We all have to be at practice tomorrow morning—check that, this morning, as it’s shortly after midnight—but I don’t want to go home.
I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to screw.
I want a bucket of greasy fried fish and chips, because it’s what my big brother used to take me to get every time he came home on leave from the Marines and got annoyed at being hen-pecked by the four sisters between us.
My car’s cold, thanks to the early November weather, and no, I’m not telling you what kind of car I drive, because yes, it very much feels like compensation tonight.
It gets me where I want to go.
That’s all that matters.
That, and getting my ass to Cod Pieces before they close for the night.
Could I stay at the bunny bar and get fried fish and chips?
No fucking way.
I’m still stewing in my own misery when the bright neon sign with the armored cod and the storefront that looks like a medieval castle comes into view at the edge of a strip mall four miles the wrong direction from my downtown condo. I roll the window down, letting in a blast of chilly air and the scent of fries.
Just in time.
I holler my order over the sound of my engine, then pull around to the window to get my fish.
Debate calling my brother in Miami.
It’s one AM. He and his wife recently celebrated their kid’s first birthday, and I think they’re working on baby number two.
If I call him in the middle of the night to bitch about how I can’t get it up, he’ll probably hang up on me, then tell our sisters.
She’s a professional comedienne with her own popular Netflix special. There’s no damn way I’m bothering West in the middle of the night for this.
I’ll talk to the fried fish and call it even.
Has as much personality as West had before he married Daisy.
The window swings open. “That’ll be fourteen seventy-three, please.”
My car lurches forward before I remember to put it in park, and I gape up at the woman staring down at me. “Muffy?”
My brain is playing tricks on me.
It has to be.
Because there’s no way the curvy, clumsy, smart-mouthed goddess who’s haunting my dick is standing there wearing a Cod Pieces polo and hat.
But she is.
And I swear to god, her long brown braids are recoiling in horror as her whole face twists, her lip curling, her left eye squeezing shut, before she snaps herself together. “For the hundredth time today, I have no idea who this Muffy person is. My name is Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen.”
There are two of them? She looks exactly like Muffy. I’m not seeing things, and I’m not projecting just because I want my dick to work again and the bunnies made me think about screwing Muffy in the walk-in fridge at the bunny bar.
“Fourteen seventy-three, please.” She turns away as she holds out a hand, twitching her fingers like she’s waiting for cash or a card.
And that’s when I see the tattoo.
Her cat’s name. It’s on her wrist.
Octavia Louisa Beaverhousen, my ass. This is Muffy.
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