Page 40 of The Import Slot
Before I can answer, Danny swings the door open and pops his head in, still dripping with sweat from the gym.
“Hey, Ryan? Bettsy said he texted you, but you’ve not replied. Something about a signed photo for the redhead with a nice ass and great tits?”
I flush crimson. Perfect timing, Dan. Thanks for that.
“Oh hey, Jen.” Danny waves.
She greets him before looking back at me. “I love that you’re embracing your stardom, Mr Preston. Enjoy.”
She says it with fake vigour in her voice like someone putting on a smile, but before I can say anything, explain the situation. She’s gone. Fuck.
“What was that about?” Danny questions, staring at the stairs. Christ, she didn’t even wait for the elevator. I don’t feel like talking now, so I go into my room and close my door like a sulky teenager to wait for her to return later.
But she doesn’t come back. A few hours pass and I get a message from her to say she’s feeling exhausted after her interview and wants to get home to bed. Disappointment fills my body.
I lie in bed that night with my head spinning; at least my sexual desire has been quashed for now. Jen probably was just tired; that much is true, but that never stopped her from coming to hang out. She’s fallen asleep on the sofa a load of times before I’ve driven her home or to the station. I wonder if she was bothered by the whole ‘redhead with a nice ass’ thing. Was she jealous? She said that we can be friends, but that doesn’t stop someone from feeling jealous. Unless she’s been thinking about that kiss as much as I have, and she wants more too.
I send her a voice message before I go to sleep. I tell her I missed her tonight and hoped that her interview went well. I tell her I’m proud of her, because I am. I’m proud of her resilience and her tenacity and that she is just always so cheerful because that takes a lot.
When I wake up during the night, I check my phone; something I don’t make a habit of doing and I’m relieved to see she’s replied. She says she’s also proud of me and that she will see me soon. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it leaves me feeling more defeated, and I don’t know why, but I listen to it repeatedly. Her voice soothing the ache of frustration.
Chapter 12
Jenna
Ihaveadatetonight in the city. It’s my attempt to get back out there and get over the fact that Ryan is doing whatever he is doing with whoever the redhead is. Not that I have cause to concern myself with what he’s doing; he’s single and fucking gorgeous, so it figures he’d be enjoying himself, even if that means I have to endure it from the sidelines. I’m genuinely surprised there’s not a swarm of women following him about during his day-to-day activities.
I also need a distraction because I’m still waiting to hear from my interview with Mr Lopez. It wasn’t an unpleasant interview. I could convey everything I could produce and show my experience with web development. However, I don’t have experience creating web content firsthand. That’s usually created for me to do something with. By the sounds of it, I’ll need to work with Vicky to generate the content I need. Interviews are always weird; I’ve had excellent ones in the past that haven’t got me the job and ones where I thought I did terribly, and hey presto, a job offer, so I guess I’ll wait and see.
The guy I’m meeting tonight is Zane; he’s twenty-seven, works in banking, and according to this profile, he likes sports and movies. We haven’t been talking that long, just a few days, but I find it better to get a meet-up out of the way sooner rather than later to save wasting time on a no-spark connection. We’re meeting in a bar downtown, so I get the train to the city and try not to check my email every five minutes.
The bar we’ve picked is part of a chain, and it’s pretty busy for a weeknight. I find a table near the bar, relieved that Zane isn’t here yet, giving me a chance to check over our chat exchange to refresh my memory.
“Jenna?” a gravelly voice says.
I look up and am pleasantly surprised to see that he looks like his pictures. He’s good-looking, has a friendly smile and lovely eyes, but he’s just, I don’t know, average? I can’t say much, really, I’m pretty average, but I’m not feeling it. There’s no rush of energy, butterflies, or tingles—anywhere.
“Hi, yes. It’s great to meet you,” I say, standing up and holding my hand out.
“Shall we get a drink?” he asks, waving the server over.
We order some beers and make awkward conversation. The sort of conversation you make with someone while you’re both waiting for the same bus. I sip my beer to fill the silence, realising that he’s doing the same and we’re ordering another round before we know it.
We chat about his job and my lack of, and then, against my better judgement, order another round. I realise I should probably be careful with my spending, but then I decide ‘fuck it’ because you only live once and I needed the beer.
“So, you’re into hockey then? Do you support the team here?” he asks. Relief washes over me; finally, a topic I can get excited about.
“Yeah, I do. I know a few guys on the team, and I love watching the NHL.”
“Oh yeah, how long have you been a Jets fan?” he asks.
“What?” I almost choke on my beer.
“Your profile says you’re a Jets fan; just wondered how long you’d supported them for?” Zane says, sipping his drink.
“Excuse me a moment, please,” I say, pulling my phone out of my bag.
I bring up the dating app and flick through to my profile. The evidence stares at me, and I stare back at it, horrified. It not only states my team to be the Jets, but it actually says:‘I’m a big fan of Ryan Preston, would love to get his autograph tattooed on my hip. #GoJets’
