4th & Girl

by Monroe, Max

  Honestly, I don’t even really know how we met, but ever since that fateful day three or so years ago, she’d become a staple in my life. And my apartment.

  Her life’s activities included working at a coffee shop up the street whenever she felt like it, late nights that revolved around house parties and pub nights, and almost never sleeping at her own place. She showed up arbitrarily and without permission and made it seem like the most natural thing in the world.

  If I stopped and paid homage to her unexpected arrival every time it happened, I’d probably take up an entire year’s worth of my life.

  Hell, she might as well have been my damn roommate with how often she ended up staying at my place.

  She followed me into the kitchen a few moments later, my favorite afghan from Grandma Louise wrapped around her body like a cocoon.

  “So, you got fired from collecting urine?” she asked, and I groaned.

  “Yeah,” I said, pouring fresh water into the coffeemaker before setting it to brew. “I got fired because I inadvertently gave myself a golden shower with some football player’s pee.”

  Abby grinned. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Damn, girl, you really know how to make a first impression.”

  “Tell me about it,” I muttered and grabbed two cups from the cabinet. “Probably one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “The guy who peed on you.”

  “Oh my God. He didn’t pee on me,” I corrected through an incredulous laugh. “His pee just managed to spill out of his cup and onto me.”

  “Sounds kinky.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Have you showered since then?”

  “Oh my God, Abby!” I exclaimed on a disturbed laugh. “Of course I showered since then.”

  She just grinned, completely unfazed, and continued her original line of questioning. “But seriously, what was his name?”

  I sighed. “Leo.”

  Gorgeous Leo. You’d have to be blind to forget a face or name like that.

  Not to mention, you tended to remember the name of the guy whose urine you got to know on an up close and far too personal basis.

  “Last name?”

  “Landry.”

  “Leo Landry.” She tested his name on her lips. “Sounds like a hot guy’s name.”

  “Well, he wasn’t ugly,” I admitted. Because, yeah, he wasn’t ugly.

  Far from it, actually.

  “Did you get his number?”

  An unexpected and incredulous laugh left my lips. “Um, no. I know it’s a shock, but that didn’t come up while I was taking an impromptu bath in his urine.”

  “I should probably be far more grossed out by that than I am,” she said, and her voice turned way too wistful and dreamy for a conversation revolving around pee. “You know,” she added, “it’s a bit romantic in a weird sort of way.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “I’m nuts?” she asked, stepping forward to pour herself some coffee without preamble. “I’m not the one running around pouring pee on myself.”

  “And you’re annoying. Remind me again, why do you have a key to my place?”

  “Because you love me.”

  She was right, though I was having a really hard time remembering the whys or hows of my affection at the moment. Abby just grinned at me over her shoulder and headed back into my living room, plopped her ass down onto my couch, and turned on the TV.

  “What are your plans for today?” I asked as I poured creamer into my coffee and stirred it in with a spoon. Maybe, if nothing else, I could use her as a distraction.

  “Probably go into work for a bit. Not sure yet, though.” She shrugged. “What about you?”

  “Well, I was supposed to go to work, but that’s obviously not an option.”

  “You know what we should do?”

  “What?”

  “Go see that new Bradley Cooper movie.”

  I scrunched up my nose. “But I thought you had to work?”

  “Meh. I’ll go in tomorrow.” She shrugged again and took a sip from her mug.

  “How do you still have a job there?” I asked and sat down beside her.

  “Because my espresso brings all the boys to the yard.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re literally the most random person I know.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, girlfriend,” she said with a grin. “Only one year away from finishing an engineering degree and making six figures a year, and you said fuck it.”

  “Yeah, well, that was solely out of self-preservation,” I explained.

  Which was one hundred percent the truth. It was either I dropped out of college or prepared for an early death born out of boredom less than five years into the job.

  Call me crazy, but I wanted to live past thirty, thank you very much.

