Page 146 of Unleashed

I bow my head and rub my eyelids with my thumb and index finger. “Jesus Christ. This is insane.” I drop my hand and look at Rhonda and Hadley. “Stop trying to make Simone and me a thing. We barely qualify as friends. I thought maybe we could date, but it doesn’t work.”

“Have you even tried? Sex doesn’t count.”

I stare at my paper bag so hard that it wouldn’t surprise me if it caught fire. I try to come up with the truth, but it hurts too much. “We’re not having sex anymore. Drop it.”

Rhonda smiles. “Of course, Greg.”

Hadley sighs and picks up her yogurt. “Avoidance. Sure.”

I scoot out my chair with a loud scraping clank and stand. “I have a lot of work to do.” I gather my trash and leave, frustrated with Hadley, thinking she knows what I need. What I need is a fucking fairytale, not this convoluted nightmare.

AFTER WORK, SIMONE isn’t at the apartment, and neither is her father. Thank God and Herbie Hancock. What a double treat, missing Dr. Jackass twice today.

I text Tansy, telling her I’ll meet her for axe-throwing. I then text Simone: Have a date. Be back later. She doesn’t reply, but that’s no shocker.

A date. Why am I dating Tansy? She’s okay, but I feel nothing for her yet. Maybe I don’t want anyone.

I shower, change into my favorite True Religion jeans, throw on my gray Halsey shirt, and spray some Chrome. I stuff my wallet and phone into my pockets before going downstairs.

I grab a strawberry Pop-Tart in the kitchen, put on my boots, snag my keys, and head out. In the car, I realize I should stop at a drugstore. I pick up rubber provisions, a box of Band-Aids, a Peppermint Patty, and a Dew so I don’t look like a horndog. I shove two rubbers into my wallet and the rest into the glove compartment. I don’t know if I’ll need them, but I’m always prepared like a decent Boy Scout. I still learned that lesson, despite getting kicked out of the Boy Scouts because I couldn’t watch my motherfucking language. Assbags.

Before heading to the Fashion Park, I scarf the Peppermint Patty and most of the Dew. It’s a plaza of stores, like a mall without a roof. It’s fucked up to throw axes at a mall with police not barricading the joint.

I park and walk to an entrance to the outdoor courtyard. I pass many stores still under construction. When I turn the corner and walk past several small fountains shooting up from the floor, I spot a blue-haired woman standing with a group of people. She waves when she sees me. “Greg!”

Tansy is wearing a black leather miniskirt with chains and a yellow see-through top, showing her black bra underneath is different. Her black boots resemble mine, but hers have platform soles. I suddenly feel awkward as she and five people turn to look at me. Tansy grabs my hand and kisses my cheek. “I want you to meet my friends.” She nods toward the tall guy across from her. “That’s Lon with his wife, Loretta.” The guy is as tall as Lurch but looks like a younger Bill Cosby, while the woman is a dead-ringer for Dolly Parton without the airbags. “Next to them is Shooter and his boyfriend, Dinero. Don’t ask how they got their nicknames.”

I laugh but want to leave already. “Okay, then.” They both nod and mutter hellos. Shooter looks like a Dollar Store version of Colin Farrell, and Dinero is a Tim McGraw knock-off without the cowboy hat.

“Then we have my cousin Eiffel.”

Already forgetting most of their names, I laugh. “Like the tower in France?”

The woman with blonde Shirley Temple curls sighs. “Unfortunately. My mother was an insufferable, drunken whore on vacation in Paris when a horny street performer suggested he give her a special show in an alley near the tower. I came along nine months later. The city of romance, right?” I might like her.

Tansy then puts her free arm around the woman next to her, who is the female version of Dwight Schrute. “This is my best friend, Bandie.”

This chick with stick-straight brown hair glares at me from behind chunky black glasses. I didn’t expect her best friend to look like Miss Nerd Alert, USA. Tansy says, “Everyone, this is my boyfriend, Greg.” Fuck me.

Not one to rock the boat in front of an audience, I throw a limp wave. “Hey.”

Before anyone replies, Tansy drags me into the building next to us, and her friends follow. Aside from its gas station windows, a uniform shop and a café flank this place. With me being a phony gasoline jockey, I feel at home.

Eiffel asks, “Where did you and Tansy meet?”

“Um, Screaming Ink.”

“Are you a tattoo enthusiast?”

Wearing a scowl, I shake my head. “Tattoo virgin.”

Tansy squeezes my arm. “I’ll change that.” Oh, hell. Not happening. I’ll never get inked for any woman. Like The Cult sang about a kiss. I don’t need her name rubberstamped on my body when it’s already painted on my heart. That sounds so fucking cheesy, but it’s true. And as of this second, there’s no such graffiti on that organ. None. Zilch. Zero. It’s up for grabs.

Scratch that. I’ll go with what Jay-Z declares about 99 problems and a bitch.

We go to a counter where we sign shit stating we won’t sue them if we cause injury to ourselves or if we disfigure another patron. Thankfully, it’s not a work event.

The place resembles a warehouse with a cement floor, cinderblock walls, and open rafters. We grab some food and beers and make our way to our assigned stall with two targets on the wall. Alcohol and hatchets go hand in hand for good, clean fun.

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