Intercepted Read online

  No more athletes, and definitely no quarterbacks.

  Nine

  So, I might’ve exaggerated the amount I had in savings. It wasn’t enough for an apartment and a gently used car.

  I mean, technically, it was. But the design work I do isn’t a consistent, reliable income yet, and the thought of draining so much of it on a car when Denver has invested so much into their public transportation seemed like a waste.

  And rent.

  Don’t get me started on rent.

  My mom warned me that ever since Denver legalized marijuana, the cost of living here skyrocketed. But like a typical daughter, I brushed her off and ignored her warnings.

  She was not wrong.

  When I first started looking—as in the day after I moved in; living with my parents was not an option—I was hoping for a little apartment in a super trendy area downtown. But when I realized I wasn’t willing—or able—to spend $2,500 a month on a studio, my search had to move. I ended up in Denver’s historic Five Points neighborhood. Just on the outskirts of downtown, it’s in the middle of revitalization. So while one block was covered with million-dollar condos . . . some were not. My one bedroom, one bathroom, five hundred square foot apartment fell somewhere in the middle. A little classy, a little hood, a lot Marlee. I fell in love with it immediately.

  Since I’m lacking transportation, the fact that my apartment’s right around the corner from the light rail was a huge selling point. More importantly, it’s only two blocks away from a hipsters’ paradise complete with an organic coffee shop, a restaurant filled to the brim with ping-pong tables, men with beards and skinny jeans, and my new favorite place ever: HERS.

  HERS is the most badass twist on an old gentleman’s club. Instead of a shoe shine, there’s a paint touch-up for manicures. Instead of sports playing on TVs, it’s a different city of housewives. Beer on tap? Nope. But there is a never ending selection of Skinny Girl.

  A free photo booth is outside of the bathrooms to take pictures with the friends you made inside. Next to it is a wall where you can tape your pictures and scribble a note on one of the many Post-its declaring your new, lifelong, just-for-the-night bestie.

  The moment I walked in, I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I found the owner that night and offered to help build her website, do designs for ads—anything she needed, I was her girl. I left HERS that night equal parts buzzed on Skinny Girl and high on life because not only was I the new part-time bartender, I was also head of the newly (as in that night) formed marketing department.

  #KickingAss&TakingNames

  I love my tiny-apartment-renting, public-transportation-taking, multiple-job-having new life, and even though my walls are bare and my coffee table is an unpacked box, I couldn’t wait any longer for Naomi to come see.

  I called her last night and bribed her with the promise of my company.

  Kidding.

  I promised her booze and homemade cookies. So, she came . . . obviously.

  “But what happened, Marlee? Everything was fine last week and now you’re living here.” The way she looks around my little apartment, her lip curled up like she smells feet, is hilarious. “Stop laughing! I’m serious. Wednesday we go to a meeting together, then that night you tell me you moved back home, which I thought was a joke until I ended up sitting next to a redheaded Courtney Junior at the game. What the hell is going on?”

  I doubt she was supposed to tell me about Chris’s new flavor of the week going to the game, but once it’s out, it can’t be shoved back in.

  “He already has her going to the games? What an asshole! What’s next? Is she going to be driving Honey-Blossom?”

  “Oh sweetie.” She squeezes my leg. A stranger would think she was being sincere, but I know better, and her sweet voice isn’t fooling me. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants Honey-Blossom.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. What was I thinking? Why would anybody want to help the environment and save money?” I set my wine-glass on the table—I mean box—so I can have the full use of my hands to get my point across. It’s a weird thing to get worked up over, but insulting my car is the equivalent of insulting the children I may have one day in the very distant future. “Enjoy driving around in your giant earth killer, but don’t come complaining to me when gas shoots back up to five dollars a gallon and I’m just chillin’ with my fifty-eight miles per gallon.”

  “Hey now. I drive a hybrid too.”

  “An Escalade hybrid,” I correct her. “What’s the fucking point of that?”

