Hot As Sin

12

I step into the room, smiling at the sweet picture he and Abby make. He’s taken to fatherhood like a duck to water, a fact that shocked pretty much everyone but me and Chloe. I always knew the man had a soft side.

Some of us are just better at hiding it than others.

“You sure do. She looks comfortable. Wish I could sleep that soundly.”

“I tried to tell Nico you wouldn’t be into the Rihanna thing, but you know how he is. Might work out better for you this way, having Marcus owe you a favor. You never know when a guy like that will come in handy.”

I blink, surprised and a little unnerved. “I don’t even wanna know how you know about that. We were literally on the other side of the house. Outside.”

A.J. smiles serenely. “I have my ways. Take a seat, brother. Let’s talk.”

Walking into the room, I tease, “Talk? Who’re you, Oprah?”

“s**t, I wish. I love Oprah. Wait, but then I’d have to be a lesbian so I could still be with Chloe.” He thinks for a beat. “Lesbian s*x with my woman. Damn, that would be awesome.”

I sink into the chair next to him and chuckle. “You always did have a good imagination.”

He holds up a finger. “Give me a minute. I need play this out.”

My chuckle turns to a full blown laugh as he grows serious, furrowing his brow in concentration at what I can only guess is a vivid imaginary scene of him and Chloe having wild, girl-on-girl s*x. “Man, do you have any idea what you’d look like as a woman? The thought is f*****g scary.”

He grins. “No way. I’d be super hot. Powerful. Like a cross between Wonder Woman and that huge blonde warrior chick from Game of Thrones. You know the one.”

“Brienne of Tarth.”

“Yeah. Her.”

“So you’re not Oprah in this fantasy of yours?”

“Oh.” He holds up the finger again. “Wait, I’ll just—”

“Ugh, save it for later, psychopath. I’ve already dealt with other people’s s*x lives enough for one night.”

A.J.’s expression turns interested. “Oh really? Care to share?”

“What, you don’t already know, Mr. Spidey Senses?”

“I’m not God,” he says mildly. Then, smug, “Well, I mean I’m a s*x god, obviously, and a rock god—”

“Jesus, you’re in a chipper mood tonight.”

He makes a face. “Chipper? I’m a f*****g drummer, man. We’re the badasses of the band. We don’t do chipper.”

“We? You’re starting to sound like Kenji.”

Abby makes a small noise in her sleep and fidgets in A.J.’s arms. He kisses her forehead and whispers to her, “Shh. It’s okay. Don’t listen to Uncle Barney. Daddy’s extremely cool. He isn’t chipper.”

“Why can’t you be chipper and cool?”

A.J. sighs deeply, as if I’m being unreasonable. “Name one single person in the history of humanity who was both chipper and cool.”

“Fred Astaire. Mr. Rogers. Mickey Mouse.”

“You think Mickey Mouse is cool?”

“Mickey Mouse is awesome!”

“He’s a rodent!”

“Not just any rodent. An anthropomorphic cartoon rodent who starred in over 130 films, has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and is one of the world’s most recognizable characters. Plus, he’s got a hot mouse girlfriend. And a pet dog.”

He mutters, “You and your useless trivia.” Then, in a normal tone, “All valid points, Einstein, but I said one person in the history of humanity. Mickey is disqualified.”

“What about my other two offerings?”

He thinks for a moment. “Are we sure Mr. Rogers isn’t a pedophile? Because that’s not cool.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. We’re sure.”

“I think he’s disqualified because of those cardigans he liked. Chipper I’ll give you, but cool guys don’t wear cardigans.”

“What about Fred Astaire?”

“I mean…I guess? If we’re defining ‘cool’ as a skinny dude with big ears who tap dances wearing a top hat and tails. He’s a little metrosexual to be truly cool. You got any other examples?”

“Oh, so you think a guy has to be macho in order to be cool, is that it? Like Marlon Brando or Steve McQueen?”

“Do you only know actors from like a hundred f*****g years ago?”

“Fine,” I relent, sighing. “George Clooney.”

“George Clooney is not macho. He’s elegant. They’re two completely opposite things.”

“So you can’t be macho and elegant?”

“Exactly,” he says, nodding. “In the same way you can’t be chipper and cool.”

“What about James Bond? He’s macho and elegant.”

“He’s a fictional character. That’s a totally different category.”

“Fine, Sean Connery.”

“Elegant. Not macho.”

“He’s at least borderline macho! He kills people!”

“Only in the movies. In real life, he keeps polo ponies and has bone china finger bowls next to his gold-rimmed dinner plate. Next.”

“Pierce Brosnan.”

“Elegant.”

“Daniel Craig.”

“Macho. And quit with the James Bond actors.”

I snap my fingers. “I’ve got it! Denzel Washington.”

A.J. waves me off. “Denzel’s in a category by himself. He’s beyond macho or elegant. He’s like…the holy grail of manhood. Besides me, I mean.”

I laugh helplessly, dropping my head into my hands. “So glad we had this chance to talk, brother. It’s always a pleasure.”

He laughs, too. “I know. I’m a f*****g delight, aren’t I?”

“There you are, sir!”

We turn our heads to the sound of the voice. In the doorway stands Miss Small Town Popularity, holding a drink in her hand.