Just A Small Town Girl: A New Adult Romantic Comedy

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Authors: Jessica Pine
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that was nothing short of pathetic. "Sorry, but I have to split. Good to see everything's going well though, Steve."
     "Totally," said Steve. "Copacetic." He did some kind of embarrassing fist-bump thing that made my spine curl in on itself, and we watched as Trey swung one long leg over the side of his Harley and roared off through the trailer park.
     "His nephew?" I said, slowly. For a so-called criminal mastermind, Steve had suddenly taken a worrying turn for the dumb.
     "What?"
     "His fucking nephew? Do you know what this means, you moron? It means that Bob is sending his nephew to check up on us and now Bob probably knows that we're cutting the product with catnip. Oh, and also he knows where I fucking live, so thanks for that, asshole."
     "Okay," said Steve. "So just like chill, because it's not what you think."
     "It's not? Okay then. Tell me. What's going on here? Because from where I'm standing it looks like you're hanging around my house, smoking weed with enormous fucking bikers when you should be out selling the stuff. When do we gotta kick back to Psycho Bob, anyway?" 
     "I'm gonna stop you right there," said Steve. "Because you're being really judgmental. I have it on good authority that Bob is not psycho - he's just a little hypoglycemic sometimes; he's not good if he doesn't eat."
     "Right," I said. "So that time he broke a guy's kneecaps with a motorbike chain - he only did it because he was hungry?"
     "Well, I wouldn't put it exactly like..."
     "...so if we don't make him his money back he's not actually gonna punch our teeth so far down our throat we'll have to brush by sticking our toothbrushes up our assholes, just so long as we slip him a corndog or two?"
     "...Clayton, now you're just being unhelpful..."
     "...or does he have surprising tastes for a steel-capped, snag-bearded heavy metal lunatic and we should whip up a nice light caprese salad with arancini stuffed fucking peppers? They call him Psycho Bob, Steve. Not Hypoglycemic Bob. Not Hungry Bob. Not Gourmet Bob. Psycho Bob. Clue's in the name, bro."
     Steve sighed. "Look," he said. "Everything is going to be fine. Breathe. Chill. You're really beginning to worry me."
     "What? Me? Worry? Why should I worry? You've only turned my house into some kind of cannabis bodega and painted a big-ass YOU ARE HERE arrow to me on a map. And where the hell is Bog anyway?"
     "That is exactly why you shouldn't worry," said Steve, wandering back into the living area. "Bog is on top of the deals. He's handling it."
     I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Steve, Bog has difficulty differentiating dreams from reality. He can barely keep on top of figuring out which part of his body itches when he needs to scratch. Are you seriously..." I realized it was hopeless. "You know what, fuck it. I knew this was a bad idea from the start. I do not have time for this. I have a date."
     Steve stuck a fresh joint in his mouth. "Really? Well, that's awesome."
     "Yeah. She is," I said. "And I'm going to be really fucking pissed off if I don't get to spend more time with this girl because I've been murdered by a bloodthirsty Hell's Angel and his goddamn handsome giant of a nephew."
     There was a long moment while Steve's fried brain tried to make sense of what I'd said. "Handsome?" he said. "You think handsome? Yeah - I guess he is. I'd never really thought about it before."
     "You should knock that shit off," I said. "Too much of that stuff kills brain cells. Look what happened to Bog."
     He'd made me late. I took the world's shortest and coldest shower, threw on a clean shirt and jeans and drove back into Westerwick. I met Lacie in the tiny town diner and knew at once I was under-dressed. She was wearing a dark blue polka-dot dress that nipped in at the waist, and had switched her usual braided thread wristbands for a pretty enameled bracelet. I don't know how long she'd been sitting there, but she didn't look up when I came in. There was a book open in

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