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I grit my teeth and turn the monitoring app off. Then I stand up slowly, with a massive boner. I step out of the shower, check the time and find it’s during business hours, and dial Mallorie.
“Barrett. How are you?” That’s her answer.
“Doing just fine, and you?”
“I’m good. What can I help you with?”
“When do you think the house will close?”
“Hmm…” I hear nails clicking on some surface. “Earliest? Some time next week. Latest, the week or two after.”
My fingers clench the phone. “Thank you.”
“How is the house?”
“It’s great. I hope you’re doing well,” I add.
“I am.” I can tell she’s going to say more, so I beat her to the punch. “I’ll be in touch.”
When the call is dead, I slam my fist against the countertop. I close my eyes and I can feel her hands in my hair. Her arms around me. I can hear her voice, her pretty, sultry voice that gets into my dick and makes me want her.
I dry off quickly. Roughly. My head feels hollow. My skin hums. My cock presses against my lower belly. Gwenna dances in and out of my mind.
Not okay.
I go to the bed and pull up some porn on my phone. Even as I watch big tits and a gleaming, pink pussy, I feel her palm cupping my face. I imagine her fingers stroking the inside of my thigh. I watch some porn star suck a dick and I imagine Gwenna’s lips, my dick.
I squeeze the phone as tightly as I can, then hurl it at the wall.
It’s because I’m tired. That’s all.
I go downstairs and make some coffee, waiting for my dick to deflate as the Keurig coughs and chokes.
* * *
Gwenna
Two nights. Two times sparring by myself next to the porch. I rang his doorbell yesterday at 5:30 p.m., but nothing.
I worry. I think anybody would. I clean, and sing, and talk to Mom and Jamie and, once, Rett. Jamie tells me I should use my key if I want to. I don’t. I don’t have a reason to invade his space. After what happened at my house the other night, he’s avoiding me. I wish he wasn’t, but I understand. So much more than most people would.
I dress for my lone fight tonight in some brown leggings and a long-sleeved blue shirt featuring the creatures on the children’s show Yo Gabba-Gabba. Inspired, I go to YouTube and find “Don’t Bite Your Friends,” a favorite song of the kids I babysit twice a month. I sing it as I lace up my hot pink sneaks.
It’s getting dark sooner. Working out at night seems even more depressing than it should. I tell myself if he doesn’t show up tonight, I’ll start working out in the daytime again, up in the clearing.
As it is, I can’t seem to make myself go out. A little after 5:30, I call Jamie and ask if she wants to go to the local hospital tomorrow in the bear suits.
“When do I not want to be a bear?”
I laugh. She’s weird. It’s why we’re friends.
“You hanging in there?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about him. It’s not your responsibility. You’ve done everything you can to be a good friend. He won’t hide forever. Give him another few days.”
“Yeah.” I chew my lip, then cut our conversation short and go outside and start to stretch.
