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“About fifty IQ points, apparently!” I shout at him. “And please tell me you didn’t have sex with monkeys in a movie?”
“What do you take me for?” he bellows, clearly offended. “I would never fuck a monkey. They were there for the dance sequence only.”
While I’m deeply relieved to hear that, I point the toe of my shoe at Spatula. “You come any closer and I’ll give your taint an episiotomy!”
“I don’t have time to talk about that Episcopal stuff,” he whines, impatient. “You’re just here to give Beastman a rise.”
Beastman moans, making bass sounds so erotic, I’m pretty sure he’s Barry White’s love child.
Spatula inserts himself between us, spraying Beastman’s chest with an oily substance. “Listen here, Mal. You’ve got him so hard. He could use that thing to cut diamonds. This is great, how you’re using his kink to help.” He opens the door even further, poking his head out to see what’s going on. Voices are louder out there, but it’s hard for me to tell. My head has an alarm in it, going off like an air raid siren.
Only this isn’t a drill.
“His kink?” I squeak as my eyes scan the small desk that Beastman turned into a makeshift dressing table. I need a weapon. I grab a dog’s chew toy from underneath. It’s baby blue plastic and about two feet in length, and has increasingly large spheres along the shaft as it progresses. Holding it in front of me, I fling it around, the air making a whoosh sound as my strokes turn it into a whip.
“Beastman loves femdom,” Spatula explains, leaping out of range of my makeshift defense mechanism. Having a weapon makes me feel bolder. Hopeful. Less terrified.
I am ready to kick some ass and get out of here.
“Femdom?” I look at Beastman, who is watching me with his tongue out, eyes glassy, hand on his, um… beastdom. You know how guys always say they’re so big, it’s not going to fit? And how it always fits?
This one ain’t gonna fit. I am pretty sure Beastman would need a large farm animal to be able to–
Oh. Oh, no. I never thought to ask why he’s called Beastman, did I?
“Yeah. Hey, Mal. You willing to wear a strap-on? Because you could turn old Beastman into the Titanic if you’d do some ass play and–”
“I REFUSE TO WEAR A STRAP-ON! IT IS NOT IN MY CONTRACT!” I shout up at him, waving my magic dog toy in an arc. He curls his belly in before I hit him with it.
Before Spatula can reply, another man interrupts us, clearly stunned by my words.
Someone I know.
Someone I haven’t seen in ten years.
Oh. My. God.
Chapter Four
I would know him anywhere.
Will Lotham.
The Will Lotham.
My high school crush.
“You have less than two minutes to get the hell out of my house,” he shouts at all of us, my eyes drawn to the way his jaw flexes, how his dark hair brushes against his red, frowning forehead. Still tall, wider and more muscular in the shoulders, Will’s face has grown even more handsome with time. Alert, sharp eyes narrow with suspicion, his anger justified and his authority unquestionable.
Looking up at Will Lotham from the carpeted floor with my leg coiled for action, my hand grasping the beaded weapon, I nearly faint.
“And for God’s sake, lady,” he says to me with a snort. “‘Lady.’” He uses finger quotes. “Take your damn strap-on and that anal-bead string and whatever other nasty equipment you’re using in my parents’ house and don’t you ever come back again!”
I drop the dog toy. It falls on my chest and rolls onto the floor, the biggest bead at the end coming to a final rest on top of my fallen purse.
Anal beads?
Our eyes lock.
