I had to laugh. He was so bro-ey and this was such a bro-ski move. “Hey,” I said. “Wasn’t the Rat Pack a group of five performers?”
“Who cares?” he countered. “Do you know that Maroon 5 actually has seven members?”
“No, I did not know that.”
“Makes no sense.”
“None.” And neither did this harebrained scheme we’d just hatched. But for Gouda, I was willing to do anything. “So when can I bring my horse over?”
“Bruh, let’s pump the brakes a bit. Allow me to take you out on a few dates and then you can board him at my place.”
“For how long?” Mother of God, I knew I sounded desperate, but I didn’t care. “Indefinitely?”
He fixed his cool gaze on me. “For as long we’re dating.”
Hoo boy. I released a long breath. What have I gotten myself into?
Send help, please. I inhaled and took a moment to pull myself together. “And since we’re dating, how about you don’t bruh at me? To be honest, it’s a bit of a turn-off.”
“What should I call you? Babe? Baby? Boo? Baby boo?”
“Lucy,” I said forcefully. “Just call me Lucy.”
“Okay, Lucy. You can call me Ric. Better yet, why don’t you call me Ricky?”
“Ah, I see where you’re going with this. You want to be Ricky Ricardo from I Love Lucy.” I lifted my eyes heavenward. “Just like every jackass I know.”
“I’ve always wanted to say—”
“Nooooo.” A look of horror crossed my face. “Don’t say it. Do. Not. Say. It.”
He said it anyway. “Looooooooooooooooseeeeeeey,” he intoned in an annoyingly sing-songey voice. “I’m hoooooome.”
“Hey,” I warned. “That’s enough now. Don’t you even dare to—”
“Loooooooseeeeey,” he said gleefully, clearly egging me on. “You’ve got some ’splainin’ to do.”
I glared at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely.” He choked on a laugh. “Oh, Lucy. We are going to have so much fun together. It’s gonna be lit.”
This guy. I shook my head in disbelief. “No. You did not just say that. Listen, no more saying ‘lit,’ or ‘bruh,’ or ‘fam,’ or ‘squad,’ or ‘keeping it at one hundred.’ Got it?” I said with a certain degree of irritation. “It makes me cringe.”
“Keeping it at one hundred?” He made a dismissive gesture. “That’s so twenty-sixteen! But otherwise, yeah, I got it.”
“Good. And call me Lucy. Not Loooooosey.” I paused to emphasize my point. “Lucy. And I’ll call you Edric, all right?”
“A’ight,” he replied. “We cool?”
“We cool.”
Chapter Three
Edric
“I’M GLAD YOU CALLED.”
“I’m glad you picked up.”
“My dude.” Lucy’s voice was teasing. “You’re holding your phone the wrong way.”
Reclining in bed against a mound of pillows, I angled my iPhone slightly. “There,” I said. “Is that better?”
“Seriously, Edric. FaceTiming you is like FaceTiming a toddler. All I see is your forehead because you don’t know how to hold your damn phone.”
I held my iPhone away from my face. “What about now?”
“Now you’re holding your phone sideways! You’re not supposed to do that.”
“I’m not?”
“Not when you’re FaceTiming. Geez, you’re like my dad. So embarrassing.”
“What about now?” I asked.
“Now all I see is your chest.” A pause. “And your nipples...” Her voice trailed off.
There was a lull in our conversation before she filled the silence. “Your nipples,” she said again.
“Yeah, what about them?”
“They’re far apart. Like really far apart.”
“Huh?” I grunted. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Your nipples are really far apart. You haven’t noticed?”
“Not really.”
“Let’s say your nipples shoot lasers,” she began. “Most people, their nipples would fire straight forward. Yours would fire wildly off to the sides. They’re freakishly far apart, like from here all the way to Pyongyang.”
“Are you—” I sputtered. “Are you body-shaming me?”
A bubble of laughter escaped her. “Edric, I don’t believe you’re remotely capable of being shamed.”
