Page 97 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
“Never mind, hooker.” Jules chuckles. “Never mind.”
Jackie continues frowning before sliding her phone out of her pocket, no doubt looking up what Jules just said.
Studying these three women, I’m hit with a sudden sense of gratitude. I’m so thankful I met them. That they’re here with me now. That they’ll be here for the baby.
I smile, feeling better with these girls around me than I did while buying thousands of dollars’ worth of baby gear.
“Hey,” I say, nodding at Jackie when everyone looks at me. “Look something up for me, will you?”
“Sure, what?” Jackie poises her thumbs over her screen.
“The role of a godmother.” My smile grows when all three stare at me with wide eyes. “’Cause I expect all of you to take your new responsibilities very seriously.”
Trish claps her hands together and bounces on the ottoman, almost dislodging me from my seat. “We’re going to be godmothers!”
Jackie nods solemnly, her thumbs flying.
I glance at Jules, whose usual smirk is absent. Catching me looking, she blinks and rubs at her eye. “Yeah.” She clears her throat. “That sounds pretty cool.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Twenty-Three
Internal Payload
Vance
There’sa marked difference between the first time I sat in Heartbreakers’ parking lot and today.
Parked a few spots down, with high shine glitter paint that’s giving me a headache, is a stripper van. It must be a stripper van, because why else would anyone take the time to make a soccer mom vehicle that flashy?
Which begs the question of why a stripper needs a van. For road trips? Is it some sort of strip club Uber? And if Heartbreakers was going to make itthatnoticeable, why not plaster the side with their logo?
In my 4Runner’s driver seat, I angle myself away, trying to hide my eyes from the van’s cornea-destructive glare. One look at that unbelievably conspicuous paint job and my headache from Friday’s Boilermaker bonding session with Ian comes roaring back. It makes me want my space helmet, with the sunshield coated with a thin layer of gold to filter out harmful solar rays.
But as noticeable as the stripper van is, what’s equally noticeable is the absence of Rose’s gold sports car.
It’s a half hour past the start of pole dancing class, and Rose isn’t here.
I tried texting and calling her yesterday. Nothing. It went straight to voicemail.
I even drove to her apartment but was stopped in the building’s foyer by the doorman. It seems Vance Bodaway is no longer on the approved visitor list.
In just days, Rose has affectively cut me out of her life.
Which should be fine. It was what I was hoping for, after all. That Rose’s feelings would be casual enough that she’d be able to simply move on once we put an end to our friends-with-benefits relationship.
But instead of feeling gratified by it, I’m depressed. I hadn’t needed the weight of the doorman’s condemning stare to know I screwed up. Not just by misunderstanding Rose’s feelings but misunderstanding my own.
A cloud shifts away from the sun, and the van’s blinding reflection becomes a death ray.
“Screw this.” I turn off the ignition then shove open my door. The van glares at me as I stalk past, and I glare right back. By the time I reach Heartbreakers’ front doors, dots of light float across my vision.
The first thing I notice when I enter is the music. Instead of the usual hard rock and hip hop, Bing Crosby’sWhite Christmasplays from the speakers. The second thing I notice are the rotating ceiling fixtures. Rather than the normal multi-color lights, they’re a mixture of green and red.
“I’m telling you, Helen, he’s a big ol’ sweetheart. He’s perfect for you.”
I blink a few times, wondering if the van did more damage to my retinas than I thought. Because the third thing I notice is Rose. Rose in a full length, metallic red, sleeveless spandex onesie, complete with black belt and fur-trimmed neckline. And if that wasn’t enough, it’s tucked into thigh-high, black stiletto boots.
