Anything but Love (Wingmen #3) Page 6

  It’s a few days after our discovery. I’m sitting in a lawyer’s office in Seattle wearing an outfit Carter swears makes me look like a legit businessman and not an amateur porn star. His words.

  Blue shirt, khakis, and a tie.

  I can’t tell you the last time I wore a tie.

  I think I might look like a guy who sells shoes in the mall and has a not so secret foot fetish.

  Do ties always feel like nooses?

  The lawyer is someone Tom recommended. He didn’t even pause when I asked him for his lawyer’s number. Tom also hasn’t mentioned my butt, so I’m guessing he doesn’t know. Yet. Best to squash all of this before anyone else finds out.

  Tom’s family keeps this law firm on retainer for all of their real estate—they probably own half the south end—and other legal shenanigans the Donnelys always find themselves in. Unlike the lawyer Jonah and I use for the business, these guys can apparently make things go away. Not in a mafia way. At least I don’t think so.

  From the fancy furniture and high-floor view, the Donnelys aren’t the only ones who pay these guys big bucks.

  If things were different with my dad, and Mom didn’t need the extra help, maybe I would have gone to law school. Instead of moving home, where my work options were construction or working at Useless Bay Coffee. I did both for as long as it took for me to save up enough money to partner with Jonah. I don’t want to blow all of my remaining savings, sad as they are, on overpriced lawyers.

  “Mr. Kelso, I’m Virginia Sedro.” A brunette not much older than me enters the office. After shaking my hand, she sits in the chair across the desk from of me.

  Her shirt is the same color as Cari’s dress in Cabo.

  I glare at the offending color but my body still reacts. Stupid dreams.

  She’s the enemy.

  Cari is the woman who is ruining my life.

  I clear my throat. “I’m hoping you can help me.”

  My meeting with the law firm of Too Expensive and You Can’t Afford Us results in a plan of action. I feel marginally better.

  A cease and desist letter is being drafted and will be ready to go if I’m identified. Another letter will be sent to the owner of the Instagram account. Lucky for us, there’s only one Caribou Caldwell in the great state of California. A paralegal easily tracks down her address to San Diego. I would’ve guessed LA hipster. Close enough to be right.

  When the lawyer asks if there could be more pics, I lie.

  I have no idea how many camera phones captured my glory on the paddleboard. Any shots of the cliff diving will hopefully be blurry and from too far away to identify anything. Or anything of interest.

  I’m talking about my dick.

  Being known as Hot Ass Guy is one thing, but my mother doesn’t need her friends giggling over a dick pic on The Twitter while drinking white wine.

  The saying about something living on the Internet forever is true. Even if the original post is gone, the shares and screenshots will live on and on and on . . .

  The lawyer tells me because I chose to be naked in a public place, there is very little she can do in terms of a lawsuit.

  She did remind me that society has the attention span of a fifteen second sound bite and all this will probably go away soon.

  Unless the media figures out who I am.

  Then I’m probably screwed for a while longer because of the mistaken celebrity angle.

  This too shall pass. My savings are going to pay for this brilliance.

  Her parting words of advice? Keep my pants on when I leave the house.

  Har har har.

  For someone who bills by the minute, she needs to work on her snappy one-liners. Maybe take some comedy classes or something.

  Not shocking, Carter’s Instagram request is still pending.

  I’m on Buzzfeed complete with reaction gifs. Huffington Post, Jezebel, and Daily Mail have articles about the mystery man with the world famous ass. Beyond the trillion hits on the original post, the new frenzy over “Who is Hot Ass Guy?” overshadows even those numbers.

  Gomez is using the attention to share every other celebrity ass picture he can get his right-click-save fingers on. Apparently in the seventies, Burt Reynolds posed naked.

  Nice ass, no dimples, and a lot of man fur. So he had that going for him.

  I’m trying to laugh about everything and keep out of sight.

  It’s only a matter of time before other pics surface.

  Or the entire world figures out the name behind the ass.

