Page 31 of Nuts

A search of dealer stock in our area produced nothing, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t eventually find it.

I let out a sigh. “It might take me a day or two. Let me see what I can find out. Anything else?”

“That ought to do it.”

“So, the baseball card deal went well?”

“Too well. Checked over my shoulder on the way out of there a couple times, thinking it was a set-up.”

“That’s good. Good that it went well. And, that it wasn’t a set-up.”

“Hell, when I’m done selling these fuckers off, I might be able to afford a new couch.”

“Is your old one in bad shape?”

“Pretty sad. Bought it for $50 when I moved in. I hate spending money on furniture, so I’ve never done anything about replacing it. Don’t mind spending money on my sled, though.”

I cocked my head and shrugged one shoulder. “A man has got to have his priorities straight.”

He folded his arms in front of his chest, lifted his chin slightly, and looked me over. “You going to be around tonight?”

“Always.”

“I’ll be in the garage this evening. If you see me in there, stop by.”

I tried to hide my excitement. “Okay.”

“Want any beer or anything to drink?”

“No thank you.”

“How old are you?”

I wagged my eyebrows. “Twenty-one.”

I wasn’t, but I was close enough to claim it.

“Hot damn,” he said.

“Hot damn?” I chuckled. “Why’s that?”

“Old enough to do anything this world has to offer. Rent a car, buy a drink, vote, military. There’s nothing you won’t be able to do, now.”

In my mind, being twenty-one didn’t change much of anything. My finances were still going to be the same.

“I suppose so.”

He clenched his fist and held it over the counter. “See ya, Smudge.”

I grinned and pounded my fist into his.

As he walked away I realized the entire time he was talking to me I hadn’t worried about my shirt. Somehow, my cleavage and I had become completely comfortable in his presence.

I’d always been more comfortable around him than anyone, but I found it fascinating that I’d talked to him for fifteen minutes at work and never once considered where my shirt was, how much cleavage was showing, or if one of my nipples managed to escape the pushup bra I wore, but didn’t necessarily need.

“Why’s he call you Smudge?” Blane asked.

It’s none of your business.