Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(65)

Oh, Nessa. Oh, my God. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I take the cue and make what I imagine to be a loud rabid raccoon sound, kind of a hiss-howl thing.

“Jesus,” the coffee hurler says. “You think it’d attack us from the bottom of a dumpster?”

“Are you kidding?” Nessa argues. “They’ve got back legs like a kangaroo. He’ll launch himself at you and bite the shit out of your face.”

“Reeeeeeek!” I screech, scraping the side of the metal of the bin with my fingernails.

The girls shriek. “Let’s get the f*ck out of here!” Cathy says. “We can call animal control from the break room.”

The girls’ shoes crunch through the snow as they stampede away. I listen for the sound of the EMPLOYEES ONLY door clinking shut. It does, and after waiting another few just-to-be-safe minutes, I finally brave getting to my feet. I grab the ledge of the dumpster and pull myself up to have a look.

There’s no one around.

I can’t believe it. Nessa totally saved me. I don’t get it. One minute I think she’s in cahoots with Cathy, and the next she’s bailing me out of the most embarrassing situation of my life.

I swing my leg up, climb over the side, and jump to the ground.

Only to see the Wal-Mart door start to push open again.

Goddamn it, here they come. Probably armed with cameras or harpoons or something. I knew Nessa’s turnaround seemed too good to be true.

I dive behind the dumpster, flop to the ground, and try to shimmy underneath. Gravel pokes into my naked chest, arms, and thighs. But there’s no way I’ll fit. It’s too low. Too tight.

I’m screwed.

A second later, I hear laughter. This time it’s of just the Nessa-only variety.

“What the hell are you doing down there?”

I look up from the ground to see Nessa standing there, partially silhouetted against the sun, with something wadded up in her right hand. She appears to be alone.

“I was just . . . I thought . . .” I mutter. “I dropped something.”

“Really?” Nessa says. “Like, all of your clothes?”

“It’s a long story.” I get to my feet, covering the front of my clinging, clammy coffee-browned boxers with one hand and brushing the embedded pebbles from my skin with the other.

“No kidding,” she says. She glances down at my crotch. “You need medical attention there?”

“Uh . . . no. I’ll be okay.” My neck and ears burn. “It wasn’t that hot.”

Nessa takes a step closer. “You sure you don’t want me to take a look? You know, just to make sure?”

“No.” I stumble backward, visions of every porno nurse I’ve ever seen on the Internet popping up in my mind. And they’re not the only thing popping up. Damn it. Change the film, change the film. Hairy men’s butts. Ms. Luntz’s gazongas. Maggot-infested wampa guts. “I’m good, thanks. I, uh . . . I don’t think you want to get much closer. I kind of stink.”

Nessa sniffs the air. “Is that you? I thought it was the dumpster.”

“The rotten food is the dumpster. The bird shit and coffee, that’s me.”

She chuckles. “Okay, I’ll keep my distance.” Then she holds out the balled-up thing she’s been holding. “I got you an old uniform. I thought you could use it.”

I’ve never been so psyched about khakis and a polo in my entire life. “Wow, Nessa, thank you. That’s . . . that’s really nice of you. I guess I’m going to owe you.”

She smiles. “I guess so.”

I glance at the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. “Are you sure this is okay? I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“Nobody’s going to miss it. Just give it back to me the next time I see you.”

“Great. Thanks again.” I quickly tug on the khakis and pull the polo over my head. It’s all a bit big, but it feels so damn good to be covered up again.

Nessa glances at her cell phone. “I’ve gotta go. But I want to hear all the details about this at our next writing session. I bet it ties in nicely with your tarot reading.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say. “I didn’t actually die of humiliation — though I came pretty close.”

Sure, it’s a lame joke. But Nessa doesn’t even crack a smile. “Tarot isn’t a science, Sean. It’s an art. You can’t expect it to be so literal.”

I worry that I’ve upset her by not taking it seriously enough, but after a second Nessa’s expression softens. “Anyway, I’d be willing to put good money on the fact that this whole disaster has something to do with that thing you’ve been so conflicted about.”

I can’t help it — my gaze immediately goes to her boobs. But then I clench my eyes shut and force myself to think of the real conflict in my life: Leyna and Evelyn. And I wonder how much worse this little bird-shit-tastrophy has made things with them.





“I’D ONLY GOTTEN HALFWAY through explaining how I’d just f-f-f-f-f-forgotten to p-p-p-p-pay,” Coop says, demonstrating the horrible stutter he pretended to have to get out of being prosecuted for shoplifting, “and the rent-a-cop got so frustrated with me that he finally just let me off.”