Page 4 of Just a Friend for the Lion
My feet stutter. My heart stumbles. I trip over the threshold like a rookie.
“There you are, dear boy! Oh my, are you alright?” a familiar voice calls.
Uncle Uzzi’s already seated in a booth near thewindow, blue eyes twinkling, white hair combed with care, looking smug as sin.
He waves me over like we’re just two guys grabbing a casual lunch.
But I know better.
Because suddenly, this doesn’t feel like pizza.
It feels like a setup.
And my inner Lion?
He’s already pacing.
Chapter 2
MJ
Another Friday afternoon.
Full house.
Hormones rising.
Cheese bubbling.
Welcome to my domain.
Then—bam!
Holy. Freaking. Hotness.
Everything gets thrust into a new orbit.
But let me back up a sec.
I’m doing what I do best, i.e. working the front at Pizza Girls with a spatula in one hand and a forced smile in the other, welcoming our regular Friday crowd.
You know the type—middle-aged contractors who think they’re still twenty-five, reeking of cologneand confidence, tossing sausage jokes like they’re on open mic night at a bad comedy club.
“You know, MJ,” Sal says, leaning a little too far over the counter like he owns stock in Axe Body Spray, “if you ever wanna handle a real set of meatballs?—”
“Sal,” I cut in with a sweet smile and zero mercy, “I’ve got all the meat I can handle, and mine doesn’t come with back hair and a foot fungus problem, not to mention a previous engagement with alimony and child support.”
The other guys lose it.
Poor Sal turns red and stares at his shoes, which, to be fair, are offensive on multiple levels.
I wink and gesture towards the corner booth.
“Now be good boys and seat yourselves before I start charging extra for the stand-up routine.”
They shuffle off, laughing and grumbling, and I go back to wiping the counter while their pizza cooks.
Crisis averted, ego bruised (his, not mine), and sanity maintained—for now.