  Maybe by then no one will care.

  Ha. I crack myself up.

  Ashley knows. She stopped by Whidbey Joe’s yesterday and couldn’t stop smiling at me. Her grin was so knowing and wide; she should have had canary feathers sticking out of her mouth. I begged her to say nothing.

  Mom called last night and asked why Connie would need one of my baby pics, preferably a naked one of my “cutie patootie cheeks” for an article about the roasting business.

  If Connie knows, Sally and Sandy know, too.

  I figure the ladies will be able to keep it from my mom for about one-point-five more days. Tops.

  This morning I’m spending a few hours roasting beans before the café gets busy. Not being able to sleep means I’ve been arriving here earlier than normal. Five in the morning early when the sun barely brightens the sky.

  Stress tightens my neck and shoulders. I need to get out for a swim or cycle today to alleviate it. I roll my neck and shoulders, hearing creaks and pops like an old man.

  I finish our dark roast, Black Heart, and decide to go for a run to the gym, then swim some laps there. I keep running and cycling gear in my tiny office in case I find enough time to exercise.

  After letting Layla and Amber up front know I’ll be gone for a while, I stretch and hit the road.

  The sound of my soles slapping against the pavement hypnotizes me. My breath steadies and deepens after the first half mile. Clean, fresh air fills my lungs.

  Without my earbuds and running playlist, I listen to the sound of the birds and the wind in the trees. It’s a meditation soundtrack come to life.

  A car pulls behind me as I approach a curve. Moving as far right on the shoulder as possible, I wave them past me.

  The car keeps pace behind me.

  I slow down.

  The car slows down instead of passing me.

  With a glance over my shoulder I figure out the reason why.

  John’s wife, Diane, drives her Jeep while Hailey King leans out the passenger window with her phone aimed at me.

  Guess they’ve heard the news.

  Once we’re beyond the curve and hit a stretch of straightaway, I stop.

  Diane pulls the SUV onto the shoulder.

  “Funny running into you, Erik Kelso.” Hailey waves from her spot at the window.

  Diane at least has the class to look embarrassed at being caught. Hailey pushes her sunglasses into her hair and beams at me.

  I want to tell her she missed her chance back in middle school, but instead I keep my rear to the berm behind me and greet them. “What brings you ladies to this part of the island?”

  Sweat tickles the back of my neck and a droplet runs down my face. Without thinking I pull up my T-shirt to wipe my brow.

  “Was he always this hot? How did I miss those abs?” Hailey murmurs, but I can clearly hear her.

  The heat from the March sun warms my face.

  Hailey rests her arms on the edge of the door. “Kelso, how does it feel to be a sex object?”

  If I were drinking something, I’d do a spit take. Instead, my eyes bug out of my head and I lose my balance, sending me down on my ass on the gravel.

  Their laughter carries out of the car.

  “Are you okay?” Hailey opens her door.

  With a sheepish smile, I hop up and brush off my backside. “Nothing bruised but my ego.”

  “At least it’s your ego and not your butt,” Diane says, then covers her eyes. “I’m s
orry. I’ve completely lost my filter with these pregnancy hormones.”

  “Hailey, what’s your excuse?”

  She sputters and sits back on her seat, her legs still outside the Jeep. “I think it’s funny? Little Erik Kelso is famous.”

  I grumble, “Nothing little about me.”

  Hailey’s eyes widen. We’ve known each other our whole lives. Despite my long crush on her, I know she’s off limits now. I’d never disrespect Tom or John by hitting on their women. Those guys are like brothers to me.

  “Tom is going to lose his ever-loving mind when he finds out about this.”

  I close my eyes and the retuning tension from earlier washes away any temporary peace I achieved during my run.

  Diane snorts. “John, too.”

  “They’re probably the last two people on the island who haven’t heard the rumors.”

  “Surprisingly, John doesn’t follow celebrity gossip. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know who Justice Booker is.”