  “You’re the strangest person I know,” she says without a hint of a smile.

  “You love me.” I blow her a kiss from the opposite end of my Ikea couch.

  “Whatever you say. Anyways . . .” She sets her glass next to mine in the most awkward transition ever. “You’re still coming to the fashion show, right?”

  I mean . . . is she for real?

  “Can you pass me the remote?” I ask.

  “Sure . . .” She gives me my remote, and I start flipping through the channels until I find the station I’m looking for. “The Weather Channel?”

  “Yeah, I’m just checking to see if it’s going to be a cold day in hell on Monday.” The words come out so seriously, it takes a minute for Naomi to register what I said, but I know when she does because my bright yellow throw pillow hits me in the head.

  “Can you be serious for one minute, please?” she asks, and I can tell by her tone she means it.

  “Fine.” I’ll do this, but not happily.

  “You have to go,” she says plainly. Like those four words change everything.

  “Ummm. . . . no. I don’t. Half of those women didn’t want me there when I was dating Chris. Now, I’m not even a girlfriend, and I’m not letting them stick a groupie label on my head.”

  “Screw them all. You worked harder than all of those bitches combined. All Courtney did was use the same caterer we’ve always used. Amber literally called the florist and told them to do what they wanted. You’re the only one who did any actual work.”

  “You speak the truth, continue.” I wave her on.

  “You designed the site to buy tickets. You went out and brought in all of the new designers. You made and sent out invitations. You’re the reason ticket sales are up thirty percent. So it will be a cold day in hell if you think I’ll let you stay at home while Courtney steals all of your credit!”

  Naomi’s the most even tempered person I’ve ever known, so to see her all worked up on my behalf has me feeling weirdly honored.

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your passion, because trust me, I’m totally living for it right now. I’m just not sure I want to go. I’m doing really well. I have a new job. I have my own place. I’m relearning who I am. I don’t know if I want to throw a wrench in what I’m doing by going to the fashion show.” I reach out and grab her hand because for some reason, her eyes are shimmering with tears while she listens to me. “I know what you have with Dre is real and good. But that’s not what I had with Chris. Chris was every bad athlete stereotype rolled into one, and I sat there, oblivious for years. I’m not ready to see him.”

  “Forget Chris. What about me? You cannot just move across town, throw me to the wolves, and disappear. Last week’s meeting was akin to torture. I cannot deal with those bitches without you there calling Courtney ‘Court’ and ordering food I can steal. The least you could do after abandoning me is come to the fashion show.”

  I wonder how much she paid for my ticket when she booked this guilt trip.

  “How about this? We go shopping tomorrow and if I can find something to wear, I’ll go.” Compromise is the key to life. Plus, she’s so pathetic when she’s sad, only a monster—or Courtney—could flat-out deny her.

  “Oooh . . . a shopping challenge.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “I’m always on board for that!”

  “
You’re going to be the best mom because you give a fantastic freaking guilt trip.”

  “I know. How do you think I got Dre to give in to redecorating the living room?” she asks. And she’s smiling! What a sneaky—but talented—asshole.

  “I really don’t like you right now. But even so, I feel obligated to compliment you on your ability to fake cry.” I throw the pillow back at her, but instead of it hitting her in the face like it did to me, she grabs it out of the air and catches it.

  So unsatisfying.

  “Thank you. I was the lead in my high school’s plays four years in a row. I also played softball.” She waves the pillow in my face with a triumphant smile on her face.

  “Way to keep that card hidden in your back pocket. Well played, Mrs. Harris.”

  “Appreciated.” She stands and walks the three feet to my kitchen and grabs a pop out of the fridge. “So after we find your smokin’ outfit, are you gonna ride with us?”

  “If we find an outfit, I’ll just Uber it. No need for you guys to drive all the way down here to go right back. But I’m not walking in alone. If you get there before me, keep your tight little asses in your car and wait for me.”

