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“No, Bane. I can’t. I know you mean well, but…no.”
I’d hoped he was offering her his dick. I’d hoped she turned him down. I’d hoped that was the end of them as a couple.
“You know how much I want to see you, but not on Saturday. I wish you’d let me come see you at your house. Your mom can’t be that bad, and I miss…us.”
She missed him.
She fucking missed them.
I’d turned around in the other direction, not bothering to hear the rest.
The coffee I’d given Sonya was horrible.
“Are you sure you put two spoonfuls of sugar?” She’d twisted her lips in disapproval, her eyes still on the brochures she’d been sorting through.
I hadn’t answered her. I’d simply raised one leg under the desk and pressed the tip of my shoe between her thighs, separating them. She’d looked up for a second, her frown turning into a grin. My office was the only one without glass walls—I had one floor-to-ceiling window and it was dark outside and the blinds were shut. I was the only one out of my friends to not like an audience. Ironic, seeing as I was the guy to draw most of the attention.
“Bend over my desk,” I’d said, my eyes and tone taciturn.
“We still haven’t agreed on a sign language course.” She’d pointed at the brochures littering my desk on an excited smile. “By the way, I am so happy you’ve decided to initiate something like this. It’s absolutely…”
I’d tuned her out. I hadn’t initiated shit. It was Edie’s idea, and it was a good one, so I’d taken it. Now she’d given me a bad idea—fucking someone else to make her disappear from my mind—and I was going to do that, too.
“I choose this one.” I’d picked a random brochure and boomeranged it to Sonya’s hands, sitting back and dragging my foot to her groin, rubbing at her center. Her navy dress had flipped up, accommodating my derby shoe. “Now bend over.”
She’d tucked the brochure into her shoulder bag on the floor and got up, sauntering over to me. She’d parked her ass on my knee and knotted her arms around my neck, leaning down for a kiss. But kissing was defeating the purpose. Besides, I’d never been too big on kissing. I fucked. Dirty, hard, raw—always. Painful—sometimes. Kissing was giving away something personal. And that was a courtesy I couldn’t afford.
“Nah-ah, no one ever said anything about first base. You come to me, you know what’s on the menu. What are you in the mood for today?” Sonya liked my filthy mouth, though she often pleaded with me to stop using it when my daughter was around. I knew I wasn’t hurting her feelings. We were in the same place in life. The place where we didn’t have time nor anything to offer to a partner. We just wanted to concentrate on our careers, kids, and surviving this shit storm called life. I’d never asked her anything about her son or Roman’s father. I didn’t care.
“I’ll take the dirty fuck, please.” She’d smiled, rising to her feet. I’d stood up after her. Flipped her skirt.
Scratch that itch.
Scratch it with fingernails.
Until it bleeds.
I’d slammed into her, and she was soaked, and ready, and wrong. The condom slid in and out effortlessly. My mind had drifted. I’d squeezed the back of her neck and watched her ruby red hair on her shoulders.
Not the right hair.
Not the right woman.
Not the right anything.
Then Edie had walked in, looking torn and guilty. Looking like she was going to try to fuck me over again. If I’d had any doubt in my mind what she’d been there for, it evaporated as soon as her eyes locked with mine when Sonya’s ass was in the air, with me spanking it, making her slam harder into my desk.
I grunted, squeezing my eyes shut. When I opened them, I was at the beach again. I ran the five miles from Tobago Beach to the Morello reef. I didn’t even pant.
I made a U-turn and jogged all the way back to my apartment building, not skipping a heartbeat.
Turned out I didn’t need cardio.
I needed to scratch that itch until I bled to fucking death.
For the most part, I liked my friends’ wives. They were nice, classy ladies. Vicious’ Millie was the one I liked best, because she never shoved her nose too deep into my shit. Rosie, her sister and Dean’s wife, was pretty great, too. She did shove her nose into my shit—she was just this type of extrovert who always needed to know and talk about everything and everyone—but she always respected my decisions. Jaime’s Mel was another story.
Because Mel had ideas.
Her most recent one, ever since we’d all moved back to Todos Santos, was finding me a wife. Fuck knows where she got the notion I needed one. As I said before, at thirty-three, I’d never even had a girlfriend. Not even a month-long fling. I’d grown up in a poor home with parents who had a rich love. The kind of love that flipped the fingers on prejudice and social expectations. I’d never met a woman who made me as fucking crazy as Trish Schmidt made Darius Rexroth. I’d never wanted to work three jobs just so I could buy someone an engagement ring. Never wanted to ask someone to marry me on a boat trip even though I had seasickness tendencies because that was her dream.