  A little grin crested the corners of Abby’s mouth as she looked at me over her cup of coffee. “And because you’re supposed to be a musician, not some stuffy old engineer in an office.”

  “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves here,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’ve only played open mic nights. That doesn’t make me some kind of music superstar.”

  Sure, I loved music, but just because you loved something didn’t make it a surefire career. The music business was really hard. Demanding and exclusive and nearly impossible to break in to. I couldn’t imagine what my parents would think if I told them music was the big reason I’d thrown away everything they’d ever dreamed of.

  I was pretty sure their heads would explode.

  For now, I was more than happy to keep my passion for singing and song-writing a really enjoyable hobby.

  “Yeah, but you’re crazy good, Gem,” Abby insisted, changing the channel to Blue Planet and shifting her body like she was swimming with the damn whales.

  “I’m okay,” I said honestly, thinking she was distracted enough by nature’s bounty to ignore me.

  Apparently, she was better than me at multitasking. “Your self-deprecation is starting to annoy me,” she remarked with narrowed eyes.

  “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have to subject yourself to it if you didn’t magically show up in my apartment like David fucking Blaine.”

  In true Abby fashion, she ignored me completely.

  “So, a matinee date with Bradley Cooper?” she asked. I heaved a sigh and then, finally, shrugged.

  “Why the hell not.”

  It wasn’t like I had anything else to do.

  Unemployed, unoccupied, and underfunded. If I had any hopes of laying hands on that Gibson guitar anytime soon, I’d have to be willing to take whatever Mable sent my way.

  Good thing I was so damn determined.

  Too bad you can’t say the same for your hands when it comes to keeping a hot dude’s pee off your clothes…

  Ugh. Apparently, my inner self-conscious had gone full-on snarky bitch overnight.

  But, thankfully, I was resilient and fully prepared to handle the mental blows. My pride might’ve been temporarily shot to shit, but that didn’t mean I would let it consume me.

  Bradley Cooper, on the other hand? One ticket and a large popcorn, please.

  Never in my life had I been so excited to give another urine sample, and never would I be again, I was certain.

  It wasn’t like an all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii or a free Lamborghini, but I had my reasons—cute, adorably awkward, and so fucking pretty.

  Yeah, I definitely had my reasons.

  In fact, last night, I’d spent a hell of a lot of brain power thinking about the blue-eyed blond who’d blundered—or fumbled, if you wanted to get all cutesy and football about it—during our handoff, and Lord Almighty, I was looking forward to seeing her again.

  Scratch that, I was more than looking forward to it.

  I’d mentally kicked myself more than once for leaving when she’d asked me to yesterday, but t
oday, well, it was a glorious chance at redeeming myself.

  Hell, I’d even channeled my inner comedian and pondered what jokes I could use to ease any discomfort she might still harbor over the whole embarrassing scene.

  If you’re looking for pee jokes, urine luck. Ba-dum chuuuu!

  Like I said, I’d pondered the jokes, but that didn’t mean I’d turned into Jerry Seinfeld overnight.

  And this morning? Well, I’d spent the majority of it visualizing several much better options for our second exchange than a urine cup fumble.

  Assured counter placement. Sink utilization. An undisclosed specimen drop-off location that I could map out for her with scavenger hunt-style clues. Just about anything that avoided another replay of yesterday’s piss-falls would do.

  I didn’t necessarily understand the whys or the hows, but my number one priority revolved around making her feel better.

  Anything to put her at ease. Anything to find out more about her. Her name. Her number. Her next available date night.

  Considering our disastrous first introduction, I might have been putting the cart before the horse, but attraction and intrigue were tricky, irrational fuckers, and as much as I liked to control the situation, I wasn’t exactly in control of this fixation ride.

  Riding shotgun? Of course.

  But actually in full control? Not exactly.

  The fact remained, I hadn’t stopped thinking about the pint-sized bombshell since I’d left the lab after inadvertently marking her scrub pants like a dog on a fire hydrant.

