4th & Girl Page 6

  Well, shit. How in the hell was I supposed to say no to that?

  Not only was it a five-dollar hourly increase, but she was pretty much giving me the option not to claim it on my taxes.

  IRS, if you’re reading this, obviously, I’m just kidding.

  I claim everything on my taxes.

  Please don’t audit me.

  “Okay.” I held out my hand to shake hers. “You’ve got a deal, Alma.”

  She grinned. “Fantastic.”

  I felt a little like I’d sold my soul to the devil. Well, if the devil was an elderly woman sporting bright-pink lipstick and bedazzled Easy Spirits who sold sex toys.

  But with Alma running the show, I didn’t have time to rethink my decision.

  She dove headfirst into work after that, and the rest of the day was a blur of learning the ropes.

  Alma showing me the inner workings of her online business. Me trying not to gag when she went into a long ramble about which items were her favorites and explained what do with the return pile.

  Come on. Returns? On sex toys?

  What was wrong with people?

  I can understand where some of you may be curious what happens with the return pile, but I can tell you from real-life experience, you do not want the answer to that question. So, I’m going to go ahead and play my trump card here and keep that traumatic information to myself.

  By the time the clock struck three in the afternoon, Alma demanded I take a break from my current task of preparing shipment labels and have a coffee break with her out on the back terrace.

  Alma’s version of a back terrace looked a lot like something MTV’s Cribs would have featured in its prime. Lush landscaping. A big-ass pool with a Jacuzzi. Old Alma, nutty as a fruitcake though might she be, had some serious dough.

  “I hope you’re not going to take offense to this, Alma, but why do you even bother with the whole online business thing? I mean, it appears you’re not hurting for money…”

  She shrugged and took a sip of her coffee. “For most of my life, Donnie’s career was always the priority. Once he passed, I decided I wanted to do something for myself.”

  “What did your husband do?”

  “He was a defense attorney turned prosecutor turned judge.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s quite the career.”

  It was also safe to say I knew why she saved the sex toy business for after his death. I can’t imagine a judge would have been okay with that kind of publicity.

  “My Donnie was an impressive man. Very smart. Ambitious.”

  She talked with pride and admiration, and a little part of me squeezed inside. I loved the affection she had for him, but it made me think about the way my parents used to talk about me…and the way they most definitely didn’t talk about me now.

  Shaking it off and focusing on her, I got back to the conversation.

  “How long were you married?”

  “Just shy of fifty-two years,” she responded nostalgically. “I had all of the best years of my life with that man.”

  “Did you guys have any kids?”

  “Nope,” she said. “We were childless. But all three of my sisters had a boatload of kids, and they were always over here spending time with me and their Uncle Donnie, so I’ve always kind of felt like I got to experience motherhood. Plus, we never really wanted kids of our own. We were far too selfish and liked to travel too much,” she said with a little smile. “What about you, honey?” she asked.

  “What about me?”

  “You got a special man in your life?”

  Hah. Yeah, right.

  “Nope. I’m currently a lone wolf.”

  “Do you want a man in your life?”

  “Eventually?” I grinned. “Yeah, I think so. But right now, I’m still trying to figure the whole adult thing out.”

  “I guess that explains why a pretty thing like you is even bothering with temp work.”

  I snorted. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “Well, you know, my nephew Leonard is a really nice boy. If you ever want to put yourself out there, just let me know and I’m sure I can set something up.”

  Her nephew Leonard sounded like a fifty-year-old divorced guy, but I kept that assumption to myself. She obviously had a soft spot for him, and I didn’t think my first-day impression would end all that well if I jumped right into insulting family.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said and busied myself with a sip of my coffee.

  Even though I’d only known eccentric Alma for all of seven hours, I was pretty certain she was the last person I’d seek assistance from in my quest to find a man.

  That’d be almost as bad as letting Abby set me up on a blind date.

  Guidos from Jersey and middle-aged divorced dudes weren’t exactly my speed.

  Now, an incredibly handsome man with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen and the body of a professional football god?

  Most definitely.

  But it’d been weeks and weeks since I’d seen him, and I’d no doubt been too awkward to make any sort of first impression that revolved around the word good.

  In fact, I doubted he remembered me at all.

  As the team dispersed from the locker room, I grabbed my bag from the locker behind me and slammed it shut. I had to shuffle some clothes around to make room for the dirty ones—that shit could not touch the clean stuff—and the delay in my exit was apparently all the opening Cam Mitchell needed.

  “Not bad for a rookie,” he said with a slap to my shoulder, rounding the bench to get in front of me.

  I crooked a smile, but he turned serious, and I took notice. Serious hadn’t been his MO in the few months I’d really known him, and it certainly hadn’t been with me.

  He was always busting my balls, giving me shit, or testing me on the field with the help of Sean.

