Page 46 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B
His pretty green eyes flick to Andrew.
Brows up, he mouths,
‘Bro. She’s gorgeous. What the fuck.’
He’s got the Southie swagger,
all Boston mouth and baseball arms.
Andrew dips his mouth to my ear. “Peter plays third and short for the Brooklyn Brawlers. Minor league hotshot. Real humble, too,” he adds with sarcasm, then nudges his chin to the guy across from us. “That’s Ricky.”
Ricky's wearing a too-tight polo and a finance face. He's staring at me suspiciously while swigging his beer.
“Take my seat,” Andrew says, dragging his stool closer with his foot. “You ain’t standin’ the whole time.”
“I'm good,” I say, leaning my hip against the table. “If I sit, I commit. And I don’t know if I’m staying.” ‘Cause if I do, I’ll probably ruin your night. “Keep it warm, though. I might circle back.”
He flips me a look, dropping onto the stool. “I know you. You’ll stand there bein’ stubborn all night.”
Peter points a stripped drumstick at me. “So you’re the troublemaker who played an entire bar, huh? Walked in as public enemy number one, walked off with a standin’ ovation.”
I dust the Giants logo with the back of my fingers. “Got blue in my blood. City-born, Giants bred. Just wanted to see if this guy was ride or die,” I say, hooking a thumb at Andrew, then knock his knee with my hip. “Sixty bucks well spent.”
“Nah, don’t play it off.” Andrew’s hand cuts the air. “You entered a room full’a drunk fans like you ain’t afraid of death. Or me leavin’ your ass hangin’. Shit gave me a heart attack. I was like, aight, so this is how I die. This girl testin’ my loyalty in public.”
He flicks the bill of my hat. “No wonder I’m scared’a you. Fuckin’ nightmare.”
Ricky sets his bottle on the table. “This a phase?” he asks Andrew. “We gotta remember her name? ‘Cause she feels real temporary, bro.”
Andrew’s brows slam down,
mouth opening—
But I lean closer, folding my arms on the table. “I’ve been on Andrew’s waitlist for months. Made it past round one. Scored a bar invite with the chance to meet his finance bro.” I cock my head. “Tell me, you in crypto, right? Is it strictly Ethereum these days?”
Peter’s halfway through a sip and has to yank the bottle from his mouth, unable to stop the laugh that’s bubbling up.
“Finance bro,” Andrew gets out under his chuckle. “She don’t miss.”
Ricky forces a tight smile, but a shade of pink crawls up his neck. “Still in crypto,” he mutters, eyes drifting to Andrew. “Still pullin’ more than the guy sittin’ across from me. Next question?”
Andrew tenses beside me.
I lean back into him, whispering loudly,
“That was crypto for ‘I’m compensating.’”
Peter nearly chokes on another laugh.
Ricky scoffs, shoulders flexing.
“Rick—walked right into that one.” Andrew lifts his chin. “I’d quit while you’re behind, bro. Take the L, shut the fuck up, and sip your beer.”
Then Andrew turns in the stool, facing me. “You hungry? You want somethin’? Fries? A drink?”
But across the bar, Mr. Grim Reaper at the high-top has his hard-edged glare pointed at us over the rim of his beer as he drains it in one long gulp.
Something in him feels wrong, cold, stormy. He sets the glass down without breaking his stare, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