  I mean, I was all about swapping some bodily fluids under the right circumstances, but let me tell you, coating a woman in my piss wasn’t quite what I had in mind. But maybe, just maybe, if I played my cards right, the opportunity for the right way would soon follow.

  The hall was quiet as I approached the medical wing of the stadium, the complete opposite of yesterday’s boisterous laughter the team had obnoxiously bestowed after we’d headed for testing following a meeting with our owner.

  This was a seasonal expectation and a task for our jobs, and Wes Lancaster was pretty clear that he expected it to be treated as such. I wouldn’t say any of the guys took it seriously to the degree that he’d intended—I mean, it was just a piss test, for fuck’s sake—but they’d done a better job than me.

  Of course, my mishap had been unintentional, but I still didn’t like being the guy who’d fucked up. Luckily, I had high hopes for today’s venture.

  Today, it was just me, one of the only ones who hadn’t been able to provide a viable sample on the first go, but second chances are all the rage in movies, so I didn’t see why I couldn’t put a positive spin on my own.

  I’d have a little more time to talk to the medical assistant with the dimpled cheeks, and if nothing else, I’d had a whole extra day to ensure I was properly hydrated.

  The overhead fluorescent lights of the lab buzzed as I stepped inside, and I moved my gaze around the room. The space was seemingly empty, but a rotating desk chair belied that possibility with a slow, silent spin.

  Either someone had just vacated that chair, or Mavericks Stadium was haunted.

  And since I refused to even contemplate the second option, I waited patiently for my cute little blond medical assistant to appear.

  Awkwardly unsure of what to do with my hands—don’t worry, I’m never in doubt when there’s actually a willing woman around—I hooked my thumbs into the pockets of my jeans and bounced on my toes.

  I was counting the third row of the painted block wall ahead of me when footsteps sounded from around the corner.

  Conscious of my appearance, I pulled my hands out of my pockets and crossed my arms at my chest, the picture of cool and casual.

  A little smirk set to the corner of my lips, and I was ready for her.

  Or so I thought.

  Blond hair and dimples rounded the corner, sure, but instead of a Heidi, this time, it was a Hank.

  Surprised, I didn’t check my verbal filter and blurted, “You’re a dude.”

  He laughed, the muscles of his bicep flexing as he did, and flashed a brilliant set of white teeth at me. “As are you.”

  I rolled my eyes at myself, knowing how dumb I must have sounded, and tried again. “No, yeah.” I chuckled. “Obviously. I just thought it’d be the same person who was here yesterday, and she was not, in fact, a dude.”

  “Ah,” the human Ken doll breathed knowingly. What he assumed was knowingly anyway. Apparently, he had it all worked out in his head, and the arrogance bothered me.

  “It’s not what you think,” I explained like an idiot. “It was just…well, she—the girl who was here yesterday morning—well, she dropped my piss and yeah…it was a whole thing,” I finished lamely while stumbling over myself as I tried to explain what I realized was an insanely weird set of circumstances.

  I mean, not only had my pee spilled all over the pretty little blond, but my interest had followed suit.

  And now, here I was, bumbling like a moron while Barbie’s real-life boyfriend looked on with amusement.

  He laughed, unconvinced by my explanation and completely numb to any kind of compassion. “Spilled the sample, huh? And you’re actually surprised she’s not here?”

  Instantly, I was on edge and one hundred percent offended for her. Not to mention, this prick didn’t know anything about her. I narrowed my eyes and stared at the shit-talker. “It’s not like she did it on purpose.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t,” he said, and sarcasm dripped from his voice.

  What a smug fucking bastard.

  Sure, I thought the girl was cute, but beyond my obvious bias and fascination, it was pretty damn apparent her bedside manner was miles above this asshole’s. I didn’t know where Ken got off thinking he was the superior being, but I was officially annoyed by him.

