“Are you ready for annihilation?” I shout as I push my way through the door of Fox’s house, a pack of Abita in one arm and a pizza in the other. I should probably start eating a little healthier. I started hormones this past week in preparation for—ugh—sperm shopping. Nora claims I’ll find some “serious pedigreed anonymous spunk” in there, but I’m not convinced. Regardless, Dr. Beaufort insisted that shifting to a healthier diet now can only up my chances of getting knocked up… but clearly she did not mean on Mortal Kombat night.
“I brought a Greek pizza. Fox? Guys?”
I somewhat carefully toss the pizza on the breakfast bar and look around. The TV’s not even on and no one is ready to defend their asses from my gaming prowess. After setting the beer down, I follow my nose out to the patio overlooking the beach. There I find Fox, Flower—whose full name is Flowerkraut, since she is a rescued German shepherd, and his monkey bowl. By bowl, of course, I mean hash pipe.
“Really?” I ask, hunching down to pet my girl. “How the hell are you going to get even close to a proper fatality if you’re stoned?”
He looks up at me, his eyes only slightly glazed, and grins. “Baby, I could whoop your ass in my sleep.”
I snort. Flower yips in support. “Get off! When was the last time you beat me?”
“Last time was the last time!” he claims, standing up carefully, but tripping and nearly face-planting into my boobs. “Whoa! Damn, sorry. Wow. How have I missed how full your rack got since college? Did you buy a pair?”
Flower hops up, circling his legs. “Good girl,” I coo. Well, it’s more of a subtle demonic-possession sort of voice, but my girl Flo enjoys it.
Fox’s gaze is still stuck on my cleavage, and my eyes roll of their own accord. “Way to be creepy,” I say, slapping him lightly. He barely notices, but he blinks and looks up. “First, no. Second, no. And third, no more Hawaiian Kush for you.”
“It’s not Kush!” he says, like it was the silliest possible guess. “It’s oregano.”
The ridiculousness that ensues stalls us for a minute as we enjoy the joke, but the hilarity follows us inside while he cleans up and packs his pipe away. I lean on a stool briefly as I regain my sense of balance. Oregano is an old inside joke. Once in high school, his mom caught us and a friend smoking pot outside the Shopper’s Mart she was working in at the time. A security guard walked by and when he asked, “What are those miscreants doing?”—God love Roz—she told him, “These idiots were toking up on my best oregano!” We both got grounded, though we bet dollars to donuts Roz and my mom smoked what was left that night.
“Good times,” I murmur and open the pizza box. “Ohhh, sweet baby Jesus. Feta. Banana peppers. Black olives.”
“Cheeeeese,” Fox adds.
“I said feta.”
“Yeah, and I said cheeeeese.” He picks up a slice and we both watch the mozzarella stretch.
Drool leaks from the corner of my mouth. “How did I get a contact high?” I say, mostly to myself. “I am starving.”
With a mouth full of ’za, he chomps his words. “Damn, are you pregnant? You look insane right now.”
My eyes bulge. Or at least it feels like it. He can’t know about Operation Baby. How could he know? He couldn’t possibly. No. I told no one. Would Dr. B rat me out like that just because she knows we’re friends? No! She’d be fired. That’s a confidentiality breach!
“What is?” His question breaks my panicked string of thoughts.
I find his eyes with mine. “What’s what?”
“A condifendiality breach.”
“Holy hell, was that oregano laced? You got dumber out there.” And yeah, I must have unintentionally said some things out loud. “Anyway, so where the hell are Doc and Jonah? I thought we were teaming up tonight.” It’s usually at least four of us, sometimes a girlfriend joins—or Brett, when I was still an imbecile. I mean, attached to the psycho.
“Jonah had to take Rae to her mom’s in Fresno. Won’t be back until Saturday,” Fox says, and I realize he’s already on his second piece.
“And Doc?”
Fox stops and turns to me and just glares. It takes me a second but it hits me: Doc’s getting laid.
“He’s worse than you, man,” I declare. “Are you going to have your junk bronzed when you die? Or just taxidermied?”
He’s still eating my pizza, so it may be a surprise to him when he chokes.
I stand and slap him on the back. Hard.
“Dammit,” he says after I dislodge his food. “How dare you talk about my sacred junk-bronzing ritual with such a callous and demeaning attitude! Not to mention, it’ll be gold-plated titanium, thank you very much.”
“Whatever keeps the bugs from escaping,” I quip.
He shakes his head, but he’s smothering giggles. “I hate you.”
“If only. Shall we play?”
He nods and grabs a beer, setting the rest of the pack, save one for me, in the fridge. “I WILL FINISH YOU!” he yells, perfectly imitating the Mortal Kombat voice.
“Promises, promises,” I mutter, a smile in my voice. “Guys always say that.”