by Max Monroe
“I love you too,” I whispered through a fresh batch of tears. This time, they carved a path across his hands like river rocks.
No words. No hesitation. Just his gaze and mine, open and willing and in love. We stayed like that for an unknown amount of time, until he finally broke the sweet silence.
“Lola?” Reed asked, and he softly brushed his lips across mine.
“Yeah?”
His lips locked with mine, an unspoken I’m going to kiss the hell out of you in answer to my yeah, and right there, with one of the most incredible buildings I’d ever seen behind us—and two really creepy marionettes watching us—Reed Luca sealed his commitment to me with the sweetest, most tender kiss.
God, I love him.
“So, me and you, we’re going to do this for a while?” I whispered against his persistent mouth as soon as the kiss broke, instead of taking in air. He chuckled, leaning his forehead against mine.
“At least until we look like these creepy fucking puppets.”
It was the best damn declaration of commitment I’d ever heard.
Not a proposal or a diamond ring or a promise of marriage. It was the opposite of traditional. But it was one hundred percent us, Reed and Lola—two weirdos who’d spend the rest of their days loving, laughing, fighting, and feeding squirrels with the creepiest marionettes the world had ever seen.
This is love, my mind whispered, the mental wall I’d put up long gone. I didn’t want to hide anything from Reed anymore. I wanted to share everything with him—my heart, my soul, my life.
“This is love,” I whispered into his ear, and he responded by wrapping his arms tightly around my body and clutching me close to his chest.
In that instant, I knew, with his soap and essence flooding my nostrils, there wasn’t anything better.
We belonged to one another.
I hopped off the trolley—while it was stopped, I’m not Reed Luca, for shit’s sake—and started the short walk toward Judy’s School of Palmistry. As outside of the box as it was, I’d been determined to be able to read palms—or have a certificate that said I could—ever since one gloomy afternoon when Reed had audaciously proclaimed that I couldn’t.
If you’d talk to my instructor Judy about the art of palmistry, she’d probably prattle on about how hands are a detailed map of who we are, and the lines within them are a result of brain-directed activity which tells us how we respond to life emotionally, mentally, and physically…and blah blah blah.
That all sounded fantastic.
But my motives were more of the self-serving type than a comprehensive step toward being self-aware. In laymen’s terms: I just wanted the diploma so that Reed would believe any line of bullshit I told him about his palms. Basically, I wanted him to do what I told him, when I told him, and Reed wasn’t the kind of guy who just went along with whatever anyone said.
I want Reed to quit smoking? Easy peasy. I’ll just tell him his palm says it is an urgent matter that he stops.
I want us to take a vacation to the Maldives? Wish granted. Reed’s palm says we need to.
If that wasn’t brilliance in manipulation form, I didn’t know what was.
Before I reached the doors to Judy’s, my phone started vibrating against my hip. I pulled it out of my pocket to see who it was.
Incoming Call: The Devil
I paused outside the entrance and took the call. As annoying as these calls usually were, this was a horse of a different color. I’d been trying to get ahold of Joe for the past twenty-four hours, and the bastard had been avoiding my calls.
“Hey, Joe.”
“I’ve got five voice mails from you, and not one of them makes a bit of sense,” he said, forgoing a greeting completely. “What’s this urgent matter you’re rambling on about?”
“Well, Joe, I’ve got an idea that’s worth gold, but I don’t have a lot of time to chat right now. I’ve got a palmistry class in ten minutes.”
“Ministry?” he fired back in confusion. “You’re becoming a nun? I didn’t even know you were Catholic.”
“Palm-istry, Joe,” I corrected. “You know, as in the art of reading palms.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Why do I even bother asking for clarification? Pretty sure the nun gig would’ve made more sense than you paying someone to give you a bunch of hullabaloo in the form of reading lines on your hands.”
“Hullabaloo?”
“Yeah. Hullabaloo,” he retorted. “Otherwise known as a load of bullshit. Hands are hands, Lola. Not some goddamn portal into predicting the future.”
“You’re such a pessimist, Joe.”
“I’m a realist,” he corrected. “Anyhoo, I guess it’s none of my business what kind of hogwash you waste your time and money on. What’s this idea you were prattling on about?”
“It’s a brilliant idea.”
“The last time I heard those words from your lips, you wanted me to give an angry cat his own column.”
“It was Grumpy Cat,” I amended. “And that’s still a brilliant idea, by the way.”
“Yeah, right.” He scoffed. “I’m still trying to understand how having a four-legged animal on my payroll would benefit the paper.”
“One day, you’re going to open the New York Times to that cat’s face in the byline of his column, and you will feel like a total failure for not listening to me.”
“I’d love to know how a fucking cat would be capable of writing his own column.”
Obviously, he was warming up to the idea. I smiled.
“I’d write it.”
“Then, it wouldn’t be his column. It’d just be you writing another column,” he retorted.
“It’d be from his perspective.”
“How you get me to entertain these conversations is truly beyond me.”
Instead of focusing on the offensive nature of his statement, I pulled the conversation back to the matter at hand. I had a class to get to, and time was ticking.