  Hailey nods in agreement with her friend. “Same with Tom. You’re safe for now, but you might want to prepare some comebacks for when they do find out.”

  “Please don’t tell them,” I beg. The epic teasing I’ll receive will be so much worse than any porn site.

  Both of them make a soft cooing sound like mother hens.

  “We shouldn’t joke about it. I can’t imagine my naked body online.” Diane flinches. “It’s not any different because you’re a man.”

  “At least it’s not a sex tape,” Hailey says. “It could be worse.”

  “It can always be worse. So far the millions of people who’ve liked or shared the pic did so thinking it was a famous butt. No one has gone public about it being me.”

  “How did this happen? Other than being outside naked?” Hailey asks. “I want to use this as a cautionary tale for Tom.”

  Even I heard about the naked snipe hunt being interrupted by the ranger last summer on San Juan. In this situation, snipe hunt isn’t a euphemism for sex.

  I explain the story about Cabo, Cari, and the Devil’s Spawn.

  “She must have been pissed you beat up her boyfriend.”

  “Vengeful woman.” Hailey shakes her head. “Not that it justifies anything.”

  “Nothing is scarier. I don’t really get it. He was a complete asshole to her. Why do women put up with that sort of treatment?”

  They make eye contact.

  “We’re dumb?” Diane offers. “My ex-husband wasn’t only a snake charmer, he was a snake, too.”

  “I’d say more, but you know my ex. Same with him.”

  “You both have terrible taste in men.”

  “Did. I think we’ve done all right now.” Diane pats her big baby belly.

  I like these two. They’re pretty cool for girls and they put up with my friends’ bullshit. “Yeah, well, you could’ve had the most famous ass in the world to call your own.”

  Hailey snorts. “Never say that to Tom. He’ll take it as a challenge.”

  He would.

  We say our good-byes after Hailey invites me over for dinner next weekend.

  I resume my pace again. No other cars pass me. At the gym I swim laps for forty-five minutes.

  As I’m walking from the water to my towel, I catch a flash of light beyond the glass wall separating the pool from the rest of the gym.

  Connie grins and waves.

  Hesitating, I wave back while making a note to ask my lawyer about what constitutes harassment, and at what point a restraining order can be filed.

  Triathlons require year-round training even though I don’t have a big race schedule for a couple of months. I usually run the Whidbey mini-tri in July for charity. Today’s runs and swim don’t push my limits, but do help me clear my head for a while. Despite Connie’s paparazzi moment at the club, I feel better than before I left the warehouse.

  When I arrive back at work I slow my pace to a walk and head into the café to make myself my regular afternoon coffee. Sure, I could have one of our baristas make it for me, and often do to spot check their quality, but today I want it my way.

  I greet Layla and Amber before making my double breve with cream.

  “You have a message from someone who called the main number,” Amber tells me over the sound of the machine.

  “Why didn’t you give them my direct line?”

  “She said she’d leave a voicemail, too, but wanted to speak to a human.”

  “Sounds like a pushy vendor or customer.” I finish my coffee, then take a sip of perfection. “Did she leave a name?”

  “It’s a really odd message. Did something happen in Mexico? I’m not prying into your personal life, but there’ve been some odd things going on around here lately.”

  I laugh. If she only knew. “What kind of strange things?”

  “We’ve had a lot more customers asking about you. Mostly women. When they mention you, they giggle and blush a lot. Old ladies, too. Like mom or grandma age.”

  I manage to swallow before spraying her with coffee.

  Layla is in high school, so everyone over thirty is old to her.

  “Where’s the message?”

  Amber hands me a folded piece of paper.

  I peek at the words then try to stuff the note in my pockets, but I don’t have pockets in my shorts. Instead, I crumple up the paper.

  “I’m heading home for the day. If anyone else calls, send them to my voicemail.” The urge to get out of here pushes me toward the door.

  “You forgot your breve!” Layla calls.

  “Toss it.”

  With the adrenaline adding to the endorphins running through my veins, the last thing I need right now is caffeine.

