Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I tried to resume my search, but my eyes kept slinking down to the text app.
So, instead of searching for another job, I referred to my homie, Google.
I’d poised my fingers over the keyboard when my door opened.
Lynetta came inside.
I flicked a brow. So, you can’t knock?
The look she gave me? Telepathy that replied, It’s my house, and ten shades of lethal older sister. I’d already endured eighteen years of being harassed by her. The last four years of my adolescence were the worst because my parents had left her in charge of me, and she regretted it. It wasn’t really her fault they’d put so much on her. So, tonight, I smiled. “May I help you?”
She spun around in a pair of khakis and a sweater. “I’m going midnight geocaching with friends. Does my butt look big, Maddy?”
“Girl, yes, honey!” I replied. Even though I might not get her reverse slang, like geofencing, or whatever, I was nice. When I wanted to be.
“What?” Lynetta snapped.
I’d forgotten the people she’d taken up with. An unsavory group of anti-butt people. “Kidding, you have a bracket booty.” No lie. Just genuine honesty. “C’mon, you’ve seen a bracket? You type reports at work, right?”
All her confused blinking turned into a snarl. “The square thingy on the keyboard?”
The irony. She should’ve commended me for recognizing what she and her peeps viewed as lovely: no booty. Where was her appreciation? After clearing my throat, I murmured, “Well, yeah.” Still out here living a life of honesty.
“So, I have a bracket butt?” she snapped as my MacBook lit up with a ping from Washington. Nope. A two-minute reminder of his silly-ass thumbs-up.
“Just a sec.” I replied, fingers at work. Google asked if I wanted to adjust the settings to permit adult content. No, sir. I popped an image into the text box for Washington. Granny in the lace muumuu. Betty’s busty bosoms were so massive they functioned as floor sweepers.
When I glanced over the rim of my laptop, Lynetta glared at me from near the door. “You know what, Madison? Next month. Not March, but April, I want four hundred for rent.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a bracket booty.” Without another word, Lynetta stormed away, leaving the door open.
I stared at the audacity for a couple of beats, then mumbled, “If you had laughed at my joke, I might’ve told you how to fix the bracket booty. But I won’t.”
My text messages pinged again. I scrolled the cursor over and clicked on the message.
WASH: I waited in the rain for your response, Maddy.
WASH: Now I want a solo date.
I cracked my knuckles, pressed all caps, and typed onto my laptop.
ME: ALREADY FAKE DATING YOU, BRUH
ME: Hope you’re in the house now. It’s pouring!
WASH: Yep. In the house. Alone. Challenge me. Whatever you want. I follow through. We do a genuine date, a.k.a. Just us. For the record, we’re REAL dating but with too many people.
A foolish grin had formed on my face. “Real-ish, whatever. But I do like a challenge.”
I typed, Grow a rat tail, then deleted that. He wouldn’t. Presentation mattered.
ME: Grow a ducktail. Can you do that with your follicular-ly challenged self??
WASH: Follicular what? A hyphen doesn’t make that word legit. But it’s gonna take months.
The little dots were already active. Big Head’s argument was still in progress.
WASH: The second we see fuzz, we do dinner and a movie.
I chortled. Fuzz? Like a little new growth was supposed to persuade me—assuming that his head could manage even that. After laughing for a full sixty seconds at the thought of him resembling a colicky newborn with one sad wisp of hair, I typed back:
NOPE.
The second I pressed send those text message dots went to work. The boy was skilled at constructing arguments.
WASH: At .00001 of an inch, we take a dinner cruise?
It was tricky to do a thumbs down on my MacBook, so I set it aside and picked up my iPhone.
WASH: At .01 of an inch …
As I chuckled, I called him before my brain got the memo.
His voice was low, desirable, and he must’ve been ready for bed. He must’ve skipped his neat freak evening regimen.
I pushed down a lump in my throat and said, “Cup of coffee first, real date. Second date, once your ducktail is at .01 of an inch, whatever that is, we can do a movie. But it depends on what’s at the theater in 2077. If there’s nothing good, then we’ll hit up Popeyes. Third date, you send me on a cruise. I send you selfies of me dancing all night?”
“2077, Maddy? That’s how long you think it’s gonna take me to grow .01 of a silly-ass ducktail?”
I chuckled.
He groaned. “You better be glad I love the sound of your laugh because I may arrest you again.”
“For what? We both agreed it’s raining cats, dogs, and gators outside. But … if you want, Lynetta wants to geofence.”