I sighed dramatically. “Now you’ve made me self-conscious about my nipples. That’s real great for my self-esteem. Real great. Anyway, it’s a good thing my nips don’t shoot lasers. Someone could get hurt.”
“Hey!” she said suddenly. “Don’t move your hand. I can see your face now.”
“Well, hello there, Big Sexy.” I cut her a smug-ass grin. “Your eyes have been blessed.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “I just cringed so hard that my eyes rolled into the back of my head and now I’m blind.”
“Please,” I said mildly. “I know you’re obsessed with me.”
“What?” she scoffed. “You’re obsessed with me. You’re the one who called. And why are you FaceTiming me anyway?”
“First things first, how have you been?” I asked.
“Good.” Her eyes were shining and I was treated to one of her wide, sunny smiles. “How about you?”
“Just thriving, man. Thriving.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “You’re FaceTiming me—why?”
“We have a date tonight and I want to make a good impression. So I have a couple questions for you.”
“Awwww,” she cooed. “How incredibly sweet of you.”
“Looooooooooseeeeeeeey?”
“Yeeeessssssssssssssss?”
“What’s your idea of a perfect date?”
“Hmmm.” She bit down on her lower lip. “I prefer cozy, casual dates to formal social outings.”
“What would you consider a cozy, casual date?”
“I come from a small town and I guess I’ve always enjoyed just driving around for ages and ages.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere,” she said it like it was a given. “Just driving around... you know, aimlessly.”
“Oh.” I managed a weak smile. “That’s it?”
“Huh!” She gave me the side-eye. “What do you mean by ‘that’s it’?”
“Nothing,” I said at once.
“Are you sure?” Now she was looking at me, askance. “You look aggressively bummed.”
“Maybe a little. I don’t typically chauffeur my dates around like some weird Uber driver on the road to Destination Nowhere.”
“Humph.” Lucy wrinkled her nose. “So what do you usually do on your dates?”
“Me? I like to make grand romantic gestures.”
“Oh, you do?” she said disdainfully. It actually sounded more like, “Yewww dewwww?”
“Are you mocking me?”
“I am.”
I ignored her barb. “What were we discussing again?”
“Grand romantic gestures.”
“Right,” I said. “Well, one time, I surprised my date with a bathtub filled with ice and several bottles of her favorite champagne.”
“What?” she said, cackling with laughter. “Maybe you think that’s romantic, but it’s also needlessly stupid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you trying to steal her organs? That poor girl must have woken up in the bathtub in the middle of the night, lying in a pool of ice, screaming at the top of her lungs because she just realized her kidney is gone. Gone! All because you wanted to harvest her organs. Oh, the horror!”
“Erm...” I scratched my chin. “You sound like you’ve watched one too many true crime shows.”
“Errhmahgerd!” she shrieked. “I love true crime. That’s all I watch aside from The Office. I’m a true crime fanatic! Fa-na-tic.”
“Word up!” I flashed a peace sign. “True crime junkie right here, bey beh.”
“Ahhh,”
she gushed. “A man after my own heart. Do you listen to true crime podcasts, too?”
“I do.” It actually sounded more like a nasally, “I dewwww.” I did that. On purpose.
“What’s your favorite?”
“Casefile and Criminal. But if I’d have to choose, I’d go with Casefile.”
“Mine’s My Favorite Murder.”
“Nice,” I drawled. “And just like that I have the perfect date planned for us tonight.”
“Wait!” she cried, barely able to contain herself. “Are we going to drive around aimlessly and listen to My Favorite Murder? Because that would be absolutely wonderful. My ideal date, I must say.”
I frowned. “Way to ruin it, Lucy.”
“What time are you picking me up, Edric?”
“Seven.”
“Perfect,” she said. “I’ll drop you my GPS location.”
“Let me guess.” I sent her a lopsided grin. “Is it the barn?”
“Ah.” She feigned surprise. “How did you know?”
“You’re not the first horse girl I’ve dated, Lucy.”
“Don’t forget.” She clucked her tongue. “We’re not really dating.”
“Roger that. But we need to keep up the charade. Once Adelaide and Miguel are on to something, the jig is up.”