  “Specimen collection is pretty much your one and only job in this setting,” he added, the fucking know-it-all. “If she can’t do that, I’m not surprised she got replaced.”

  “You know she got replaced?” I asked, and my voice rose a little. Not only was the prick getting on my nerves, he’d touched a sensitive spot in the feel-bad center of my stomach. Being the reason she got fired didn’t sit well with me, and getting the news from someone who didn’t feel bad for her only twisted the knife deeper.

  “Honestly, I have no idea.” He shrugged, and if his shoulders could talk, they would’ve said, I don’t give a shit. “This is my first day on this job. All I’m saying is, we can assume—”

  “We can’t assume anything, Ken,” I interjected on a snap. “Assuming makes an ass out of you and me both, friend.”

  His forehead pinched. “My name isn’t Ken.”

  “Might as well be,” I said petulantly before turning for the door.

  “Hey,” he called as I passed over the threshold. “What about your replacement sample?”

  I scoffed. Not on my watch, asshole. The day I’d give my piss to this annoying as fuck guy would be a cold day in hell.

  Apparently, I’ve lost my mind.

  “I’ll wait,” I said, like I had a goddamn choice. Like this wasn’t the edict of my boss and a requirement of the team. Like I didn’t like the guy was a valid excuse for begging off one of the responsibilities of my job.

  Unfortunately, nothing but my righteous indignation and my cute blond’s pretty little face registered in that moment.

  With one last declaration, I dug my feet in and stood up for every unfairly fired medical assistant in the world.

  “I’ll wait until the end of time if I have to,” I said, and just before I strode out the door, I stole one last glance at Barbie’s boyfriend. He looked confused, and fuck, I felt fantastic.

  It was glorious.

  Well, until about an hour or so later when shit took a turn.

  Wes Lancaster got word of my rebellion, and for the first official time in my career, I ended up in my boss’s office.

  While he read me the riot act and let me
know in a very shouty voice that I’d sure as shit be retesting the instant I left his office, I realized pretty quickly that, in the name of a pretty little blond, I’d royally screwed the pooch.

  Fucking hell, I’m an idiot.

  Way to go, Leo.

  Some people ragged on Brooklyn, but I loved it.

  It was a melting pot of eccentric characters, families, newlywed couples, single folks like myself, and everything else you could imagine. The commute was easy, and pretty much everything was in walking distance. Bakeries, bars, restaurants, grocery stores—if I needed it, it was there.

  Plus, my rent money went a hell of a lot further than it did in Manhattan.

  And early fall Sunday mornings in Brooklyn were a bit of a dream.

  The air was just brisk enough to get away with a sweater, but not too cold that you needed a scarf or jacket.

  The sidewalks were already bustling, but I liked the liveliness of all the calm morning activity.

  Ten minutes into my walk back from the grocery store and my phone started ringing inside my purse.

  I stopped on the sidewalk, set the bags in my hands on the ground, and fumbled around through my purse.

  It took me a minute to find my damn phone because, well, my purse was like a minefield with bombs of random candy wrappers, old receipts, and emergency tampons, but eventually, I had it within my grasp and pulled it out to find Incoming Call: Star Temps flashing on the screen.

  Mable.

  I silently offered up a prayer to the heavens that she’d found me a new gig.

  It had been several weeks since the urine debacle, and I’d been through a bevy of exciting jobs since then.

  Customer service for an online company, filer for a law office, a warehouse associate—which was just a fancy name for someone who packs boxes—and most recently, a maintenance specialist in a public restroom. That’s right, glory be thy temporary career, I was the woman who kept the countertops dry, the toilets clean, and the paper towels flowing in the Nordstrom’s bathroom for a week or so.

  Awful restroom jobs be damned, I’d stuck true to my word about taking everything she offered, and as a result, my pretty new guitar baby had pride of place in my apartment. But also, I was once again feeling the pinch of low cash flow.