Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(73)

I’d hurl some salvos back at her — blast a few of my own songs, maybe some Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare for her listening pleasure, or perhaps ask her if the cranking whiny death music means that she doesn’t have a date for Valentine’s Day — but I am far too swamped keeping all my movie and girlfriend balls in the air to be bothered.

At this very moment, I’m on my bed, e-mailing Nessa the changes to the latest few pages we’ve been working on. We haven’t been able to get together recently because of Cathy’s work schedule, which is making things really difficult. It wouldn’t be so bad if we were actually going to use Evelyn and Nick’s takes because it’s taking forever to film anything with them. But since Leyna and Hunter are amazingly efficient — not to mention really good — there’s a chance we’ll be caught up with everything I’ve gotten written in less than a week.

My e-mail bings. It’s Nessa again. Nice detail with Nashira’s cross, but Rogart is too passive in this scene. He needs to take charge of the situation from the start. Keep up the good work. Hey, just ate a candy heart that said I’M HORNY. What are the odds? :)

Ugh. I don’t know what I’m more annoyed with: having to rewrite this scene again or Nessa’s incessant pretend come-ons.

Actually, Cathy’s pounding music trumps both of those things in the irritation department.

I glance at the Death Star. Six thirty. Nick’s picking me up for my dinner with Evelyn in fifteen. I better get dressed. It shouldn’t take me too long. I’ve only got one suit that I wore to my cousin’s wedding two years ago.

I shut my computer down and grab my phone off the bed. I flip it off vibrate and glance at the screen to see I’ve got a message. It’s from Leyna. Or, as she’s entered in my phone, Leon, for security’s sake.

Hppy <3 dA. hOp ur hving fn. Wtnd u 2 c ths. hEr’s my lttl mffn. wht do u thnk?

There’s a picture attached. I click on it to get a better look.

It’s slightly out of focus. And it’s dark. And hairy. And . . .

Whoa, hey, now. Is that . . . Is that what I think it is? Nooo. It can’t be, can it? I squint hard at the photo. Trying to will it into focus.

Oh, my God. I think . . . I think Leyna just sexted me for Valentine’s Day.





LE CHAT NOIR is the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever been to. There are dimly lit chandeliers all around, white tablecloths, candles, wineglasses, soft almost-inaudible classical music playing in the background. And waiters wearing tuxedos and white gloves.

Evelyn and I are the only kids in the entire place. All the other couples are old. Like, my grandparents old. And it’s so hushed in here. Like a church or something. Like you’re afraid to even lift your silverware for fear of making any kind of clatter.

The whole atmosphere makes me feel as uncomfortable as a Trekkie at a cotillion.

Well, the atmosphere, along with my waist-strangling floodsies and my motion-constricting suit jacket, which makes it impossible for me to reach out for the bread basket. I should have tried on these clothes as soon as I knew I was going to have to wear them. Now all I can do is hold in my stomach and lean down anytime I want to take a sip of water.

“I can’t believe you set this all up,” Evelyn says, smiling at me from across the table. “It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Yeah, well.” I try a humble shrug, but my shoulders are pinned in. “I just thought, you know, Valentine’s Day and all.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I’m thinking of Leyna’s picture again. Her Valentine’s present to me. I dart my eyes to the side to see if I can locate the bathroom. Maybe I can sneak off and have another peek. Just to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.

Just then our waiter appears at the table and hands us our leather-bound menus. “Bonjour, monsieur. Mademoiselle. Will we be having a virgin cocktail before we eat? Perhaps a glass of sparkling cider?”

Evelyn smiles at me. “Ooh, let’s, okay? So we can toast to our undying devotion.”

I look up at the waiter, who looms over me, his nose in the air, his mouth turned down, like I’m some sort of dirty cretin. “Two sparkling ciders. Yes. Thank you.”

“C’est bon.” The waiter gives a curt little bow and marches off.

“I’m so excited.” Evelyn’s vibrating in her chair as she lifts the towering menu. “I’ve never been to such a fine restaurant. I wonder what they have.”

“Yeah,” I say, hefting my own menu and cracking it open, wondering if I’ll be able to make sense of any of the French.

Holy shit! I may not know many of the words, but the numbers I recognize. Eighteen dollars for . . . onion soup? Thirteen dollars for what I think might be salad? And . . . And . . . Fuuuck me! Steak and French fries — I’m sorry, frites — for forty-three bucks! My stomach churns. This whole night is going to cost me a fortune.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down without resorting to sniffing my palm. But it only makes my jacket tighter, which makes it harder to breathe, in part because the stupid earrings box that’s jammed in my inside jacket pocket feels like it’s digging in to my heart. Okay. Don’t panic. Maybe Evelyn will see the prices and take mercy on me.

“I’m ravenous,” she says. “I haven’t eaten all day in anticipation of tonight. It all looks so good. I want everything.”