Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(37)

“I’M TOTALLY SERIOUS,” I say to Matt and Coop. “Her brother is tracking down their deadbeat dad using his Navy SEAL skills. He’s got an entire WarGames setup in his bedroom. Files, maps, video monitors. He showed me the whole thing. It’s insane.”

The three of us are setting up my family room for our casting session. We’ve corralled all of my pets into the other rooms, and now we’re busy putting out snacks and drinks, picking up stray tufts of dog, cat, and ferret hair, and moving furniture around to create an audition space. Luckily, the house is all ours today. Cathy’s working this afternoon, and I managed to convince Mom and Dad to go baby-clothes shopping by telling them we needed privacy to rehearse some stuff for Drama.

“That’s f*cked up, dawg,” Coop says, unwrapping Twinkies and Ding Dongs and laying them out neatly on a plate. “The SEALS are like the ninjas of the military.”

Matt lines up cans of soda on the coffee table. “What’s he gonna do when he finds him?”

“He’s a Navy SEAL, Matt,” Coop says. “They’re trained in torture. They like to hook guys’ meats up to car batteries and then douse them with water.” He grabs a Twinkie at one end and shakes it until it crumbles apart.

“Oh, God,” I say, my own junk turtling up inside me.

“And that’s not even the worst part,” Coop continues. “They’ll also tie a dude’s hands to the arms of a chair and drive bamboo splints under his fingernails. Then they’ll punch holes in his eyelids so he can never really close them. After that, they’ll put a scorpion-filled potato sack over his head so that the bugs can sting the shit out of his eyeballs.”

“Jesus Christ, would you shut the hell up?” My stomach bucks and lurches.

“What?” Coop shrugs. “I’m just trying to let you know what you’re up against.”

“I know what I’m up against, thank you very much.” I pour some Cool Ranch Doritos into a plastic bowl. “The guy’s a complete psycho. He showed me his gun, for shit’s sake.”

“Really?” Coop waggles his eyebrows. “Flashed you the old pants pistol, did he?”

“A real gun, douche bag. He took the clip out, handed it to me, and made me aim it at the eighty-by-ten of his father that he has tacked up on a dartboard.”

“Sweet,” Coop says. “I’ve always wanted to hold a real gun. How’d it feel?”

“How did it feel?” I can still sense the heft of the pistol in the palm of my hand. “Like he was sending me a message: ‘Stay with Evelyn and we’re bosom brothers. But break up with her and all bets are off.’”

Coop shrugs. “Personally, I think everything happens for a reason.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I say.

“It means that if you broke up with Evelyn, then we wouldn’t have use of her super-chillicious video camera. And then we’d have to blow Unc’s entire grand on equipment instead of splashing all that cash up on the screen. Think of it as an opportunity presented. You play house with Evelyn for a couple of months while we make a kick-ass movie. Then, when we’re all done, we figure out a way to get her to break up with you. It shouldn’t be too hard. What’d you do to make Tianna dump your sorry ass?”

I glare at him but otherwise ignore his comment. “There’s one other thing,” I confess. “She wants to be in the film. And not just a cameo. She wants to be the lead.”

Coop lip-farts. “Fine with me. If girlie wants to run around all topless, her chesticles splattered in fake blood, being chased everywhere by vampanzees, far be it from me to stop her. It’s one less warm body we need to recruit.”

“I seriously doubt she’s going to agree to do nudity,” I say.

“Please.” Coop smirks. “Leave the directing to me.” He turns the soda cans around, reading the labels. “Hey, didn’t you get anything diet?”

Matt shrugs. “The girls’ll just have to make do.”

“Not for the babes, doinkle,” Coop says. “For me.”

Matt laughs. “Since when do you drink diet?”

“Since we decided to become multimillionaire moviemakers. Cameras add ten pounds, dawg. Everyone knows that. I don’t want be on the cover of the National Enquirer as a ‘Cellulite Nightmare’ or a ‘Sloppy Celebrity.’” Coop reaches into his backpack and takes out a pink bottle of something. “Good thing I brought along my own sensible shake.”

“So, what, you’ve joined”— Matt tilts his head to read the label —“Sally Gregg? A little girly don’tcha think?”

“This from the talking vagina,” Coop says. “If you must know, I borrowed this from Angela.” He waves the shake in Matt’s face. “She’s paying for the diet program. I’m just benefiting from it.” He turns and narrows his eyes at me. “Because I know how to take advantage of an opportunity when I see it. Which is what all the most successful people do.” He uncaps the drink with a loud pop.

“Enjoy that.” Matt stifles a laugh before grabbing a handful of chips.

“Chuckle away, dawgs,” Coop says. “Just wait until you catch sight of the sleeker, sexier Coopmeister on the cover of Details.” He runs his hands down his rounded body. “Then we’ll see who’s all green and grudging.” For emphasis, Coop takes a sip of his shake — leaving a decidedly unsexy pink mustache on his upper lip.