Reading Online Novel

Playing It Safe(4)



“Then do something about it,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Do something about what?” I ask.

“It. As in, go out and find yourself a man,” she answers with an expression on her face that suggests I’m a moron for not knowing what she’s talking about.

I swivel my seat so that I’m completely facing her, picking the stress ball up off my desk at the same time. Lately, I’ve been squeezing the living shit out of this thing; fucker could burst at any moment by the way I keep gripping it. It’ll pay off eventually because the next guy I give a hand job to is going to see stars.

Lisette’s eyes dart to my hand as it’s flexing and tightening itself, before raising an eyebrow in defiance. “Don’t give me that look, Julia. You’ve just had a run of bad luck in the man department. Everybody goes through those once in their life before meeting their Prince Charming. But you need to actually get your ass out there to meet him and not lock yourself up in your house all weekend, doing God knows what.” She immediately crosses herself, as if what she just said implies that I’m skinning cats or some crazy shit like that, and that the power of prayer is going to absolve me somehow.

I clench my fist around the stress ball and roll my neck around like a prize fighter getting ready to do battle before I hear it crack. “First of all, I’ve been busy redecorating Sabrina’s old room.” This is such bullshit, although I have given it quite a lot of thought while watching an exorbitant amount of television. I can’t help it if I have to catch up on Jax Teller, but she doesn’t need to know this. “Secondly, do I need to remind you of the long list of losers that I’ve had the pleasure of dating over the last year?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” she says, dismissing me quickly, even though she damn well knows it totally was.

I chuck the stress ball onto my desk, and it lands smack-dab on my keyboard. A distressing amount of beeps sound off in the background while I stand up and plant my hands on my desk, ready to remind her of just how bad it really was.

“First, there was Jack, who told me he was into ‘alternative films,’ which really meant he liked to watch porn all day. Then there was Dave, who apparently thought I looked so much like his beloved ex-girlfriend that when we finally had sex he shouted her name when he came. Then there’s Ryan, who told me on our very first date that he didn’t have a bank account, had never filed taxes, and had worked on a drug farm. Let’s see, oh! Then there’s Vincent, who—”

“¡Por favor! Stop, I get it. You’ve had some bad luck.”

“Bad luck?” I say with a mocking laugh. “Bad luck is more like not winning the pick six by one number. Or when you get a flat tire. Or getting your period while you’re at the beach. This is so much worse than bad luck. This is just … Jesus, I don’t even know what you call this, but I sure as shit can tell you it’s not just bad luck!”

Lisette is trying to stifle her giggle fit by covering her plump, red-coated lips with her hand and looking everywhere but at me. Between her sputtering laughter, I sit down again and calmly pluck the stress ball off the keyboard and being to massage it, hoping that it will help me center my chi, or whatever you call that nonsense. After about ten seconds of squeezing it to death, I give up and throw it back onto my desk, where it lands with a loud thud, barely missing my coffee cup.

“You need to work on your aim,” Lisette says while still snickering.

“I need to work on a lot of things,” I mutter under my breath.

She stops laughing long enough and coolly announces, “You’re gonna be fine. I bet your Prince Charming is right around the corner, and when you least expect it, he’ll swoop in to save the day. Girl, I can just feel it. He’s coming.”

“His Garmin must be telling him to come by way of Bumfuck, Egypt.”

“You know what I’m going to do,” she goes on to say, ignoring me completely. “When I get home tonight, I’m going to encender una vela in your name to Santa Bárbara.”

I roll my eyes because Lisette has been lighting so many candles to one saint or another in my name for years that by now it seems like a waste of a perfectly good matchstick. Not once have I seen anything come from it. However, if it makes her feel better and gets her off my back about my pathetic love life, fine.

“You’ll see,” she chirps, “it’s going to work, chica.”

With a loud pfft, I turn my attention back to the computer and pull up the coming week’s schedule. Three events are lined up: a grand opening of a new restaurant/bar in Coconut Grove, an engagement party at a home in Key Biscayne, and finally, at the end of the week, an opening at the Art Gallery here in South Beach.