“Grumpy Cat’s column aside, I have another brilliant idea.”
“If this has anything to do with puppies interviewing celebrities or pigs writing food reviews or even fucking clowns, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Joe. No one likes clowns.” Stephen King had pretty much ruined the reputation of clowns. Once you’d read or watched the film adaptation of It, the circus and balloon animals and red-nosed jesters spelled the opposite of happy smiles and laughing children. They were the kinds of things nightmares were made of.
“Then, what is this brilliant idea?”
“Well, what would you say if I could get one of the most sought-after columnists in the San Francisco area on your payroll?”
“I’d say keep going.”
“It’s a guy who’s been out of the game for a little while, but he isn’t short on opportunities. He’s just yet to find the right match.”
“And you think we’d be the right match?”
“Yep.”
“And what kind of column would he write?”
“A satire column without boundaries. Nothing would be off the table.” At least, I was pretty sure that was what he’d write…
“All right,” he said after a pregnant pause. “I’m intrigued. Who is this mystery man you think could fill these kind of existential shoes?”
I closed my eyes as all of the truly full-circle notions of what I was doing rushed into my mind like a stampede. “Reed Luca.”
A shocked laugh barked from his lungs. “Are you shitting me right now?”
I opened my eyes, and as the sound of hoofbeats faded into the distance, a smile settled onto my face in their wake. “Nope.”
“You honestly think he’d be a good match?”
“Yep.” I wasn’t joking, and I had no doubts. Destiny was rounding the goddamn bend, and I could smell the sweetness of the finish line.
“And this doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you just so happen to live with this guy?”
“N
ope,” I answered honestly. Reed’s mind had so much to offer, but I was already reaping those benefits. This move wasn’t even about Reed—it was about everyone else.
“This sounds like a risk, Lola.”
“I can assure you it’s a good risk. One you’ll only profit from.”
“I don’t know…”
“You do know,” I chimed in. “His one and only YouTube video still gets thousands of views daily, and the instant he left the Journal, every other paper in the area tried to snatch him up.”
“Fine,” he finally answered. “I’ll consider this, but only under one condition.”
“And what’s that?”
“I want one thousand words from him on my desk by Monday,” he announced. “I need to see what this no-boundaries satire column will look like.”
“Deal.” A victorious smile crested my lips.
Even though Reed didn’t have a clue about his future column, it didn’t matter. It also didn’t matter that I now had to convince Reed to write a column by Monday.
Just minor details.
“All right, JoJo. I’ll see you on the flip side.”
“JoJo,” he muttered, and the exasperation in his voice could’ve been heard in LA. “Sometimes I wonder why I always find myself letting everything slide with you.”
“Because you love me,” I teased. “And if you could clone me, you’d do it because I’m your favorite employee.”
“Yeah,” he said, but it wasn’t in the form of agreement. “I need a clone of you about as much as I need to give my wife another credit card.”
“Uh-oh…more shipments from Groupon?”
Joe’s wife had a penchant for buying anything and everything that came with a sale or a coupon. And Groupon was her number one go-to site. About a month ago, I’d stopped by the offices for a meeting and witnessed one of her genius purchases—The Banana Bunker.
Basically, it was a plastic container to protect your banana from getting bruised during transport, but it was ribbed and phallus-shaped. Yeah, it had looked exactly like a dildo, and by the time I saw it, Joe had been carrying it around for an entire day.
“I’m ending this call before you start talking about that goddamn banana bumper or whatever the heck it was called.”
“Banana Bunker, Joe,” I corrected on a laugh.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “You’re never going to let that die, are you?”
“Even when you’re on your deathbed, I’ll whisper the words ‘Remember that dildo you were using for your bananas, Joe?’ in your ear.”
“Goodbye, Lola.”
“Bye, JoJo!”
“For fuck—”
I ended the call before he could finish his cursing tirade.
God, I love riling him up.
As I slid my phone back into my pocket, I put my game face on. It was time to continue my education toward becoming an expert reader of palms—aka it was time to learn more tricks that would help me get what I wanted.
What? A girl had to get creative when her main squeeze was the most talented bullshitter in the history of bullshitters.
“Honey, I’m home!” I shouted as I strode through the door of our apartment. I kicked it shut with the heel of my Converse and left my purse and messenger bag on the bench in the entryway.
Reed and I had moved in to our humble new abode about three weeks after he’d swept me off my feet with the creepiest puppets I’d ever seen, and we’d been living here in our little world of weird and eccentric for the past three months.
It was a one-bedroom apartment located a few blocks from Golden Gate Park, and it was heaven. Between our Sunday morning ritual of feeding the squirrels with our marionettes and our nearly nightly dance parties in the living room, I’d never been happier. And bonus—good with money Reed Luca paid the bulk of the rent.
“Hey!” I called from the center of the living room. “Where are you?”
“In the bedroom!” Reed’s voice echoed down the hall.
I found him lying on our bed, listening to Jeff Buckley and reading The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thompson.
An amused grin crested my lips. “Are you fucking with me right now?”
