Page 58 of Last Love

Ryder

- “Eventually, I learned that was a good thing.” -

I give my front door a heavy slam behind me.

Fuck. This. Day.

I don’t even give a shit that it’s my goddamn birthday.

I’m done.

I’m so fucking done.

It’s the bullshit days like today that once drove me to stop at Rico’s to grab a sack of whatever was cheapest, call a chick like Kara to come over, and get lit to then get my balls wet.

I’ve spent so much time loathing those moments that it’s fucking baffling to think there was ever anything enjoyable in them.

But there was.

Simplicity.

Numbness.

An escape.

“You look cheerful, birthday boy,” McCoy says from the hallway where he’s adjusting his backpack.

“And you look like you’re going to fucking camp.”

He gives me a cocky smirk. “Crashin’ the girls’ cabin.”

His joke receives another scowl.

His ability to keep that fucking smile every day…every goddamn day…is as equally impressive as it is irritating. It’s like nothing bothers him. Like he’s never had a real fucking problem in his entire life.

And I know he has.

And I have a general idea how dark some of his past really is.

What I’m fucking clueless about is how he manages to constantly keep his spirits high no matter what shit punches him in the dick.

I’m sure Jovi probably helps the same way Pres does, but I wonder if there’s more to it than that.

Does he fucking meditate or some shit?

“Panty raid,” McCoy needlessly states with a wink.

“Bro, I don’t wanna find Jo’s thong behind the box of Fruit Loops again.”

He loudly laughs while I retrieve my vibrating cellphone from my pocket.

Everyone already told me happy birthday.

It better not be Big Roscoe asking me to come in early after my ass had to stay fucking late.

One click reveals a photo of Kara curled up in bed, blanket barely covering her naked body, expression melancholy, and a bandage around her wrist.  The caption definitely matches the mood of the picture.

Kara:  Don’t wanna be alone tonight.

I don’t either.

But it’s not her I wanna spend my birthday with.

It’s the beautiful, workaholic woman, I don’t hate for being successful, but fucking hate that she’s successful.

Sharing her time like this is probably what sparks my urge to wanna smoke the most.

And while toothpicks as well as Jolly Ranchers curve the craving, they don’t kill it.

My typed response is quick.

Me: Text me. I’m around.

“Alright, birthday dick,” McCoy casually begins, arms folding across his chest, “what’s got your ass trying to break the front door to our apartment?”

I let out an exasperated sigh at the same time I toe off my shoes that are already getting a goddamn hole in them like I can afford to just buy new ones. “Some fucking dick customer had the nerve to accuse me of trying to skim extra money out of his piece of shit car. Like come on, dude. It’s a fucking Nissan Altima not a GT-R.”

“Those babies can be so sexy.”

“Yeah, it’s probably best we’ve never gotten one at the shop, or I’d find myself feeling a little too Ferris Bueller for the resisting.”

McCoy laughs while nodding in agreement.

“And then Iron Tip’s dumbass called in ‘sick’ when I know that motherfucker was just hungover cause Roddy showed me the shots of him at the bar before his favorite stripper’s shift while this new hire I was hoping would work out so I could get of at least a few bitch boy duties went to lunch and decided he didn’t feel like fucking coming back, leaving us shorthanded this afternoon with a truck full of supplies to unload on top of the regular customer shit.”

He presents me with a painful cringe.

“Oh! Oh! And then listen to this shit.”

“There can’t possibly be fucking more, man.”

“But there is. Some fucking prick dinged my goddamn car when I went to get lunch from the gas station, lunch that I had to borrow five bucks from Big Roscoe in order to fucking have at all.  Plus, our gym is closed for routine maintenance so I can’t run or lift any of this shit off and my girlfriend has to fucking work late again. And I had to work late, too, so I shouldn’t be pissed off about that shit, but I am.”

“’Cause it’s your birthday?”

“Because the only thing I want for my birthday is to be balls deep in my woman.”

“You never know.” His obnoxious mischievous smile appears. “You might get your birthday wish.”

The sardonic expression he tossed doesn’t wash away him grinning.

“Regardless, we’ll do you birthday up big this weekend. BBQ out by the pool. All the food and shit on me.”

His mentioning of food has me wincing, “Shit, about groceries-”

“Don’t fucking worry about it,” he instantly brushes off. “You cook shit on the reg, Collins. We’re straight.” Before my mouth can even consider moving, he speaks again, “I’m out. Headed the future Mrs. McCoy’s for the night.”

“Has she actually ever said yes to marrying you or do you just say that shit because you assume she will.”

“She has said yes.” His body makes it’s away around me, another impish grin growing. “She has said yes to many things…”

“No,” I slowly shake my head, “I don’t need that shit tonight.”

“You sure?” McCoys calls to my back. “Might lift your spirits.”

He’s flashed my middle finger as I head for my room.

At least this shit day is over.

I’ll shower, rub one out, and call my woman to tell her goodnight.

And to make sure she ate more than that muffin she was having when she called me before work to wish me happy birthday.

Vibrating in my pocket occurs right as my hand hits the handle to my door.  I pull it out with my right and use my left to enter my bedroom.

Kara: Can I come be AROUND with you?

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