Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Ask him,” one girl says.
Another whispers, far too loudly, “No, you ask him.”
Fuck… I’ve been recognized.
I act as if I can’t hear them, hoping they’ll get the hint I don’t want to be bothered, but one of them is bold. She scoots her stool closer to the corner of the bar, which puts her closer to me. “My name’s Cici. Let me guess… you’re here for some trout fishing?” she asks.
I’m relieved she clearly doesn’t recognize me, but apparently, I’m getting soft because the Coen Highsmith of just a month ago would’ve told her to fuck off. Instead, I shake my head without even looking at her. “Just some peace and quiet.”
“Pity,” she says with a pout to her tone. “Maybe if—”
“Cici… look who’s here,” one of the women says, interrupting her friend.
From my periphery, I see Cici swivel her stool to look behind us.
“Oh my,” she purrs as she slides off her seat and walks out of my line of vision. The other women snicker. “This will be fun.”
I pick up a potato chip, happy she’s gone, and focus back on the TV. I’m intent on drowning out distractions and keeping myself closed off in case the women get chatty again, but my spine stiffens as I hear the woman, Cici, talking behind me.
“If it isn’t Tillie Hillbilly.” I glance over my shoulder. Cici’s standing beside Tilden’s table, arms crossed over her chest, her hip cocked as she stares down at my neighborhood nemesis.
Cici would be considered beautiful by most men’s standards. Slamming body, perfect facial features, and completely comfortable in tight clothing that reveals skin—the type of woman I’ve banged on many occasions.
Tilden doesn’t look up from her sketch pad but continues to draw, doing what I’m thinking is a common tactic—ignoring the taunts. Clearly by Cici’s childish nickname, they have a history, I’m guessing back to grade school.
“Oh, come on, Tillie,” Cici croons as she slips into the chair opposite. She clacks her acrylic nails on the tabletop. “Let’s talk about your wardrobe today. I’m guessing you picked that outfit up at the thrift shop, and honestly…” Here, she looks back at her girlfriends standing there watching with glittering, amused eyes. “No one wears shorts like that. Well, except my grandma.”
The women titter with laughter, and I feel like I’m watching a bad nineties’ movie. Who the fuck acts like this in real life?
I mean… I know how to be a dick, but it’s mostly reactive. I’d never seek someone out with the sole intent of tearing them down.
To give Tilden credit, she doesn’t take the bait but continues to ignore Cici. And I know it’s not because she’s afraid or intimidated, because that woman doesn’t know how to be wary, as evidenced by the way she pokes at me.
If I had to guess, it’s that she’s waiting for Cici to go away because engaging is what the mean girl wants.
And because she’s not getting it, the pretty bully turns up her viciousness. She leans close in a faux gesture of wanting to say something privately, but she talks loud enough for anyone around to hear. “Tillie… if I can give you some advice?”
Tilden continues to draw and ignores the woman.
Cici looks over at her girlfriends and winks slyly before turning back. “It’s just… you really don’t have the body type to be wearing clothes like that.” She stabs an uneaten french fry from Tilden’s plate, holds it up with a grimace, and throws it back down. “Maybe less of these, and a little more exercise, and you might be able to pull it off.”
My jaw drops. I mean… I’m a flat-out douchebag, but that’s just fucking evil.
Tilden flinches but doesn’t reply.
I, on the other hand, find myself moving without much thought. I pick up my plate and soda, slide off my stool, and move to the table.
Cici looks up at me, a brilliant smile in place.
I don’t smile back. “You’re in my seat.”
Tilden’s head jerks upward in astonishment, her eyes practically bugging out of her head.
“Excuse me?” Cici frowns and points to herself. “I’m in your seat?”
“Yeah.” I set my plate and glass down. “So if you don’t mind, move.”
Cici’s mouth hangs open and for a few seconds, she doesn’t twitch a muscle. Then she slowly rises, clearly unsure of what’s happening.
It would almost be comical—both she and Tilden wearing similar expressions of bewilderment—if it wasn’t for someone tapping me on the shoulder.
I turn to see the two men who were at the bar, their eyes wide and hopeful. “Man… you’re Coen Highsmith, aren’t you?”
Suppressing a groan, I manage to nod. “Yeah.”
“Holy fucking shit, I knew it,” one man says, and the other asks, “Can we get a picture with you?”
“Actually… I’m just here to have lunch with a friend.” I glance down at Tilden, who is still staring up at me with her jaw hanging open. “Maybe when I’m done.”