  But we’d just played our first game of the season—a 21-to-14 win over Tampa—and while it wasn’t an all-star performance on my part by any means, I hadn’t fucked anything up too badly either. I was counting it as a win. At least, I had been until he’d turned serious.

  “What’s up?” I asked with nerves I was hoping didn’t show.

  “Not bad for a first game.”

  I shrugged, unwilling to get my hopes up that he was actually giving me a compliment. I hadn’t really earned it, and his behavior prior definitely hadn’t taught me to expect it.

  “Look, I’m not washing your balls here. You weren’t some fucking star out there, but you were something better. You were a team player, and I gotta tell you, that’s a fuck of a lot more important than trying to showboat.”

  My muscles tensed as I tried to take it all in.

  The praise felt nice, but the direction felt better. I could focus my energy a hell of a lot better if I felt reinforced in where I was putting it.

  “The guys noticed. That’s huge. Don’t waste the opportunity.”

  With a bump of his shoulder, he pushed past me and out the locker room door, and I sank to the bench beside my bag.

  My nerves were shot, my adrenaline was through the roof, but I’d just gotten the okay from one of the most important players on this team and the advice I needed not to fuck it up.

  Immediately, the first person I always wanted to celebrate with came to mind.

  My biggest friend. My greatest champion. My Nonna.

  Digging for my phone in the outside pocket of my bag, I pulled it out and typed a quick text.

  She was geriatric, but she was forward-thinking, and according to our last FaceTime chat, I was supposed to text her just like one of the “cool kids”. Mind you, those were her words, not mine.

  I nearly laughed at the memory of her face as she said that to me and typed in her number to hit send.

  Me: Hey, Nonna. Just got done with my first game. Wish you could have been here.

  Nonna: I watched, don’t worry. Of course, if I saw you more often, I might have been able to pick up some tickets and come.

  The
old biddy knew she could get tickets to a game anytime she wanted, but obviously, my Nonna had a flair for the dramatic.

  I chuckled at her near-immediate jump into guilting me and typed out another message.

  Me: I know it’s been too long. But I’ve been a little busy, you know. Playing pro football doesn’t exactly equate to a plethora of free time.

  Nonna: Horseshit. There’s always time for your Nonna. I could even do some exercises with you.

  Me: That’s sweet, but I don’t know that exercising with you would be a good enough workout.

  Nonna: Are you trying to say I’m not fit? I’ve been doing them Jane Fonda videos.

  Me: Yeah, that’s great, but I haven’t seen Jane take on a guy who weighs 350 pounds.

  Nonna: Oh, she could. Believe you me. Jane can take on anyone with her goddamn thighs alone.

  I grimaced at the visual and raised the white flag via text.

  Me: Okay, Nonna. Whatever you say. I’ll have to take your word for it.

  Nonna: You should take all my words. And I’d be happy to give them to you at lunch next week.

  Me: Subtle, Nonna.

  Nonna: Subtle is for schoolgirls and priests, and I’m neither of those. I’ll see you next week. Maybe that’ll stop my beloved sister Darla from rolling over in her grave.

  I laughed at the timely mention of my dead grandmother and admired my Nonna’s spunk. It was one of the reasons I loved her most, and the number one reason I didn’t want to think about her not being around one day. It also made it easy to feel bad about not seeing her, even when she wasn’t slathering on a thick coating of guilt. With my parents’ recent relocation to Florida, she was the only local family I had left.

  Me: Okay. I’ll try to make lunch one day next week work.

  Nonna: I’ll see you then.

  Me: I said I’d try.

  Nonna: Wednesday at noon works good for me too.

  Me: Nonna…

  Nonna: Bye now. Love you, dear.

  My laughter echoed through the locker room as I shook my head. Man, she was a pistol.

  Me: I’ll let you know.

  Nonna: Dress nice. I want you to meet someone.

  Me: Nonna.

  Nonna: What’s that, dear? I don’t understand.

  Me: I said one word, and it was your name.

  Nonna: These texts are breaking up.

  Me: That’s not a thing. Texts don’t break up like calls.

  Nonna: Static, dear. Just static.

  Me: I know you can see what I’m writing.

  Nonna: Better hang up now.

  Me: You can’t hang up a text!

  Nonna: Oh, well. Just did. See you Wednesday. And good job at the game. You had the cutest butt out there.

  God, she was relentless. And I couldn’t imagine I could love anyone more.

  But the idea of meeting someone—someone I knew would be female and a setup of a romantic nature—didn’t appeal even a little.

  I still couldn’t get the mystery girl out of my head. At this point, I wasn’t sure I ever would.

  With that thought in mind, I did what I seemed to do almost every time I had my phone in my hand anymore—I went directly to Reddit, hoping that someone had found the woman who spilled my pee.

  I scrolled and scrolled through the most recent comments.

  Some chuckled it up over my request. Which, I couldn’t deny, from an outsider looking in was a trippy as fuck post.

  Some people posted their own versions of similar situations.

  And others just wished me the best.

