My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

Amity to shower off or clean herself up or do whatever girls after they jack off, but I guess the moist towelettes were She simply plops into the wingback chair and picks pieces off the bone while sipping champagne and flipping through D zinc. The cover story of the February issue is “Dallas’s Eligible Men.”

“I’ve got to get me a rich one, Harry. Someone who will us both out. Me and you.”

“We don’t need anyone to help us,” I say, gnawing on a thi “Harry, we’re flight attendants, not financiers. I’m to a certain lifestyle.” Lawfstawl. “And I’m sure, considering family background, you’re accustomed to certain comforts as

I’m sitting on the floor beside her. “Yes, I am. What’s problem?”

Her voice turns soft, her manner gracious. “I just thought, you’re working this job, and driving your car, that maybe on your own, like me.”

“Sort of,” I shrug, putting my chicken down. “But I took job because I wanted to. I was bored with school the last

I wanted to do was keep going. Sure, my family sees the world a certain way, but I thought it would be fun to see the differently. And my car well…” I stare at the wall. “I’ve loved my old VW, and I don’t see why I have to drive a new

“I’m embarrassed,” Amity says. “I don’t want you to ever feel you have to justify yourself to me. Listen. I’m up front about it I like money. And I’ve dated plenty of guys because of it.”

Which makes me doubt her family is anything like mine. Unless she’s done something to displease them, there is no reason for her to date guys for money if she can get it from her family.

“But this is different, you and me,” she continues. “You’re my friend, and I don’t give a damn about your family’s name because I would never think of you in that way.”

“I appreciate you saying that. But you know, I do have money.” I’m not exactly lying. I do have money. I’m just not married enough to get my hands on it. Do I tell her? I know what she’ll do. She’ll impetuously say, “Let’s get married!” But as much as I’d like my inheritance, it’s not worth living a lie to get it.

Amity and I peruse the pages of D together, finding the choices laughable. A Budweiser delivery man. A party designer. A wood craftsman. “G’yaw! Whoa, Bubba!” She makes the time-out sign. “Who came up with these jokers? Guys who drive beer trucks are too groovy they use blow-dryers and wear musk cologne.”

“Is there such a thing as a straight party designer?” I ask. “Letitia Baldridge,” Amity answers. “Even though she looks like a big ole drag queen, I’m pretty sure she’ sstraight. She designed

Jacqueline Kennedy’s parties.”

“Men,” I clarify.

“Who cares?” Amity says, forfeiting the question. “Party designers, closet organizers, motivational speakers they should all be shot so we can get on with our lives! Give me a filthy rich, boring-as-rice, trapped-in-suspenders banker any day of the week. Cash money, baby!” Amity falls to the floor on her back and moves her arms and legs over the hardwoods as if she’s trying to make a snow angel.

“Hey,” I laugh, poking her with my foot. “What if you had SOme guy who wasn’t boring as rice and trapped in suspenders, but who still had lots of money? What if the guy with money was fun and made you laugh and had a cute butt?”

“I’d be in heaven, Harry,” she answers, lying on her back,

“And I’d love the hell out of him. Now tell me something.” “Yes, Amity?”

“Do you have a cute butt, Harry?”

“You tell me,” I answer coyly.

“I’d say it’s beyond being a cute butt, Harry,” she “Frankly, you’ve got a great ass.”

That night, at the gym, the car salesman with the glacier eyes, JT, is there pumping up his pecs. He hoists the bar onto bench clips and walks over to me as I’m down on a mat crunches. “How come I haven’t heard from you?”

I continue with the sit-ups. “Maybe you have.” I grin. don’t even know my name.”

“JT Reardon,” he says, putting out his hand to shake. “Harry Ford,” I say, shaking it. “And I’m not in the for a car or I’d definitely call you.”

“I do more than sell cars,” he assures me. Then he goes to his bench presses.

I come home from the gym to find Amity sitting in her room on her bed, painting her nails by the light of her little lamp while listening to Troy crying into the phone machine in sobs. The bottle of champagne is empty, and there’s only a bit left in her glass. “See how loud he is?” she asks. “Can’t tell his balls smell like Brie cheese?”

“Jesus, Amity,” I laugh. “He’s torn up. He’s not talking crying.”

“I know. Those frat boys are such big titty babies. I can’t to this anymore.” She turns the volume off, gulps down the bit of champagne.

I toss my gym bag onto the floor. “Isn’t that kind of callous?”

“Well,” she says, “sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

“Would it kill you to talk to him?” I ask, feeling one of my biceps. It’s growing a little, and I like the tight feeling of the engorged muscle.

“Listen, Bubba. Troy was starting to claim squatter’s rights,” she says with narrowed eyes, “and nobody owns me.” She picks up the bottle and tries to pour herself more champagne before she realizes it’s empty. She slowly sets it down. “Nobody can tell me what to do. Not Troy or my family or anyone.”

“Hey, I’m your friend. Remember?”

She jerks as if she’ sswitched gears without using the clutch and laughs. “Be a darling’ and go to the kitchen and get me a can of Raid so I can kill this bug that’s up my ass.” I smile and she goes back to painting her toes, and as I pick up my gym bag and leave her darkened