Chapter 3

“I called the Gator Guy to help me out.”

“The who…what?” He looked over his longneck beer at me. We sat across from each other at a table, inside a bar we hung out at called Scales.

I told him everything I knew about the Gator Guy and what had happened the day before.

“It sounds like you have a serious problem on your hands.”

“Better a problem with the gators instead of men,” I replied, meaning every word of my comment.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, intrigued by what I had to say.

So I spent the next half hour talking about Cooper Rugg, my former boyfriend of eight months in Boston, and how the motherfucker couldn’t keep his dick in his jeans, using it all over town, and parts of New York City when he visited there.

“Sounds like a nasty break-up.”

“It was,” I said. “But that’s water under the bridge. Trust me, gators are less of a problem than Cooper was.”