“Wait.” She stared at me unblinkingly. “Are your friends suspicious?”
“I don’t think so. Mostly, I’d say they’re excited for me.”
EXCITED? NOW THAT WAS the understatement of the century.
Miguel ran laps around the kitchen, shouting, “Praise Jesus. God is good. Can I get an amen?”
“Amen!” Adelaide hollered.
Miguel was over the moon, bursting with so much energy that for a moment there I thought he’d open up the Lyft app on his phone, type in ‘the fucking moon’ and hop in the first vehicle that blasted off to outer space.
“I feel vindicated!” He pumped his fist in the air. “I knew it. I knew you’d hit it off with Lucy. Hah! And you were so sure I was wrong. Who’s laughing now?”
I shrugged. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
Meanwhile, Adelaide was almost fainting with joy. “Oh, my giddy aunt!” she cried breathlessly. “I’m so excited for you, Edric. And a bit nervy. But mainly excited. But also nervy.”
“Don’t worry.” I grabbed my keys and wallet off the counter. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
“There’s plenty to be nervous about,” Miguel hissed. “Pressure’s on, boy! Don’t mess this up, okay?”
“Okay,” I said coolly. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“You don’t see what the big deal is?” His voice pitched higher. “Son, Lucy could be the one. Tell us more! What’s she like in person?”
I said the first thing that came to mind. “Lucy is a good time—trouble, but fun. And fuck it. I’m here for a good time, not a long time.”
“Attaboy!” he cheered. “That’s the spirit!”
“Later, guys.” I picked up my stride as I headed for the front door. “I don’t wanna be late for Lucy.”
“Go get her, tiger!” Miguel trilled like a proud aunt. “Keep us posted, okay? We’ll be right here waiting with bated breaths.”
“Bye, sausage!” Adelaide hollered after my retreating back as I stepped through the doorway.
“Bye, sis,” I called over my shoulder. Smiling a little to myself, I shut the door behind me with a bang.
Let the good times roll.
IT TOOK ME ALMOST TWO hours to drive down to Portola Valley, which, mind you, was only forty miles from where I lived, and by the time I swung my car into McDougal Stables, it was seven-twenty p.m.
Lucy was waiting in the parking lot with her arms crossed over her chest.
I slowed my car to a halt and the engine purred quietly as she opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. “You’re late,” she said.
“Sorry. I left two hours ago but traffic was gnarly. But you probably already know this since you make this commute to work every day.”
“Yep.” She reached across her shoulder and grabbed the seatbelt. “I work the night shift and even then it’s congested. It takes me about an hour and a half to get to the UCSF Medical Center every day, which means I’ll probably spend over fifty hours stuck in traffic this year. And,” she said as the seat belt clicked into place, “I’ll probably spend another fifty hours just complaining about it.”
Looking briefly over my shoulder, I pulled away from the curb. “Whose brilliant idea was it to go drive around aimlessly tonight again?”
“All right, all right.” She bit back a laugh. “Let’s just hit the road and see where it takes us, okay? I promise you won’t hear me complaining about anything at—” She faltered midsentence and gave my outfit the once-over. “Actually, I do have one complaint.”
“What?”
“Couldn’t you have made more of an effort?” she remarked dryly. “Are you trying to look like a low-rent ninja in your black hoodie and black sweatpants?”
“Hey, at least it’s not a sleeveless hoodie. And speak for yourself, Lucy. You look like you just came from the barn. Oh, wait, you just did,” I remarked, equally dryly. “Couldn’t you have showered or at least changed out of your mucky jeans and muddy boots?”
“Do I really still smell of the barn?” She sniffed her denim shirt and pressed the button to roll down the window. “This should help air things out.”
“Hey, I was only teasing. You don’t smell too bad.”
“I didn’t think I did. Anyway, I love the smell of the stable. It just smells like home to me. And don’t even get me started on Gouda. Ahhhhhh.” She released a dreamy sigh. “His coat smells of dust and magic. And his velvety nose.” Her eyes closed briefly. “It’s just heaven to be near him.”
