“Fine, but then that’s it. Fight your own battles and stop being a pussy about it.” Buzz cocks his head and considers me. “Why didn’t you want to meet her to get the card, anyway? What’s the big deal?”

I’m not explaining it to him—he wouldn’t get it. I also don’t want to listen to him riding my ass or making fun of me, which he absolutely would do if I told him I didn’t want to meet Miranda because I was developing a weird, anonymous crush on her. I didn’t want to meet her because I didn’t want to feel the crushing blow of rejection.

All this over someone I haven’t met.

And now it’s likely I never will, because Wallace has to go finish the job he screwed up.

“It’s not a big deal, but she’s already met you and then I don’t have to explain.”

“Real mature, Harding. Women love being lied to.” He pauses. “Not.”

“Right. They just love being molested in parking lots instead.”

His hands go up defensively. “Hey, I didn’t touch her! It was just words—no harm, no foul.”

“The police station parking lot isn’t a nightclub, dipshit.”

He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on my counter, bites, and chews. “Speaking of nightclubs, we’re going out on Saturday.”

“No we’re not.”

“Yeah we are. Davis from the Blues invested in that club downtown and he wants us to come see it, so we’re going.” He begins walking to the mudroom, exiting stage left.

Grant Davis is a linebacker for the Chicago Blues football team and a friend of ours. Young, hungry, and a great goddamn guy, he wouldn’t understand why I wasn’t at his club, especially if they’re all there celebrating.

Baseman couldn’t come—he’s at home, jerking off alone is what I imagine my other buddies would tell him.

Shit. Looks like I’m going out Saturday.

* * *

Me: I know you said you would contact me, but I cannot stop thinking about this situation and feel fucking terrible about it. I’m sorry I crossed a boundary.

Miranda: Apology accepted, I guess.

Miranda: Is this you trying to weasel your way back into my good graces so I don’t sell the cards out from under you?

Me: Um. No? I’m not like that.

Miranda: SURE you’re not.

Me: I’m being sincere. I really feel like a dick about Wednesday, but I can’t do it over—all I can do is tell you it won’t happen again.

Miranda: Won’t happen again? So what you’re saying is, we’re going to meet and it will be nothing but business, the way it should have been to begin with?

Me: If you would reconsider selling me your collection, yes—I would be on my best behavior. You should even bring a friend.

Miranda: I don’t need a bodyguard, but thanks.

Me: Please consider it. I’ll give you whatever you want.

Miranda: I’m going to be honest here—I really do not want to sell them all to you, but maybe we could start with another one, JUST ONE MORE, and see how that goes. I need the money, but not to the point where I’m willing to sell my soul.

Me: I understand.

Miranda: Alright then. We have a deal to negotiate for one more card. Just. One.

5

Miranda

Good lord, the music at this club is pouring out into the street, so I know it’s going to be eardrum shattering inside.

Rent.

That’s the name of the place and the gold-plated plaque affixed to the building reads: High rent district, high end liquor, high and mighty clientele. Must be 21 to enter & imbibe.

Cheeky. Clever.

Everyone wants in.

The line is long, down the block, and I thank God it’s not freezing outside—but even if it were, our group is lucky enough to slide inside right away. Gretchen’s boyfriend has connections and I’m impressed: a sports marketing intern with the NFL team, he pulled a few strings to get our names on the list.

All six of us.

And just like that, we’re in.

I wasn’t in the mood for a dress like the ones my girlfriends are wearing and opted for jeans instead; I’m surprised the bouncer didn’t raise an eyebrow when I slipped past him. Jeans are a no-no—it says so right on the sign next to the door guy—but I’d forgotten when I slid into mine.

I can’t believe he let me in!

I mentally high five myself as we make our way through the throng; it can only be described as such, bodies everywhere. Hot, beautiful people. Standing by the bars, dancing under the strobing lights in the center of the huge room, congregating around the seating areas.

I run my fingers through my long hair, following closely behind Claire, who’s behind Emily and Gretchen and her boyfriend, Peter. We’re an attractive group, but so is everyone in the place. Apparently, we also have a table reserved near the roped-off area.

No cover charge, no waiting, and a table?

Bonus points for Peter. Wow.

This must be what it feels like to be famous. Or to be friends with someone who is. Is this how Gretchen always rolls? I’ve really only seen her in yoga pants, when we go running in the park on weekends. She’s mostly Claire’s friend, but I’m trying to make her mine—one can never have too many.