The Not-Outcast(13)

“I need an extraction. I need my clothes. And I’m pretty sure I need ice for the vajajay.”

There was rustling on her end and then, “Dear God, not the vag.”

“The vag.”

“No, not the vag.”

I repeated, “The vag.”

More rustling. She was moving and talking at the same time. Atta girl. “Was it good, at least? Tell me it was good?”

“The vag needs icing. If it was bad, I’d be calling the cops.”

Dead silence again. Then, “So, it was good?”

“It was fucking phenomenal.”

“Fucking phenomenal?” She was awed. I took Melanie’s word.

“Fucking phenomenal.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

Another pause. We both digested that, then back to business.

“But you need an extraction?”

“Affirmative.”

“I’m moving. Don’t think I’m questioning you, but I’m curious. Why the extraction?”

I had to pause at how to answer that one.

Too fast? Too much? Too scared?

All the above.

I went with, “I don’t remember his name.”

It was lame.

She called me on it. “You’re lying.”

“I’m lying.”

“You’re scared.”

She so got me. I nodded to no one in the bathroom. “If I was on the toilet, I’d be pissing.” Though that was redundant. If I was on the toilet, I’d be doing that anyways. Who wouldn’t?

“Why are you scared?”

I shrugged, to no one again. “It’s…” What could I say? “I need to regroup for a bit.”

“Got it.” She was whispering now, “And I’m on my way. Text me your location.”

I whispered back, just for the hell of it, “On it and I love you.”

“Love you back.”

I heard a man’s voice before she hung up.

Who was that?!

I pulled up the GPS on my phone and sent her my location. We were in the suburbs of Kansas City, actually a bit outside the suburbs. And now I needed to perform some high-end assassin moves.

I went to the bathroom. (Not an assassin move.) I washed my hands. (Also not an assassin move.) I cleaned up, the quietness of it all was an assassin move, though. I took stock of his bathroom. He kept it clean, and there was a stack of clothes on the counter.

I fingered through them. Mostly shirts. A couple sweatpants. Why did he have these here? For him? For guests? Was I one of many guests? Was he a Boy Scout when it came to protected sex and one-night stands, and he was always prepared? I didn’t know.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

But fuck it.

I was so totally that girl.

I pulled on one of the shirts, and I had somehow slept in my underwear and bra. Why the bra, I didn’t know. I didn’t think I’d ever know. It would remain one of the world’s mysteries, like where did the socks keep disappearing to? I didn’t think I’d ever know the answer to it, and after that, I eased open the door.

I was assassin quiet.

He was there.

He was in the bed.

But, hold breath, hold breath—he was still sleeping.

Gah. He looked so good. The bedsheets slipped down so I could see his back and his sculpted shoulders and those very very broad shoulders. I was still on the shoulders. Moving down. The curve of his spine, how his back was so contoured and itching for me to touch it—nope.

Assassin mode back on. I was fully not paying attention to anything in the feelings department.

Spying my purse (I didn’t even remember bringing it with me), the rest of my clothes, and my sandals, I nabbed all of them.

I tiptoed out of the door, still being my assassin badass self, and once in the hallway, once I had pulled the door shut, I moved down the hall a little bit. I shimmied up my skirt, toed on my sandals, and was ready to roll.

I was not waiting around, so I reached for the door, and the alarm panel caught my eye at the same time I had the door open. An ear-splitting alarm pierced through the house, and I had a split-second decision to make.

Stay or bail?

I bailed. And awkwardly fast.

So not an assassin move.

My sandals were kicked off. I bent down, grabbing them and then I was running barefoot down the driveway. I turned down the sidewalk just as I heard the front door being wrenched open behind me, and I immediately went into stealth-mode.

I mean, not really.

There was actually a line of tall privacy hedges blocking his house, so I’d only managed to get behind the hedges. If he came out to the road, he’d see me. Because of that, I hotfooted it down the block. Seeing a tree big enough to shield me, I stepped on the other side of it.

Then, I called Sasha and gave her my new location.





*



I was walking down the block, on the other side of the road when Sasha found me.

I’d told her that I was going to be on the move.

A short toot on the horn and her minivan pulled up next to me.

It’s an unspoken rule that no one is to ask Sasha why she has a minivan. It’s been asked before, and the person who asked the question was never seen again. (That was a bit dramatic, but for real, I never saw the girl again who asked. I’m sure she lives in New Jersey, now married with two kids, but I learned to respect that rule.) I never asked why she drove a minivan. She just did. It was now Matilda, our home-mobile. Or that’s what Melanie called it. Sasha didn’t have a name for it.