Washington texted me about Texas while I was job hunting. Where was his little brother, the bad twin? I’d heard him called that so many times. And even before I knew how names could ruin a person, I’d connected to Texas. Dude was funny.
But now Washington wanted me to text him a picture of myself.As if.
“Okay, Tex,” I murmured into the air, “I’ll call you in a little while. For now, I’m going to play with your brother. Hope you don’t take offense. You taught me how to laugh my ass off, little brother.”
I typed a quick message to Washington.
ME: Just a sec. Sending a pic. Since your high-maintenance ass shaded my jailhouse pjs, I’ma show you something Your Honor Soul Glow.
I fully intendednotto respond to him after this. But I’d see how long he’d wait it out and maybe laugh if he texted me another emoji besides this silly thumbs-up, which wasn’t giving him any brownie points. Dude didn’t seem that interested.
So, the answer was no.
I returned to my MacBook and read aloud a job title that might be a good contender.
“Glass Coach for Corporate Team Building?” My gaze cruised over to the bottom portion of the ad again. The company’s name remained withheld until a few chosen applicants passed the first round of interviews. But the price tag kept me reading about this exclusive cloak-and-dagger CEO mess. “Let me get this straight? All the Kevins in the money laundering world at Mob Investments Inc. are going on their annual retreat? Obvi. But this time they’d bond over a hazardous craft?”
Maybe it sounded like a good idea. As long as their mafioso clientele didn’t join. Or again, if imaginary Kevin, who almost burned down his kitchen making popcorn, didn’t panic while I taught him the art of working with molten glass.
Flinching at the thought of first-degree burns, I shook the hypothetical nightmare from my mind. The hefty commission rate wasn’t gonna have me roasted in a house fire or stuffed in the trunk of a Lincoln.Hard pass.
I scrolled again. The Messages icon on my MacBook, connected to my iPhone, caught my eye. Only a minute had passed, so Wash must’ve assumed I was glamming myself up for him. A whole wardrobe change. From shabby sweats to teensy silk teddies.Boy, please.
I tried to resume my search, but my eyes kept slinking down to the text app.
So, instead of searching for another job, I referred to my homie, Google.
I’d poised my fingers over the keyboard when my door opened.
Lynetta came inside.
I flicked a brow.So, you can’t knock?
The look she gave me? Telepathy that replied,It’smyhouse, and ten shades of lethal older sister. I’d already endured eighteen years of being harassed by her. The last four years of my adolescence were the worst because my parents had left her in charge of me, and she regretted it. It wasn’t really her fault they’d put so much on her. So, tonight, I smiled. “May I help you?”
She spun around in a pair of khakis and a sweater. “I’m going midnight geocaching with friends. Does my butt look big, Maddy?”
“Girl, yes, honey!” I replied. Even though I might not get herreverseslang, like geofencing, or whatever, I was nice. When I wanted to be.
“What?” Lynetta snapped.
I’d forgotten the people she’d taken up with. An unsavory group of anti-butt people. “Kidding, you have a bracket booty.” No lie. Just genuine honesty. “C’mon, you’ve seen a bracket? You type reports at work, right?”
All her confused blinking turned into a snarl. “The square thingy on the keyboard?”
The irony. She should’ve commended me for recognizing what she and her peeps viewed as lovely: no booty. Where was her appreciation? After clearing my throat, I murmured, “Well, yeah.”Still out here living a life of honesty.
“So, I have a bracket butt?” she snapped as my MacBook lit up with a ping from Washington. Nope. A two-minute reminder of his silly-ass thumbs-up.
“Just a sec.” I replied, fingers at work. Google asked if I wanted to adjust the settings to permit adult content. No, sir. Ipopped an image into the text box for Washington. Granny in the lace muumuu. Betty’s busty bosoms were so massive they functioned as floor sweepers.
When I glanced over the rim of my laptop, Lynetta glared at me from near the door. “You know what, Madison? Next month. Not March, but April, I want four hundred for rent.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a bracket booty.” Without another word, Lynetta stormed away, leaving the door open.
I stared at the audacity for a couple of beats, then mumbled, “If you had laughed at my joke, I might’ve told you how to fix the bracket booty. But I won’t.”