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Not about this kind of shit.
“I’m going,” I say.
“Cool.”
“You should, too, before she wakes up.”
“What’s the matter?” Peter asks. “Afraid I might give it to her again and change her mind?”
“I don’t think she’s that easily swayable.”
“Yeah, neither do I,” Peter says after a moment of reflection. “Too bad.”
“I’m gone.”
“See ya,” he says with a curt wave.
“Yeah, maybe,” I mutter as I walk out of the apartment.
I stand outside and wait for my car. The ride home feels like it takes forever. We’re stuck in the city’s nighttime traffic. People going out for a show, some dinner, some sex.
That reallywaswild. The kind of sex that the minute you get home from it, you’re horny just from the memory of it and want to get off again.
The fact, though, that it’s not just a chick I’m thinking about is different. It’s not that there was also a guy involved. It wasn’t my first rodeo. Or second or third. I’m a swinging guy.
It’s just that… it involved Peter. And Becky. They’re somehow making me catch feelings for them. That could be pretty fucking dangerous.
The car pulls up to my house. I get out, still lost in my thoughts. I don’t even turn on the lights in the vestibule. I strip off my clothes as I go. Make my way quickly to the shower.
I try to shower off thoughts of the two of them, as I literally scrub their sex off my bodies. The water is hot, almost scalding, but that’s good. Helps me focus.
A short while later, I’m feeling more like myself. I’ve got a plush robe on and I’m standing at my kitchen island with a glass of wine in my hand. I’m fucking starving. After all, I’ve been exerting myself.
While I’m debating whether to cook something or order in, my doorbell rings.
For a split second, I wonder if it’s Becky. Then I remember she doesn’t know where the fuck I live.
Could it be Peter? Did he follow me? And if so, why?
I’m hesitant to open the door. Then I hear knocking. And an unfamiliar voice calls my name.
“Who’s there?” I call back.
“Courier, sir.”
“Courier?” What the hell’s a courier doing dropping something off at this time of night. I glance at my cell phone to see if I missed a text from the board or something, letting me know they were sending me info.
Nothing.
I go to the front door and swing it open.
“Sign, please,” the bike messenger says abruptly. He holds out an electronic pad. I run my finger sloppily over the line on the screen. “Here ya go,” he says, handing me a manilla envelope.
“Who sent you?” I ask.
The courier shrugs.
“I just pick up and drop off, man.”
