Page 118 of Forgotten Comeback
And I apologize for that. But Taylor, I saw the pic of you and Gavin. I’m really trying to understand, but I’m having a hard time with this. And from my husband’s perspective, it does look suspicious.
Your husband’s perspective is the only one that matters, then. Case closed. I’ve moved out of your condo, btw. I’ll mail you the key.
Where did you move to?
So that your husband and his goons can kill me? I’d rather not give them the head start.
Apparently, I’m not as simmered down as I thought.
More bubbles, but I beat her to the punch.
I have to work. Let’s talk about this another time.
Tossing my phone, I grab my stack of round signs and go in search of Steve. “There you are. I wanted to run these new signs by you.”
“No need. The janitor was able to get the Round 1 sign from under the ring,” Steve tells me. “It’s a little scuffed up, but we’ll make it work.”
“Actually, I’m using these signs I painted instead.” I display them one by one.
“Too artsy-fartsy,” he tells me with a wave of his hand.
“It won’t kill the spectators to be exposed to a little art,” I inform him.
“Taylor, they’re not paying for art, they’re paying to watch grown men beat each other’s asses.”
“Grown men are still going to beat each other’s asses; my ‘artsy-fartsy’ signs won’t interfere with that,” I argue.
Steve shakes his head. “The round number needs to be clear so that even the most inebriated of men can see it.”
I cross my arms. “If a man’s that inebriated, does the round number really matter?”
He sighs heavily.
“Go hold a sign in the ring, and I’ll move to the back and see if the number’s visible. You won’t even have to wear a thong,” I tell him.
He mutters something, climbing through the ropes, and I hustle up the stairs to the nose-bleed seats.
I give him a thumbs up and make my way down the steps. Snatching the permanent marker from his pocket, I tell him, “It’s visible, but I’ll outline each number to make it pop.”
“Thank God it’ll pop,” he says sarcastically.
“Did we just become besties?” I joke.
Because sadly, I might be in the market for a new one.
“No,” Steve says deadpan. “Be ready for weigh-in in twenty minutes. Please don’t tell me this is what you’re wearing.” He eyes my overalls spattered with paint.
“I’m going to change,” I assure him
“Doubtful,” he mutters.
“Ha, that’s probably true. I’m going to change outfits,” I clarify.
“Nineteen minutes.”
“You know what, Steve, you’re a pain in the ass,” I tell him, gathering my signs and hurrying to my dressing room.
“Eighteen minutes,” he calls after me.
