“I mean a real dick, Hadley.” Her thumb twitches as she rests her palm on her baton and leans on her right leg. “Not silicone, not glass either.” She points at me.
“I know what you mean.” I push her finger away. I smooth the satin over my hip. The fabric is still damp from earlier where I leaned against the cinderblock in the parking garage hall. The damp will dry. The dress won’t forget. “And I don’t know. It’s been a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“A while is a while, Callie.”
She hums under her breath and doesn’t push further. We both know the answer. Two years. Two years and three months. I don’t count, I just know.
Because at the end of the day? I don’t hold that for anyone. Not anymore. I have a reason. The reason is still good. Tonight is the part that doesn’t fit.
Not to mention she should absolutely take her own advice and I know she won’t, so why should I?
“You got that comm on?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll see who is giving you the looks in there and you hit on them.” She presses a finger to my lips. “Shhh. Get you some good dick tonight. Just leave your location on.”
I nod, because nodding is what you do when Callie talks at you like this. Her plan doesn’t apply to me. Her plan applies to a woman who walks up to men. I have never walked up to a man in my life. Men arrive in front of me and I deal with the arrival.
Callie knows this. But she’s going to try anyway.
Callie’s eyes narrow. “You are going to nod and ignore me, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re nodding right now.”
I stop nodding.
“I…”
“Can get some good dick tonight.” She cuts me off, walking backwards.
“Callie.” I look around, but it’s just us. No one can hear her yelling dick across the museum.
“Dick.” This time it echoes.
Face bright red, I turn around and walk out of the hall and back toward Africa and then Egypt. Callie might be right. But not tonight.
Following in my predecessor’s footsteps at her own memorial foundation. This isn’t a test. This isthetest. If it goes bad, I lose my job.
Callie may lose hers because she was the one who convinced her boss to hold it here.
I had six months after Angela’s death to plan this fundraiser memorial. Her events will fund archaeologists for the next year, uncovering artifacts lost by… unconventional means.
Pirates. Grave robbers. Rich men with far too much money and terrible hobbies.
Walking past the Sahara, I step in front of the open Penn Museum doors. Most people have entered by now, but George stands at the door tall in his suit and just happy to be here.
“Ms. Hadley,” he says it in that southern twang with a touch of Philadelphia that always gets me.
“George, it’s nearly seven.” I walk toward him, my heels clacking on the floor. “Let me help you get these doors closed.”
“Too old,” Callie hisses in my ear, nearly causing me to jump out of my damn skin.
“Ms. Hadley, you alright?” His nearly ninety-year-old body waddles toward me, his hand outstretched, shaking before he lays it on my bicep.