Page 11 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
“Because the stupid astronaut blackmailed me, that’s why!” I slam the boots down, causing the plastic display shelf to fall.
“Okay, you lost me again,” Trish says, helping me pick up the boots as I right the shelf.
“She said if I didn’t go out and execute my plan she was going to tell Ian that I want to have rough sex with him.”
And that is when Trish erupts into a fit of laughter so hard she has to bend over and rest her weight on the bench in the middle of the aisle. She finally just sits down on the floor. While she recovers I see that the Johnny Cash boots are also not available in my size. Figures.
“You like rough sex, huh?”
We both turn to see Rose in the next aisle over. Trish struggles to her feet.
“Rose?”
“In the flesh, darling.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the top of the shelving. “Thanks for the ride last night.”
“You’re welcome.” I look at Trish and then back to Rose. “This is Trish.”
“I know. She helped haul my drunk ass into your car last night.”
“You remember that?” Trish asks. She sounds as surprised as I feel. Who knew Rose hadn’t been completely comatose last night?
“Yep. People rarely think I’m paying attention when intoxicated. But I do.” She’s wearing large black sunglasses and her hair is one step away from birds being able to inhabit it.
“How did you know we’d be here?” I ask.
“As I said, I was paying attention. Heard you two talking about boot shopping last night. And as this istheplace to get boots, I took a chance.”
I raise my eyebrows. “The probability of us meeting here at the same time isn’t very likely. I mean, how did you know what day we would meet up, or what time to come? Or if Trish would actually call me?” I run through some numbers in my head, but there are too many variables and possible outcomes to calculate.
“Well, girl, the probability was increased by the fact that I paid the gentleman at the cash register a hundred bucks if he’d call me when a short brunette and a tall blonde with geek-chic glasses showed up.” She raises her glasses up on her forehead, revealing a surprisingly fresh looking, makeup-free face. “I’d say money well spent for the looks on your faces alone.”
“I’m not short.” Trish pouts. “I’m just a petite Southern woman.”
“Hey, there. Nothing wrong with a petite woman. Good things come in small packages. Especially if that package is Tiffany blue.” Rose purses her lips and looks up at the ceiling. “I take that back.Somegood things come in small packages. If you’re a dude, and your package is small? That’s just sad.”
Their conversation fades while I contemplate Rose’s approach to finding both of us. “You solved a complex problem with a multitude of probable outcomes, due to nearly unquantifiable variables, by introducing the concept of capital gain.”
They both stare at me for a beat. I fiddle with my glasses.
“Don’t you just love the way she talks?” Trish asks Rose.
“I truly do.” Rose nods, taking her glasses completely off and resting her head in her hands.
Face flushed once again, I change topics. “Anyway, I hope your boyfriend wasn’t mad at you this morning.”
“Boyfriend?” Rose’s forehead creases.
“Mr. Holy-crap-o-la hot guy from the bar.” My body stiffens. “I mean...”
Trish and Rose laugh loud and hard.
Rose recovers first. “Did you just say—”
“Never mind. Don’t repeat it.” I cut her off and look at Trish, mumbling, “He was the guy leaning against the wall at Rose’s party last night.”
“Oooo.” She squeals while turning her eyes to Rose. “Well done, sugar.” She holds out a fist to Rose.
“You mean Flynn?” Rose bumps the fist with her own in a way that is somehow cool and not ridiculous. “So, you think he’s hot, huh? Even after he yelled at you, and quite unfairly I might add?”
