it smote?”
“Oooo.” I shivered and leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Sounds dirty. Can’t wait.”
With a hard shove, she pushed me off of her and slapped me on the ass. “Upstairs. Go, before you start attracting more.”
“Attention?”
“Girls with no future.” Gabi nodded seriously. “You know, the type you like to give quick—”
“Lex!” I interrupted her on purpose when my best friend sauntered into the kitchen. He was six foot five inches of pure muscled man-slut.
Worse than I was.
Which meant he probably deserved some sort of medal.
Or badge.
Or at least a patch with the letter W for “whore.” His own dirty scarlet letter.
Next to me, Gabi tensed.
“I’ll just go take that shower,” I said, leaving them alone. I knew full well that it was best to stay out of the way where they were concerned. I hated breaking up fights. Last time I earned a black eye and a kick to the balls trying to keep the peace.
And with all the clients I had piled up for the rest of the semester, the last thing I needed was to show up to a meeting with both my eyes swollen shut.
I took the stairs two at a time, made sure to knock on the bathroom door before I let myself in, then quickly stripped out of my clothes and jumped into the shower.
All of my essentials were where I’d left them, in the little caddy I kept in the corner.
And before you go getting all suspicious on my ass, remember, Gabi is like a sister to me—as in, the only time I even thought about kissing her was during eighth-grade skate night, and I’m pretty sure that’s because someone had spiked my Mountain Dew.
Regardless, we kissed, and it was awful. She actually puked. But we’re 99 percent sure it was the stomach flu and not my bad kissing skills that caused it.
We shook hands a few days after that.
Swore each other to secrecy.
And haven’t had any issue since.
So, no, I’m not jealous of her fascination with Lex, though if he ever pursued her, I’d probably hang him from a telephone pole and light his nuts on fire. It was cute, her obsession, and I knew it would never go anywhere. Because she was a virgin.
He wasn’t.
And guys like Lex know what girls like Gabi are worth—gold. He couldn’t afford her, not even if he sold his soiled soul.
The familiar scent of my Molton Brown body wash floated into the air, burning my nostrils but relaxing me at the same time.
I only kept Molton at Gabi’s.
Jean Paul Gaultier was for my place.
And if I was staying overnight and had to meet a client the next day, then I brought along Old Spice. It was another numbers thing. At least 30 percent of guys in college used Old Spice, meaning the girl would start to associate my scent with that of other men, pushing her boundaries, making her comfortable. Because as any dating expert knows, scent is the easiest way to establish memory as well as comfort.
You can’t make this shit up.
Which is another reason Lex is invaluable to the company: he loves his charts, data, and fun facts.
A loud knock shook the door. “I swear to the shower gods if you don’t hurry your ass up, I’m going to break the door down and flush the toilet.”
“Five minutes, Gabs.”