The Temporary Virginity of the American Player

8. Norah Jones Stole My Man-Card.

 "I can't believe I'm doing this," Johnny said under his breath, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. "I don't do this. I shouldn't be doing this."

"Relax," I said and squirting cologne on him. "It's just a jazz club."

"I don't even like jazz."

"Yeah, well, I don't think Lena does either, but she's still going."

"That's because she's the one performing!"

"Yeah, so? She's still going. For God's sake, hold still!"

It was unbelievable how one little non-date could put Johnny on edge. The kid was everywhere, looking in the mirror every chance he got and thinking out loud. "Do I look okay?"

"She invited you to come to the club, right? I think she's at least a little interested in you if she did that."

She hadn't even told me she played the piano publicly and I'd known her for over a week and a half. Of course, it wasn't like I had asked...but it would have been nice to know. Johnny had a creative streak to him, too; he did sketching sometimes and had been playing the guitar ever since he was fifteen. That was a definite common bond. At least Lena had taken advantage of her performance and used it as a way to get Johnny in her grasp. Or, at least, what she thought was her grasp. Johnny was currently all over the place.

"Where are you guys going," Joe asked, coming out of the shower with a towel around his waist. He went straight to the fridge. That was one thing about Joe; the minute he got out of the shower, he'd go to the fridge. He showered every day, which was probably why we were almost always low on food.

"This girl we met at the café invited Johnny to go to a jazz club and watch her play," I told him, feigning innocence.

"Can't wait to not go to that," he said, selecting a sandwich out from a shelf and digging into it.

"Hey, that's mine for work tomorrow," Johnny hissed.

"Don't care. Mine now. Is this the subject of the bet between you too idiots?"

"Could be," Johnny said stiffly as I squirted him with cologne again. "Would you quit it?"

"What? I'm trying to make you smell like roses. Speaking of roses, you should get her some flowers or something. Or just go ahead and pick up an engagement ring, since that's the road you guys are headed down. Kill two birds with one stone."

"Nick, this isn't even a date," he snapped, but his face went red anyway. "Don't blow this out of proportion, please."

"Who's blowing it out of proportion," I snorted, and stepped out of harm's way as a shirtless Joe walked in between us with a bowl of macaroni. "Hey, Joe, what time is it?"

"Time for you to get a watch," he called over his shoulder, but glanced at his phone. "Seven."

"We can go and get there early," I suggested. "Since you're all dressed up and all. The longer we stay here, the more likely fat-ass over there is to spill macaroni all over you."

"Hey," Joe called as I picked up my car keys. "Just because you're sore about not having sex doesn't mean you can say hurtful things!"

"Traveling," Johnny interceded, dragging me to the door like a dog on a leash. "Let's not kill each other in here, please. Not until later, anyway; then I can videotape it."

Right. No violence. Joe was going to get it though. Next time he benched, I was going to refuse to spot him and let him strangle himself with a bar.