Well more like stumble.
“I didn’t say shit, dude.” Becks keeps looking out the window. He knows he’s questioned me and I don’t take too easy to that.
And fuck if he doesn’t have me questioning myself now. I told her I’d try to give her more. That has to be enough in the end here. I’m already pushing myself past my comfort zone and now I have to think about this kind of shit?
I’m annoyed with Becks for butting his nose in and irritated at myself for not even thinking about it. But I shouldn’t have to, should I?
I roll my shoulders and plop back down on the couch. Did he really have to ruin my stellar buzz by bringing this up? Then again, the room’s still moving a bit so maybe he didn’t.
“What do you think I should do? Send her poems and shit? C’mon, dude, that’s not me.”
He snorts out a laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure a classy ‘roses are red’ poem is just what a lady like her wants.”
I sit there in silence, ignoring the dig, thoughts running through my semi-cloudy mind and plaster a grin to my face when the words connect. “Roses are red, tires are black, you’re the only pussy I wanna ride bareback.”
Becks spits out the beer in his mouth in a huge spray out the balcony doors. He wipes his mouth as his laughter falls to match mine. He turns to face me and raises an eyebrow. “That was pretty fucking good. If you’re that witty when you’re drunk, I think we should work under the influence more often.” He walks toward me and I can already see his mind turning, trying to match my poem. “I’ve got one. Roses are red, violets are fine, you be the six, and I’ll be the nine.”
“Now that’s a good image to have,” I say, my mind immediately back on her in that fucking outfit from Skype.
“Down, boy. Poetry, not pornography,” he says, tapping the neck of his bottle against mine before sitting back in his chair. “Not with me anyway.”
“No worries there. You’re cute and all but not my type.” I lean back and fall into thought before I start laughing. Look at us. Two guys in our thirties making up fucking nursery rhymes. This is some funny shit.
Becks chuckles to himself, his eyes closed, and I wait for him to speak. “Roses are red, violets are blue, get in my bed and be ready to screw.”
“How fucked-up are we?” I laugh.
“Hey, this is poetry in its truest form.” He lifts his beer to me, his eyes still closed as the alcohol mixed with the clock hitting past midnight begins to get to him. “In fact, you should send her one of them tomorrow. That’s something a good boyfriend would do.”
“You and your boyfriend bullshit,” I tell him, taking my hat off and tossing it on the table. “I’m so good, dude, labels like that don’t apply to me.”
“Oh Jesus.” He throws his hands up, his beer splashing up the top of his longneck that has him sputtering to wipe it off his shirt. “Forgive me, Oh-King-of-All-Things in his own mind.”
“Damn straight,” I say, loving to get his feathers ruffled.
“Let me ask you something,” Becks says as he props his feet on the table. “Do you fuck her regularly?”
I nearly spit my beer out but don’t because I may be feeling more than good, but no one talks about Ry this way. I make sure my eyes tell him exactly that.
“Oh, excuse me, choirboy Colton. Let me rephrase. Are you having regular relations with her?” he asks in a prim and proper voice.
I can’t help but laugh. Fucker. He just stares at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to answer. “Every chance I get.”
He nods his head and works his tongue in his mouth while he thinks. “What’s she doing tonight?”
What’s up with the questions? “She’s was at The House until nine and then heading to dinner with Haddie. Why?”
“So you know her schedule then?”
“And your point is …?” He’s starting to irritate me with this cryptic bullshit.
“When’s her birthday?” He ignores my question by asking another, a regular fucking Socrates.
“September fifteenth.” Becks chuckles and I blow out an exhale at the condescending sound of it.
“Impressive.” He nods his head in approval. “Now I know you’ll know her bra size, but what about her shoe size?”
“What the fuck dude? What are you getting at?”
“Patience, young grasshopper. Bra and shoe size?”
“I’ll young grasshopper your ass if you don’t get to the fucking point.”
He leans forward and lifts a beer from the bucket toward me in offering. I nod my head and take it. Fuck it. I might as well answer him than deal with his crap. Besides, I’ve gotta admit I’m curious where he’s going with this. “Thirty Six D and size nine and half.”
“Nice,” Becks says, drawing it out in a sound of approval. “What are her parents’ names?”
“Daniels,” I grit out, patience lost amidst his amusing twenty questions.
“Last one, I promise.” He puts his hands up in surrender.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas.” Take that. I can be a smart ass just like you.
“Just answer.” He sighs in exasperation.
“If I answer, are you going to get to your point?” He nods his head, his grin spreading even wider as I tell him their names.
“Huh.”
“Huh?” After all the build up, that’s all he’s going to give me? I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees waiting for an answer.