He quirked a brow, his eyes moving slowly, druggedly away from the pages of his book to meet mine. He made a show of glancing down at his crotch and then back to me. “Unless my dick has achieved the power of teleportation into your pants, I don’t think I’m fucking with you. Pretty sure I’d be aware of something like that.”
“Not actual fucking,” I corrected with a shake of my head and slipped off my shoes. The smartass knew exactly what I meant. “I mean the music, the book…” I crawled onto the bed until I was straddling his hips and sitting on top of him. I snatched the book out of his hands and held it in the air. “The Rum Diary? Jeff Buckley? I mean, how existential are you trying to be?”
He flashed that notorious cocky smirk of his. “I’m just being me, Roller Skates.”
“You’re weird,” I muttered and tossed his book on the nightstand.
“I’m weird?” he asked on a laugh, his hands flexing into the tops of my thighs. “This coming from the girl wearing neon yellow jean shorts and a T-shirt that says Mother of Cats. You don’t own any cats.”
“But I want to own a cat.”
He just grinned at my rebuttal.
“What?” I questioned. “I do want to be a mother of cats. You just don’t let us have any cats.” I shot an accusing finger up to point right in his face. “You’re the reason this shirt isn’t the truth.”
No shame, he laughed at that and tapped my ass with this hand. “Existential weirdos and cats aside, how’d class with Judy the palm reader go?”
“Give me your palm, and I’ll show you,” I said and held out my hands.
The line of one of his eyebrows curved up with disbelief. “Two classes in and you can already read ’em?”
“I’m a quick study.”
Before he could question me further, I grabbed his left palm and started tracing the lines with my index finger. “Hmmm…Well, this looks promising.”
“Promising?” he asked suspiciously. “Am I about to be the owner of a cat?”
I ignored the smartass and continued the charade. “See this line right here?” I asked as I traced the indentation that led from his thumb to the center of his palm. I couldn’t really tell you what the fuck it meant, but like I said, I wasn’t really trying to become an expert. I just needed the diploma so Reed would think my readings held some validity.
“Yep. I see it.”
“Well, it says you have some vices you should stop doing posthaste.”
“Vices?” he asked. “I don’t think I have any vices.”
Bastard. He was so much better at bullshitting than I was. But I wasn’t the type to give up.
“It’s showing it’s a vice that revolves around an oral fixation.”
“What?” He feigned surprise. “The only oral fixation I know of revolves around your addictive little cunt. I’m supposed to stop licking you? That sounds a tad drastic, but I guess if it’s urgent—”
“Wait,” I cut him off. I mean, the point of fake palm reading wasn’t to stop Reed from going down on me. The man had a wicked tongue, and I refused to give that up. “It’s also showing it revolves around smoke. And requires a lighter. Oh?” I acted shocked. “Do you think it’s talking about smoking?”
“Hmmm…I don’t know, LoLo.” His tone dripped with doubt. “Do you think it’s talking about smoking?”
My face was grim. “It’s looking that way.”
“You know what’s crazy?” he asked.
I declined my opportunity to answer, instead, sitting as still and as innocently as possible. He didn’t need me to be vocal, though. My silence was answer enough.
“My palm is telling me this after a good month has passed where packs of cigs have gone missing nearly every day.”
I shrugged. “Maybe it’s a sign? Like, written in the stars kind of thing?”
/>
He just smirked. “What else does my palm say?”
“Well…” I traced more lines. “Oh! This one here represents employment status.”
“That’s the employment status line?”
“Yep.”
“Imagine if the rest of the world knew about that line?” he questioned. “It’d change the fucking world.”
“Crazy, huh?”
“Judy needs to get out there and teach more people about the employment status line,” he deadpanned.
Sometimes, it almost annoyed me how truly talented he was in the art of sarcasm. I fought the urge to laugh and redirected the conversation to where I needed it to go. “Do you want to know what yours says?”
“Of course. I can hardly contain my excitement over it.”
I ignored the sarcastic bastard. “Well…it looks like you’re about to get a new job.”
He quirked an amused brow. “No shit?”
“Nope.”
“Like the job you got me as an ostrich babysitter?”
“Not exactly,” I explained. “But you have to admit, that was a cool fucking job.”
“Oh, yeah. I loved sitting around and trying to keep baby ostriches from pecking the shit out of each other. Truly, one of my favorites.”
“Shut up. They were adorable, and I’m the best at finding you cool and interesting jobs.”
Over the past three months, I’d made a game out of searching for the oddest and most unconventional jobs in the San Francisco area for Reed. And like the laid-back, go with the flow kind of man he was, he’d just went along with each and every one.
But even I couldn’t deny a few of the jobs were downright awful.
“Professional groomsman?”
“That wasn’t a bad job!” I exclaimed. “And you looked so handsome in your tuxes!”
“Yeah. It was a bad job. I would’ve paid someone money not to have had to deal with the spoiled brides whose weddings could’ve been used as cruel and unusual punishment. If they unleashed some of those crazy women on terrorists, the world would be a much more peaceful place.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” I scoffed. “What about the live mannequin gig?” I asked. “Tell me you didn’t have the best time people watching with that.”