TRAFFIC IS A CRAZY bitch this morning.
I was going to tell Melrose how I felt last night … or at least start by dropping a hint or two. The opportunity was there. She was standing over the sink, doing the dorkiest dance to some stupid 80s music as she washed dishes, completely in her own little world. Her ponytail bobbed and her hips swayed and I found myself craving the sweet taste of her lips.
So I kissed her.
And she kissed me back, body melting against mine, soapy hands in my hair.
And then all of a sudden she wouldn’t shut up about us just being friends and this not being anything, completely killing the opportunity. She kept asking questions and then adding, “right?” Almost as if she wanted me to say “yes.”
It didn’t hit me until the drive to work this morning that there could be someone else. We’re having fun together, sure. But there’s got to be a damn good reason she’s suddenly wanting to ensure that this doesn’t go beyond the physical.
Who else could it be?
She doesn’t bring guys around, at least not after the Robert McCauley incident. She’s always going on auditions. The only guy I’ve ever seen her talk to regularly is Nick.
The image of Melrose’s face lighting up when Nick called her a couple weeks back fills my head, and I almost run a red light.
It’s him.
It has to be.
She’s holding out for Nick.
I get that they’ve been best friends since they were kids and they have a history, but Nick doesn’t deserve her. And it’s not because I want her.
Up until he got that tour gig, he’d never once mentioned her.
Every girlfriend he’s ever had, he’s fucked around on. And I only know this because he brags about it every time he gets hammered on his Old Milwaukee piss water.
His rent is almost always late—not because he doesn’t have the money, but because he’s too lazy to write a check or drive to the nearest ATM.
Dude can’t do a load of laundry to save his life. I don’t know how many times I re-washed the musty clothes he’d leave sitting in the washer for days at a time. That sexy, grungy look he was always rocking? Wonder if the girls would be all over him if they knew he wears his shit at least five times before finally washing it.
Sure, Nick’s a good-time guy. He’s a musical genius, can throw a hell of a party, and has never had to want for sex in his life, but that’s where his redeeming and impressive qualities end.
By the time I arrive at the job site in Santa Monica, my crew is already there. Two of them look at me like I should have a box of Krispy Kremes or coffees in my hand as I head up the walkway to the ostentatious beachside mansion we’re wiring for some mega real estate developer based out of Orange County.
“Traffic,” I say with a grumble as I fasten my belt around my waist.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, when I slide it out to check the screen, I find a text from Melrose.
MELROSE: ARE YOU AT WORK YET?
I tap out a quick “yes” before putting my phone back and getting to work.
My phone buzzes again, but I’m busy. Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait.
I grab a spool of wire and head to the kitchen, where another one of my guys has started on the central vac pre-wire. A woman in heels and jeans measures for appliances before scribbling numbers in her notebook, offering a quick smile and scampering out of the saw-dust-and-salt-air scented home.
“You okay today?” Manny, my number one, asks.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I sniff.
“You seem … I don’t know … pissed off about something.”
“Hey, hand me that conduit bender.” I change the subject because it’s none of his business, and talking about it is just going to piss me off even more.
Manny hands it over, and I feel his stare, but I ignore it. I need to get through today without miswiring anything and costing my business a small fortune. These real estate mogul-types are always so quick to sue for “lost time” and stupid shit like that. They have teams of attorneys on retainer and speed dial. One misstep and that could be the end of Alcott Electric.
I’m running conduit when my phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t stop because deadlines.
But then it buzzes again.
And again.
Exhaling, I dig into my jeans and check the screen.
MELROSE: OMG. MURPHY IS GONE.
MELROSE: I THINK HE SLIPPED UNDER THE FENCE.
MELROSE: I’M FREAKING OUT.
“Everything okay?” Manny asks.
I picture Melrose’s pretty face with tear-streaked cheeks. I picture her ocean eyes glassy and clouded, her trembling hands covering her heart.
Before I get a chance to reply to her messages, she’s calling me.
“Yeah, I have to run out and take care of something,” I say, silencing the call and shoving the phone back. I’ll call her when I’m in the truck.
“Seriously? You’re just going to leave me hanging?” Manny asks, half pretending like he’s joking. Sometimes I think he forgets that I’m his fucking boss.
“Don’t,” I say. I know we’re on a tight timeline. I know we have deadlines to hit. But I can’t leave Melrose hanging. I might be a dick, but I’m not a royal dick.
Manny lifts his palms in the air, a silent apology.
Placing the spool of conduit on the subfloor, I unfasten my belt and get the hell out of there.
“You coming back?” he asks as I leave.
“I hope so.”