Dickish

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Kayleb

Susan picks up her cue, faces the pool table for her next shot. "So, Kayleb. How did you two meet?"

I blink, caught off guard. I'd been watching Ty go, had been trying to work out the fit or fat thing in my mind. "Sorry?"

She nods at Noah. "You and your boyfriend."

(At the word "boyfriend," Noah's attention suddenly snaps back to the immediate area.)

"Who, Noah?" I ask.

Susan nods again, makes her shot, hangs a corner pocket.

"Oh, we're not—he's only my—" I laugh nervously. "We're brothers."

"And totally not the incest kind," Noah adds.

"You mean you two aren't...?" Susan blushes, genuinely embarrassed. "My bad. Duane said—well, never mind what he said. You guys look nothing alike. Plus you've got the whole pretty-boy, watch-what-we-eat, gym membership thing going on. I just assumed."

Noah touches his hair self-consciously.

I glance down at my designer jeans. "Er, who's Duane?"

"You know, the manager." Susan gestures at the bar, where an early-fifties, goateed incarnation of Ashley Schaeffer from Eastbound & Down is sitting with his arm around a tipsy-looking female tenant. Noah and I had, of course, met him when signing our lease, but he'd insisted on our calling him "Mr. Bourbon" the entire time. Dickish, if you ask me.

Still talking to the young woman, Duane smiles creepily at us, fires off a fake hand gun in our direction, then proceeds to mime oral sex on the barrel.

"He seems like kind of a douche," Noah murmurs, narrowing his eyes.

"Kind of," Susan agrees.

"I'm going to call him Dwade, just to be on the safe side." Noah looks at Susan again. "What's his deal?"

She waves her hand dismissively. "He's just one of those over-the-hill, tragically-creepy types who doesn't have a clue that he's tragically creepy. He thinks his position as property manager makes him irresistible to anything with tits and legs, and that all college girls actually like being offered his 'special move-in reward package,' if you know what I mean."

Thank God we're not college girls.

Susan makes another shot. "You want in on the next round?"

Noah doesn't answer at first; his eyes are locked on the big-breasted blond chick sipping Dos Equis all by her lonesome at the opposite end of the bar. Eventually: "No thanks. We were just about to wander over to the bar for a little drinkie-pooh."

I follow him across the clubhouse—one, because he's literally dragging me along by the hand, and two, because as much as I'm not a drinker (or interested in the bar scene at all), what happens next is almost certainly worth the trouble: reaching the bar, Noah winks at me, fluffs his shirt collar, and sidles up beside the blond gal.

"Hey there," he coos, and leans casually against the countertop.

The blond looks at him, wordless.

"Do you like to come a lot?"

"Excuse me?"

"Here—do you like to come here a lot? You know, Salsa Saturday and all."

"Oh. Sure, I guess."

Noah moves closer. "You know, maybe if you're not doing anything next Saturday we could come together."

The blond rolls her eyes. "That's really cute, but I'm already seeing someone." She stands. "And just so you know, turning up your collar like that is totally code for, 'I'm a loser.'" She walks away.

I smile amusedly and step beside Noah, pat him on the shoulder. "Okay, if that routine didn't work for Ned Beatty in the beginning of Silver Streak, why would it work for you?" Shaking my head, I walk away.

Noah calls after me: "Dude, what? Gene Wilder. Richard Pryor. Great movie!"

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