  ON THE DRIVE to my house, I call the lawyer.

  I tap my hand on the wheel while I listen to generic classical music, waiting for her to pick up.

  It goes to voicemail.

  Fuck that. I hang up.

  I don’t know when or if the letter’s been sent. I do know that Caribou Caldwell has found out where I work.

  Seems I’m not the only one stalking people on the Internet. I’m pissed she has the nerve to call me, and freaked out she found me.

  A tiny bit curious, but mostly, I’m pissed.

  After parking in front of the house, I try the lawyer again. Voicemail. This time I leave a short message. I don’t know if she bills me for the time it takes her to listen. She probably does.

  I unfold the paper and reread the message.

  “Cari Caldwell. We met in Cabo. I know what’s going on. Please call me.”

  Below that is a number with a six-one-nine area code. I don’t recognize where that could be. Once inside, I search for it online. San Diego. That’s where her last known address came up for the letter.

  My phone buzzes with a call. I pray it’s the lawyer.

  It’s Mom.

  “Hi, honey.” She’s using her sweet TV mom voice. The one she uses when she needs to ask a favor. Usually the favor involves Dad. “How’s your day?”

  Complete shit. A fucked up mess. “Fine. Yours?”

  “Oh good. I’m busy booking summer vacations to Disneyland and cruises. You know, the usual.” Her laughter sounds forced and too lighthearted.

  I cut through the chitchat. “How’s Dad?”

  She goes silent for a beat. “I can call you and see how your day is without it being about your dad.”

  I’ve offended her. “I’m sorry. I was at work at five this morning. I’m tired I guess.”

  “You should take a nap. I’ll call Carter at the golf course.”

  It must be about Dad. “He’s working. I’m home. What’s going on?”

  “Mel called.”

  With a resigned sigh, I close my laptop before walking into my bedroom to change out of my sweaty running gear. “I’ll go get him.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  A glance at the clock tells me it’s not even one o’clock. Early even for Dad.

  I find
him sitting in his truck in the parking lot. Mel must have spotted him on her way into work.

  At least the paint splatters show he worked today. Maybe he’s here for a nooner and forgot the Legion doesn’t open for another hour.

  A tap on the glass with my knuckle gets his attention. He startles like he might be sleeping.

  Lowering the window, he greets me with a small smile. “Hey, kid.”

  I don’t smell anything on his breath. “Hi, there. I was driving by and saw your truck. Thought you might want to join me for lunch. I’m heading up to Freeland to grab a pizza.”

  “You wanna go to lunch with your old man?” He grins and pats my arm.

  It’s then I catch a light sweetness to his breath gum doesn’t cover.

  “Sure. When was the last time we had a man-to-man talk over a couple slices?” I try to remember and can’t.

  “It’s been a while. We’re both hardworking guys these days.”

  I nod. “How long do you have before you need to get back to the job site?”

  “Got an early start and finished up for the day. I like to have my afternoons free.”

  We have that in common. Except I spend any free time improving my body while he’s slowly destroying his.

  Although after Cari’s message this morning, I could use a drink.

  The irony isn’t lost on me.

  Do I worry about ending up an alcoholic like my dad? Sure. There’s probably a genetic component given the stories he tells about Gramps. Does it stop me from drinking? Not really. Carter and I have a pact. If one of us tells the other we’ve crossed a line, we’ll listen, or the other one has our permission to drag us to rehab.

  Not that I believe rehab is a magical solution full of unicorns and pixie dust.

  Dad’s been twice over the past decade.

  Rehab might not be the answer. My vote is for tough love and something to build back his confidence after years of being a failure in his own eyes.

  We take the Bronco up the island to the best pizza place around. Sal’s pizza is wood-fire, brick-oven perfection. The owner, Dan, takes his food as seriously as Jonah and I take coffee. He even buys from us. Carter, John, Tom and I probably keep Sal’s in business during the slow winter months.

  The pizza’s amazing and we’re lazy. Perfect match.