  But other than that, so far, no luck.

  Mystery girl was still just that—a fucking mystery.

  One week into working for Alma Waters, and it was still a bit of a shitshow.

  I’d officially started working for her outside of the temp agency’s jurisdiction, and I’d even turned down another job Mable had offered when this one “fell through.”

  Mable had been a bit confused when my money-hungry self had actually said no to a job, but I’d played it off by telling her I was temporarily helping out my dad and grandfather with administrative work at their consulting firm.

  And, yeah, even though I’d most likely bitten off more than I could chew, I had no other choice than to swallow fast and get on with it.

  Day two of working for Alma included a drive to a nearby park where we took photographs of the new inventory. Why had she felt it was best to do it in a park? Well, because Alma says nature is the perfect conduit for pleasure. Whatever the fuck that means.

  The photo shoot had generated quite the curiosity from passersby, and when Alma wanted to take pictures of silk lingerie dangling from a tree branch, I’d turned redder than a beet in its prime.

  Days three and four had revolved around speed-packing and packaging more vibrators than I could count.

  And day five had involved me going to the post office with Alma in tow. Which I quickly understood was a big fat mistake when she’d attempted to keep the shipping costs down by telling the guy behind the counter everything fell under media mail.

  Media mail, for those of you who are unaware, is cheap postage for books, CDs, and DVDs.

  Sex toys and lingerie, on the other hand?

  Not even fucking close to media mail.

  Needless to say, the post office guy wasn’t born yesterday and called bullshit.

  But to my—and pretty much everyone else in the post office’s—surprise, after fifteen minutes of Alma arguing that pleasure items are not treated fairly, he gave her some kind of employee discount.

  I think it was more out of fear she’d start a Sex Toys Equal Rights rally right there in the lobby than anything else.

  With the way she’d been smiling like a loon as we’d left the post office, it was pretty obvious that wasn’t the first time she’d argued her way into a deal.

  Obviously, at just a week into the madness, this was only the beginning. I wondered if, over time, I’d become desensitized to all of it or if the trauma would just build and build until I had to spend all of my hard-earned money on a therapist.

  I guessed only time would tell.

  “Honey, you need to use a lot more bubble wrap when you’re packaging the larger dildos,” Alma instructed from her perch at the other end of the dining room table. “We have to make sure they get to where they’re going intact.”

  I was four hours into day seven of the job, and already, Alma had a lot to say.

  I, on the other hand, had been startlingly silent. The dildo in question was bigger than my forearm, and words felt unthinkable while the urge to cover my vagina with my hand was so strong.

  When the shock wore off, curiosity took over. Holding it up in the air, I asked, “People actually use these things?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting a big cock, sweetie.”

  Big cock. The words fell straight from her lips as if she’d said “sweet tea.”

  “Yeah, I get that, Alma, I really do,” I said, and my nose scrunched up in disagreement. “But I don’t see how anyone could use this thing without causing internal damage. Aren’t you worried someone’s going to send you their ER bill after they give this mighty beast a go?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said and took a sip from her morning coffee. “Anything that we sell has been tested and certified.”

  “Tested?” I questioned with wide eyes and thanked Jesus himself that there wasn’t more to my job description. “Who in their right mind would be willing to test—” I glanced down at the package in my hands and read the label out loud “—‘King Dong Dildo’?”

  Alma looked at me.

  And I looked at Alma, and just before she opened her mouth to respond, I regretted asking the question.

  “I test all of my own products,” she said.

  “You test all of your own products?”

  “Of course I do.” She looked at me like I was the crazy person out of the two of us. “What kind of business owner would I be if I couldn’t
back my own products?”

  There it was. I had my answer. Desensitization was impossible. It would take years and years of therapy for me to get past the trauma that had just left her lips and reached my ears.

  Not that I thought little old Alma should be some kind of celibate nun, but for the love of God, I didn’t want to know the ins and outs of her sexual health.

  Moving right along and ignoring the entire conversation that had quite possibly caused future brain damage, I hopped up from my chair and grabbed some extra bubble wrap from Alma’s garage.

  Once I found what I needed, I went back inside and proceeded to pack up about fifteen King Dong Dildos, all the while I offered up a silent prayer for every single recipient.

  Please, Jesus, keep Mindy Franklin’s lady bits safe. And when Sue Crosby gets this package in the mail, please encourage her to read the safety instructions prior to use.

  In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.

  By the time King Dong was all packed up and ready to ship out to its next victims, I headed into Alma’s kitchen to make a fresh cup of coffee.

  “You need another cup?” I called toward the dining room.

  “No thanks, honey,” she responded. “Too much coffee will end up giving me the shits.”

  “Well, by all means, the last thing we want is for you to get the shits,” I teased, and she just laughed.

  “Tell me about it. I went to Applebee’s with the girls last week for dinner, and after eating a basket of boneless wings, I spent my night on the pot, farting up a storm.”