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“Yeah, you said that. So tell me something else.”
“We kinda work together.”
“Wait, you don’t have a male employee so it has to be someone…” She leaves the sentence hanging wide open like a door for me to walk through.
Another deep breath. “Dean McIntire from Corbin and Denton.” The words practically fly from my lips like a fighter jet taking off an aircraft carrier. My eyes widen at the confession, surprised that I’ve finally spoken his name aloud in a manner other than pertaining to my taxes.
“Why does that name sound familiar? Wait! Isn’t he —”
“Yes!” I exclaim, cutting her off. “Now you see, right? You see why we can’t have a relationship.” And while I do feel that we should keep it professional, that’s completely Dean’s hang up, not mine. Mine is more personal. Very personal. Something else I’ve never spoken to another soul alive. Well, besides Cole.
“That’s not working together; not really. You can totally diddle on the side with someone who does your taxes, Pay. I say if it’s World Series sex, then diddle away!”
“Anyway, he has a rule, and he’s right. It won’t happen again. What’s going on with you?” I ask, searching desperately for a redirect. Anything to turn the spotlight away from me and towards one of my sisters. It’s actually one of my specialties as the oldest sibling. “How come you haven’t been having World Series sex?”
She chugs a bit of water and shakes her head. “I went out with the drummer from Levi’s band last weekend.”
Levi is my littlest sister, Abby’s, best friend. They have a thing for each other. We all see it and know it, while they, apparently, choose to ignore it. He’s in a local band as a guitarist and backup vocalist, and therefore has no shortage of women eager to keep him company afterwards. It kills me to see the sadness in Abby’s eyes when she sees him with other women, but she’s too afraid to do something about her mega crush. I’m sure she’s terrified of wrecking their friendship. So instead, she chooses to be miserable.
Go figure.
Pot, meet kettle.
“Why didn’t we know you were going out with him?” I ask, interested in why she kept this from all of us.
“I didn’t want it to be weird for Levi or Abby if things didn’t go well,” she states.
“And things didn’t go well?”
“I fell asleep.”
I give her a look, confused as to where she’s going with this. “On the date?”
“Afterwards. In bed.” I blink several times before she continues. “You’d think a drummer in a band would have excellent stamina in bed, right? I mean, it’s so clichéd and practically a rule. Well, this wasn’t even close to World Series sex, Pay. I. Fell. Asleep. It was elevator sex, but with a sprint for the finish line. I don’t even know if he realized I was there or not. When I realized he was pounding the hell out of me in a frenzy to get himself off, I totally faked it.”
“You faked an orgasm?”
“Hell yes I faked an orgasm! Then I grabbed my clothes, told him I was coming down with something contagious, and got the fuck out of there!”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. “Laugh it up. It was horrible. He was a two-pump chump. I bet, start to finish, it was a total of four minutes. His idea of foreplay was to shake his ass at me when he stripped off his skinny jeans. It was like I was expected to stick a dollar bill down his tighty whities”
Laughter. Oh God, I can’t breathe. I’m laughing so hard tears are rolling down my face. “That’s horrible,” I finally choke out through fits of giggles.
“It was. So my point is, not everyone gets to experience World Series sex. If you find a slugger who hits a grand slam, then you should definitely round the bases as much as humanly possible.”
“What’s with the baseball analogies?”
“You started it. I don’t even like baseball.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching whatever dramedy is playing on the Hallmark Channel. I don’t even really notice she’s still there until her stomach growls, drawing my attention from the television. The clock on the wall says nine-thirty, which completely surprised me, considering I’m usually in bed around now.
“Do you want to order food?”
“No, I better get home,” she says, standing up and stretching. “I’ve still got papers to grade for tomorrow.”
I follow as she walks the short distance to my front door and slips on her coat. “Thanks for stopping by,” I tell her, reaching for the knob. “Oh, and what I told you about you know who? Can we keep that between us?”
AJ gives me a direct look, her matching green eyes full of compassion and understanding. “Of course. As long as you don’t say anything about the drummer.”
