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The first bottle lay empty on the coffee table, and he clutched a third in his other hand.
“Poor Saint Nick. I drove you to drink.”
“If this were any other year, I’d be at the bar right now.”
“So, go. No one’s stopping you.”
“This relationship is stopping me,” he said making an air quote gesture with his curved fingers. “You really want our moms to see me drinking alone?”
I shrugged and peeled back the covers of the bed. “There could be a lot of reasons for you to be there alone. Watching a game. I have a headache. I got my period.”
His lips curled down in the corners with a sarcasm I’m not used to seeing on him, but actually kind of like on account of the expression proves he’s human like the rest of us.
“I’ll try to remember that. Why don’t you ever go to the bar with us?” he asked as he flopped his head back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling.
“Because Chance can’t handle the fact that I fuck about as often as he does.”
Met with silence, I settled under the covers and glanced over to find him staring at me.
Hard.
“What?”
“Do you?” he asked. The muscles in his cheek jumped.
Huh.
“Do I?”
“Fuck as often as he does?”
It was like he was seeing me for the first time. No bullshit antics. No defense mechanisms. He was looking at me like a man looked at a woman.
His gaze crawled over me and I shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal despite the way my heart raced in response.
“What’s my motivation to lie? What translates to big dick energy for you guys is branded promiscuity for me, so the truth doesn’t make me look good.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed and he nodded, his eyes flicking back to the bag. “The big one. I don’t—” He shook his head and gulped down the tequila. “That one confuses me.”
“Ahh, this sucker.” I hopped up and slid it out of the long mesh accessory pocket and held it up with both hands. “This is the Wanachi Mega Massager.” I gave it a swing and slapped the head into my palm, the snap echoing in the room. “She’s a girthy one, right? Seventeen inches long. The head is four and a half inches tall on its own.”
This—humor. This felt like safe ground.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “You’re a massage therapist.”
“Yeeeeeessss.”
“But a regular one, right? You don’t—you’re not—”
He gestured to his lap, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Not what? Into happy endings?”
“Yeah.” He tipped back more tequila.
“Only my own? Sure. But I’m not a sex worker. No judgment. Just not my thing.”
“So this weekend you planned to—” He waved his arm, but didn’t say the words.
Apparently, I was just going to keep filling in the blanks. “Masturbate?