  “Fine with me. I don’t want to go in there without you anyways. I’ll tell Dre he’s got two dates. He thinks you’re a hottie, so he’ll be thrilled.”

  I won’t lie, finding out Chris was cheating on me with the redheaded human version of Jessica Rabbit was quite the knock to my confidence. And by knock, I mean getting in the ring with Mayweather, Tyson, and Ali. So hearing Naomi say her smokin’ hot superstar hubby thinks I’m a hottie doesn’t go unappreciated.

  But I suck at accepting compliments, so I joke it off. “He should. I mean, according to some of the women, I’m your twin. Remember?”

  “You’re ridiculous.” She rolls her eyes. “But since we have the fashion show squared away, are you gonna show me these bartender skills of yours or what?”

  “If by skills you mean pouring tequila shots and glasses of wine? You got it.” I grab my keys and turn to her before we reach the door. “Oh! I can practice on you! Experiment with my talents.”

  “Shit. Then let me call Dre now and warn him that he’ll be driving to the hood later to get me.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am. I do not live in the hood. I live in a historical part of Denver, surrounded by original architecture, character, and history.”

  “And the homeless man set up on the corner? What’s he?” she asks.

  “You mean James? He’s part of the character.”

  “You know his name? Please tell me you’re being careful. I know you think your boxing classes have made you invincible, but they haven’t.”

  “Yes, I know his name. Some days I’m able to bribe him with a latte to keep me company on my walk to get coffee, and he tells me all about what it was like living here in the eighties.” I imagine we have matching expressions, both eyes wide and mouths dropped open. Except her face is filled with horror and mine with excitement. “Did you know a house only a few blocks west was where the biggest dealer in Denver lived, and before these apartments were here, there was a nightclub he owned solely to deal cocaine out of?”

  “Why would I know that, and why are you excited learning it?”

  “It’s cool! Knowing these places were here years ago, unsavory characters and all. Can’t you just see them on the street with Kangol hats and a boom box on their shoulder?” Clearly she can’t or she just doesn’t try because her horrified expression never falters. “Whatever. You enjoy the cookie-cutter mansions and the wicked wives. I’d take James, his stories, and my little place any day of the week.”

  “Can’t I have my house without the wicked wives?” Her bottom lip pouts, and she looks so adorable, I almost pinch her cheeks.

  “You know as well as I do, they go hand in hand.” An unfortunate truth. It seems as though having the big house and fancy cars aren’t enough for some people. The only way they can feel good about themselves is if they squash others around them.

  “I hate it when you’re right.” She throws her phone back in her purse and opens my front door. “Now I need to get drunk since you’ve made me jealous of your friend James while I’m stuck with Courtney and Amber.”

  I lock my door and follow her down the staircase.

  “If drunk is what you want, drunk is what you’ll be. You’re going to love HERS so much, I wouldn’t be surprised if you and Dre are my neighbors soon.”

  I was happy to wash my hands of just about everything I had in my life with Chris, but my friendship with Nay wasn’t one of them. Having her next to me, embracing me, encouraging me, means more than she’ll ever know. But I’m going to try and show her how much with the best night ever.

  At least, I hope it will be.

  Because tomorrow I might see Chris . . . and let’s face it, it’s going to be a complete shit show.

  Ten

  Naomi is sloshed.

  We drank a little bit at my place, but the second Brynn—the owner of HERS—saw us walk in, I was summoned behind the bar with her, and Naomi was placed front and center, serving as our unofficial taste-tester. Naomi ingested copious amounts of alcohol and expelled all my business.

  So now, instead of serving her more drinks, we are leaning against each other, preventing the other from tumbling off the barstool and onto the floor.

  “Fuck men, you know?” I slur. “Especially athletes.”

  “Heeeeyyyy,” Naomi whines from behind me or next to me. I’m not sure. After the last tequila shot, my entire body started to become numb. “Dre plays football, and he’s aaaaamazingg.”

