Asshole.†“Just for that, I expect you to wrap that dirty mouth of yours around my cock tonight.†He narrowed his eyes on me.
I couldn’t believe he’d just said that to me in a fancy restaurant where anyone might overhear. “Are you kidding?†“Babe,†he gave me a look that suggested I was missing the obvious, “I never kid about blowjobs.â€
Our waiter had descended on us just in time to hear those romantic words and his rosy cheeks betrayed his embarrassment. “Ready to order?†he croaked out.“Yes,†Braden answered, obviously uncaring he’d been overhead. “I’ll have the steak, medium-rare.†He smiled softly at me. “What are you having?†He took a swig of water. He thought he was so cool and funny. “Apparently sausage.†Braden choked on the water, coughing into his fists, his eyes bright with mirth as he put his glass back on the table. “Are you okay, sir?†The waiter asked anxiously. “I’m fine, I’m fine.
Voicemail #1: “Hi, Isabel Culpeper. I am lying in my bed, looking at the ceiling. I am mostly naked. I am thinking of … your mother. Call me.â€
Voicemail #2: The first minute and thirty seconds of “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You†by the Bee Gees.
Voicemail #3: “I’m bored. I need to be entertained. Sam is moping. I may kill him with his own guitar. It would give me something to do and also make him say something. Two birds with one stone! I find all these old expressions unnecessarily violent. Like, ring around the rosy. That’s about the plague, did you know? Of course you did. The plague is, like, your older cousin. Hey, does Sam talk to you? He says jack shit to me. God, I’m bored. Call me.â€
Voicemail #4: “Hotel California†by the Eagles, in its entirety, with every instance of the word California replaced with Minnesota.
Voicemail #5: “Hi, this is Cole St. Clair. Want to know two true things? One, you’re never picking up this phone. Two, I’m never going to stop leaving long messages. It’s like therapy. Gotta talk to someone. Hey, you know what I figured out today? Victor’s dead. I figured it out yesterday, too. Every day I figure it out again. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like there’s no one I can —â€
Voicemail #6: “So, yeah, I’m sorry. That last message went a little pear-shaped. You like that expression? Sam said it the other day. Hey, try this theory on for size: I think he’s a dead British housewife reincarnated into a Beatle’s body. You know, I used to know this band that put on fake British accents for their shows. Boy, did they suck, aside from being assholes. I can’t remember their name now. I’m either getting senile or I’ve done enough to my brain that stuff’s falling out. Not so fair of me to make this one-sided, is it? I’m always talking about myself in these things. So, how are you, Isabel Rosemary Culpeper? Smile lately? Hot Toddies. That was the name of the band. The Hot Toddies.â€
Voicemail #20: “I wish you’d answer.