Hosed (Happy Cat #1)(35)
“There is, but without more effective advertising we won’t be the company helping people expand their sensual horizons,” Ruthie May says. “Savannah’s been running late night infomercial ads, but that’s not where our customers are these days.”
“Of course not,” I say, crossing my arms at my chest. “They’re online. The internet was built on porn.”
Ruthie pulls a face. “We do service some of the same customers, I suppose. I’ve been telling Savannah to up the online advertising budget for years, but you know how much she hates InstaChat and the search engine stuff.”
I bob my head back and forth, taking the measure of that information. “Well, I hate them too. Their advertising costs are through the roof these days and the return on investment can be hard to measure. But there are other places to advertise. Even other mediums.”
“Like what?” Ruthie asks, hugging her folder to her chest, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
“Like store apps for your smartphone,” I say, genuine excitement flickering to life inside me as a spark of potential genius pops into my head, along with the realization that though I miss San Francisco, I haven’t been daydreaming about the next edition of my company’s Vikings in… game series. It’s like I’ve needed something else to spark my creative juices. “Or…” I bite my lip, not wanting to jinx the idea by throwing it out into the world without figuring out how to pitch it properly.
Ruthie May laughs. “Oh, girl, I don’t know what’s going through your head, but I like it. It looks like a good time.”
“I think it will be.” I grin. “Let me do a little research and I’ll get back to you. Thanks for the update.” I wander into the lab, my wheels turning as I consider how best to turn buying sex toys into a game people don’t ever want to stop playing.
I’m not a hundred percent sure how best to approach this, but I know one thing for sure—dildo football has to be a part of it.
If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, and sell them the best dang organic lube available on the market while you’re at it.
Eighteen
Ryan
* * *
By the time I finally get to the Wild Hog Tuesday night, I’m itchy and desperate to see Cassie.
I should’ve been here half an hour ago, but George burrowed into an open peanut butter jar he found in the trash behind Maud and Gerald’s bakery, and I had to give him a bath to get the peanut butter off his fur before he tried to lick himself clean, which would’ve resulted in peanut butter hairballs all over my carpet.
And then I had to give myself a bath to recover from giving George a bath, because I refuse to see Cassie smelling like wet peanut butter trash panda.
It’s been over forty-eight hours since I’ve seen her in person—not that I’m counting—and I need to know that she’s okay. Need it badly.
I finally hustle into the bar a quarter after six. But even my eagerness to see Cassie, takes a backseat to abject horror when I realize what I’m seeing. And hearing.
Ruthie May is on the makeshift stage in the corner, wailing away.
To…“I Touch Myself.”
She’s also…touching herself. With one hand resting low on her belly, below the waistband of her linen granny pants, but not so low that the sheriff will have to intervene for public indecency.
But low enough to imply what she’s headed home to do.
I want to be happy for her, but I’m leaning toward joining Emma June in hiding out in a booth with a napkin over my head until it’s over. Not that the napkin is helping much with Tucker sitting next to Emma, holding up his fist, pointer and pinky extended, headbanging to the music. “You go, Ruthie May!” he hollers.
I hope Ruthie May has lots of sex.
I hope my parents do too.
I also hope to never bear witness to their sexy time private lives. Knowing it happens and seeing the gyrating on stage are two different things. Forever and ever amen.
Someone bumps into me from behind, and I realize I’ve stopped dead in front of the door.
“Sorry,” I start, then have to school my expression so I don’t curl my lip.
“O’Dell,” Steve says. Savannah’s ex is in a cowboy hat, a white button-down shirt, blue jeans, and—are those Italian loafers?
They are.
The dude’s wearing pretentious business shoes with his bar-hopping Wranglers.
Is it any wonder he gives me bad vibes?
But I nod back, because it’s polite. “Bennington.”
Behind us, Ruthie May croons about what she thinks about when she does things I don’t want to think about, and Steve’s entire face wrinkles in disgust. “This town’s going to hell,” he mutters.
“She’s just having fun, man,” I say.
He snorts and his dark brown eyes skim me up and down. I’ve heard women swoon over those eyes and the rest of the man packaged up along with them, but Steve’s gaze makes my skin crawl. “Didn’t know you were one of the freaks, O’Dell. Figured you had more sense than that.”
I start to crack that men with glass sheep should know better than to throw stones, but I refuse to sink to this douchebag’s level.