  “And I’m so happy for you.” I swivel around on the barstool and send both of us stumbling in different directions. Once we’ve found our footing, we take long, slow, crooked steps back to each other, and I wrap her up in a bear hug. “Because you’re just, like, so amazing and you deserve to be happy.”

  Naomi squeezes me tighter. “You deserve to be happy too.” She’s crying now. Naomi always cries when she gets drunk. “Chris was never ever good enough for you.”

  “Now that we know how much y’all love each other and what Marlee deserves, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” A stone-cold sober Brynn interrupts us. “You’re searching for something to wear? I’ll have my pops watch HERS and go with you guys. At the very least, a night with your ex calls for a new dress, shoes, and lipstick.”

  “And new panties!” Naomi shouts what I’m pretty sure in her head was meant to be a whisper.

  “Why would I need new underwear?” I ask. “I can’t see into the future and even I know nobody will be seeing those.”

  “I dunno. I just like shopping for lingerie. Plus, pretty undies make you feel sexy even if nobody else sees them.” She locks her eyes with mine and places her hand on my shoulder. “And I say this with love, girl, if Chris brings Ava, you’re gonna wanna feel sexy. I hate her, but I’d be a liar if I said she wasn’t super freakin’ hot.”

  “I’m well aware.” I’m also in the know about her waxing style, but I decide to keep that little tidbit of gossip to myself.

  I hate Naomi for bringing Ava up and at the same time I want to kiss her. I was a mess enough at the thought of seeing Chris, Ava hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  Okay.

  Lying to myself again.

  Ever since I stumbled across Chris’s personal porn gallery, I’ve been trying my hardest to convince myself this had nothing to do with me and Chris is just a pig. Some days I even believe it. But others? Well, those days I think about all the times I didn’t order a salad or go to the gym like I should’ve. I think of the sweats I’ve had since high school that I wear for pajamas and not something silk and lacy like Chris was always trying to get me to wear. I ask myself if I tried harder, if I lost those pesky fifteen—FINE!—twenty pounds I’ve been holding on to for years if he wouldn’t
have strayed.

  Naomi’s right. I’m going to need every little bit of sexiness I can manage.

  * * *

  • • •

  SIPPING MY ICED coffee and tapping my foot at the Nordstrom entrance, I check the time on my phone again. This is why I’m always late. Waiting for other people sucks.

  Brynn shows up first. Her blonde hair is pulled into a topknot on the crown of her head, and she’s wearing a fitted tee, skinny jeans that are ripped at the knee, and a pair of Converse, and she still manages to look as if she spent all her life roaming the streets of Paris and Milan. She’s one of those effortless beauties you hate because if you walked down the street like that, people would probably give you their change and leftovers.

  Naomi, on the other hand, looks a hot-ass mess. She shows up twenty minutes late with oversized sunglasses, a large coffee, and Advil on hand to help with the hangover she’s nursing. If we weren’t here to get me around my ex tonight, I would’ve felt bad for her. But as it is? I stick my tongue out at her and point and laugh.

  Maturity isn’t my strong point.

  “First we find the dress, then shoes, unless of course we need to hit lingerie for a special bra.” Brynn looks to her phone where she no doubt has a note written with today’s schedule on it.

  “We should probably look for a bra . . . or Spanx, first. I’m gonna need some armor to brave fluorescent lights and extra-large mirrors.”

  “Let’s just get this show on the road and lower our voices while we do it.” Naomi grabs her head.

  “Every party has a pooper, that’s why we invited you, party pooper,” I sing much too loud. Naomi cringes, Brynn laughs, and the old man holding his wife’s bags glares. You can’t win them all.

  “Oh my god. If you never sing again, I’ll buy whatever shoes you want today,” Naomi says.

  “Are you kidding me?” Brynn asks. “If you sing everything like we are living in a musical, I’ll double your pay.”