“And why the dog is called Chippy. Hilarious error on your part too, bud.” He snorts.
“Ha fucking ha, laugh it up. How was I supposed to know? We’ve never had a dog, neither did you growing up. Pets mean mess and hair, right? That was part of a whole new world.”
“Usually when bitches have their noses in your groin, you’re paying them for the privilege, right?” Trystan says with a wink.
“Chippyis a he. He’s not a bitch. And Tryst, that’s a low blow. Rude!”
She says it with faux indignation, knowing he’s joking but calling him out just the same. Good girl.
“A he! With a nose at your groin, Mercer. Scandalous!”
“Trystan,” I warn, but he’s already moved on.
“You’re going to spill on Bubble,” I say, sinking down next to Bri on the oversized Karl Rätt? sofa. Before Bri, this was the best $150,000 I’d ever spent.
“Ugh, really?”
“Yes, Bubble, rhymes with trouble! How and why. Go!”
“My family has called me Bubble for as long as I can remember. I mean, I guess I was a chunky baby. Most Broe babies are.”
“The barfing baby wasn’t that chunky.”
“That’s because he’s an O’Donnell. Anyway, we’re getting off topic. I’ll contact the specialized laundry to save your clothes, Mason. Again, I’m so sorry.”
“Bri, having a baby throw up all over me was hardly the lowlight of the day.”
“Oh yes, your morning of misery! I want to hear about that too after Bubble spills all the family tea. Aunt Maeve is acracker. And Caitlin is such a sweetheart, but all in good time. You first, dear girl. Spill that bubble tea.”
“Okay, so I guess I was a chunky baby. I was also pretty sickly. I had asthma and was in and out of hospital as a toddler. Puffers, inhalers, a mask with a spacer. You name it. I’m sure if you looked hard, there would be a photo on a wall somewhere. Anyway.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and pushes up the sleeves of her dress now that the fire is licking flames spectacularly. “I had to swim to strengthen my lungs, to boost capacity. My first lessons, I think I was three. Mom says that the first lesson involved blowing bubbles in the water. Face down, bubble one, bubble two, and breathe on three. I guess it just stuck.”
“Aww, that’s so wholesome.” Trystan clasps his hands together under his chin in mock prayer.
“Kind of,” she laughs. “When I was goalie for the boys, every time they snuck a puck past me, they’d yell,pop!Like they burst my bubble. Boys are dicks.”
“Wait, you were the goalie?” I sit up straight.
“Yes. They made me.”
They, what? I agree, boysaredicks.
“That was you in the photo on the pond? In the red top?”
“It was,” she laughs again. “You mean it wasn’t obvious?” Buried under a ton of goalie gear, she was unrecognizable. All the pieces are sliding into place. She was the goalie to spend time on the frozen pond with her big brothers. Brothers she idolizes. She wore goalie gear because they didn’t want to. Like most guys, I suspect, they want the thrill and flair for creative shot-making. No one wants to tote a blocker and keep pucks out. They want to be the ones punishing the net, not guarding it. She’s the fixer, the adapter. Wherever she’s needed, she’s ready to fill the role, no questions asked. That’s why she’s next to me on my designer sofa now. Her sister needed her help, andshe fell on the sword of diplomacy for a good deal of what was necessary: money. She’s not here by choice; she’s here out of obligation. Hockey goalie, or guardian angel. Whatever the role requires, up steps Bubble to fill it.
“Where do you want me?”It’s a simple question requiring a complex answer.
“Naked and on my cock.” She smiles. A smile on the face of a woman earning twenty thousand dollars today. Almost a thousand dollars an hour. Top surgeons and attorneys don't attract rates like that. Her blue wrap dress is on the floor, leaving her in lace top stockings and nothing else. Her bra was flicked open and removed moments ago, and in my private company, the contract stipulates no underwear unless required due to that time of the month. I’m no prude, but I’m not a bastard either. Unless she’s bleeding, her cunt is to be free, bare, and easy to access.
“Are you wet?”
Her fingers slide to the apex of her thighs. It’s an unnecessary gesture. I can scent her arousal perfuming the air around us like a charged storm. The intensity crackles and burns. “Hands and knees, on the bed. Facing the windows.” The first time I fuck her tonight, I want it to be for me. When I take her again, it will be up against my bedroom windows for everyone to see, if only they had any visibility through the custom windows. She doesn’t need to know that, though.
“So wet.”
“Ready for me?” It’s a weighty double entendre. No one is fully prepared for the Mercer misery.
“Always.”
