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“God, I’m sure it’s going to be absolutely terrible for you. Having to go on a date with a rich, successful, gorgeous man who also happens to give you compliments.” She feigned shock. “Oh, the humanity!”
I stared at Cassie for a good three seconds before her words sank in. And then, I couldn’t stop myself from laughing after muttering, “You’re such a bitch.”
Maybe I was being a tad bit ridiculous over this whole scenario. It was just one compliment. And I only agreed to one date. How bad could it be?
Darth Vader’s dark side ringtone filled the room, vibrating my phone across the counter.
Incoming Call Dr. Crazypants
“Ugh,” I sighed. “It’s my mom. Lord help me, I’m not in the mood for her randomness.” I sent her call to voicemail, too tired to keep up with her rambling.
My mom, otherwise known as Dr. Savannah Cummings, was a force to be reckoned with. She spent her days counseling couples and her nights doing God only knows what with my father. Sex therapy was her game and bringing sexy back into the bedroom was her claim to fame.
And yes, I was well aware of the “sex therapist named Cummings” irony. My mother was too. Several years ago, she had made a point to use that satire to her advantage—on a billboard, hovering over a main interstate that led straight into New York City.
Her slogan: “Dr. Cummings wants you to come…visit her brand new office.”
Needless to say, eighth grade was a pretty hard year for me.
Conversations with Savannah mostly consisted of small talk about my dating and sex life and her usual spiel about the importance of masturbation. “Make sure you’re masturbating at least once a day, Georgia Rose. It’s imperative for your sexual health.”
My mother, the sex therapist, was a bit of a weirdo. But she was my weirdo and I loved her dearly. I just couldn’t handle her open-ended questions and virginity interrogation at the moment.
I downed the rest of my wine and slammed it on the counter. “I’m calling it a night. I’ll see you on the flipside, Casshead.”
“Night, Wheorgiebag.”
Without wasting time, I did the usual bedtime routine—face washed, teeth brushed, and comfy sleep clothes applied—and happily plopped my tired ass into bed.
But sleep refused to come.
My brain had reached the hamster-on-a-wheel stage of insomnia. Thoughts raced and unanswered questions refused to leave. I kept replaying Kline asking me out, over and over again. And all I could think was, why me? What made him all of a sudden show interest in me?
“And you’re fucking beautiful.”
I wasn’t dealing with a shortage of self-esteem by any means. I considered myself an intelligent, attractive, confident chick. Now, I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I knew how to highlight my strengths and downplay my weaknesses. Heavy makeup, spandex, and the color yellow were always a hell no. Long hair, red lips, and a pair of well-fitting jeans that accentuated my ass were always a hell yes.
My confusion over Kline asking me out wasn’t about my attractiveness.
I’d never had a man like him on my radar.
We were total opposites.
He had a chauffeur. I took the subway. He wore Armani. I shopped at vintage, secondhand shops. He had enough money to invest in things like hedge funds and annuities. I had a fifty-dollar bond from 1996 that my grandmother had gifted me on my birthday. Fingers crossed that baby would gain another two dollars and twenty-five cents this year.
My life and his life were pretty much worlds apart.
Or was Cassie right? Was I judging Kline Brooks by the fact that he had more money than God? Or was I just freaked out over the fact that my boss, the CEO of Brooks Media, had asked me out?
My dating experiences hadn’t been the best. They generally ended on epically bad notes. So, what would happen if Kline and I dated a few times and the shitstorm that was my overall luck with men took over?
Fuck.
I had to do something to take my mind off things. It was time to take things into my own hands. Literally. There was no sleep aid better than a climax-induced coma. Just one shot from the orgasm bottle and I’d be out like a light, racing thoughts and restless nights be gone.
Grabbing my vibrator, I lay back, spread wide, and pictured Chris Hemsworth in all of his Thor glory. I’d been on a recent Avengers kick—Captain America, Thor…hell, even Black Widow when I was feeling frisky. Scarlett Johansson in that black leather suit could make a lot of women switch-hit.
A few minutes into my fingerbating session, Thor’s hammer was hard and ready. Things were feeling good. Real fucking good. Muscles were tight, fingers were moving at the perfect pace, and Amen for my vibrator, the glorious little clit tickler that he was. I was on the brink, white spots dotting my vision, and then, Thor and his hammer cock slowly morphed into someone else. Someone I had never fantasized about before.