“What about me?”
“You?” She strove for a bored tone. “You’re okay, I guess.”
“Thanks for the rousing endorsement.” Flicking on my turn signal, I pulled out of the parking lot, made a right turn and before long I was driving on a quiet and winding road.
“So where are we going?” she asked.
“Nowhere in particular. I just plan on driving around aimlessly.”
“Dynamite idea,” she said while busying herself with her iPhone. “Don’t mind me, I’m just trying to sync up my phone to your car. Wait! Is your Bluetooth name Remote Detonator?”
“Yep.” I nodded once. “That would be it.”
“Nice,” she said, tapping her phone. “Mine’s C4 Explosives.”
“See what I told you?” I flicked her a quick sideways glance. “You’re so much like me.”
“Excuse me? You are so much like me.”
“Whatever,” I countered. “We’re a lot alike. There. Is that better?
“Yeah, yeah. I just need to get you to love horses.”
“Hah!” I slapped the steering wheel. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
Suddenly, the shrill voices of the podcast hosts came blasting through the speakers.
“Whooops.” She immediately adjusted the volume control. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to blow out your eardrums.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You already did.”
“Wait ’til you hear this episode. If you love true crime, you’re gonna love My Favorite Murder. Best podcast ever.”
“What? I barked. “Sorry. Couldn’t hear a word you said. Ruptured eardrums and all.”
“Oii!” She delivered a solid punch to my arm. “Quit being a goober and just listen, okay?”
I didn’t argue and for the next several minutes, I kept my eyes on the road and my ears tuned to the pod. It was basically two chicks telling each other fucked-up stories, rehashing them and discussing them without glorifying the most heinous details of the crimes.
Instead, their candid and boozy chatter brought a sense of levity to each story. It was almost like getting a peek at the underbelly of human nature while having a good laugh in the
face of death.
“Did you know that in your lifetime, you’ll walk by a murderer thirty-six times?”
“Shhhhh!” Lucy immediately shushed me. She was totally absorbed with a murder that had occurred in Grand Rapids, Michigan sometime in the early seventies.
“Corpus delicti,” I said after some time. “No body, no crime.”
“Humph.” She frowned. “I would not have pegged James for a pedophile.”
“Of course James was a pedophile,” I said matter-of-factly. “He drove a white van. Everyone knows that’s a pedo vehicle.”
“You drive a white vehicle.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Should I be worried?”
“Excuse me?” I feigned outrage. “This is a Maserati Ghibli. You did not just compare my sleek and sexy sports car to a pedo van!”
“Whatever. They all look the same to me.”
“Rubbish. What do you drive?”
“A Chevy Silverado crew cab.”
“Oh, right, you have a horse. Of course you drive a pickup truck. But hey,” I said, adopting a more serious tone. “Aren’t you worried that you’re in a car with me? I could be a serial killer for all you know.”
“In fairness, if you were a murderer, you wouldn’t say that you’re a murderer, would you?”
“True.”
“Besides, most serial killers are charming. You’re not. And I Wikipedia-ed you, by the way, and you’re actually pretty famous. Too famous to be a serial killer.”
“Yep.” I puffed up my chest. “The man, the myth, the legend—that’s what they call me. But really, I’m a regular guy. Just your average Joe. Look, I don’t want you to see me as this huge, unattainable star.”
“Cool,” she said in a toneless voice. “I never did.”
“And,” I went on, “I’m extremely flattered that you Wikipedia-ed me. I Wikipedia-ed you, too.”
“You did?” she said with some surprise.
“Well,” I amended, “I Wikipedia-ed what you do for a living and I learned that ECMO stands for extracorporeal membrane oxygenation.”
“Wow,” she breathed. “I’m impressed.”
“Also,” I added, “I have absolutely no idea what any of that means.”
She gave a little laugh. “It’s not that complicated, really. Extracorporeal simply means outside the body, in the anatomic sense.”
The Good Mistake (Hemsworth Brothers #3) Page 5