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On the bright side, at least I have a date for the wedding. I can’t imagine what Paisley would say if I showed up to her wedding solo. I’m sure it’d be lots of ‘poor, pitiful, Plainy Janey’ couched as actual concern and sorrow while she not-so-subtly grinned at my misfortune and laughed behind my back. Or straight to my face.
Checking my watch, I realize how late it’s gotten. “Oops, I’ve gotta go. Mason’ll be taking over for the evening shift,” I say, changing the name on the whiteboard Mrs. Michaelson has never looked at. “Oh, and don’t forget to give Mason a hard time about his porn-stache. He needs to grow his beard back out, STAT,” I stage whisper to the woman.
“Hey!” Mason complains from the door, where he’s peeking around the corner. “I know your true issue with my ‘stache. You’re lusting after the Chris Evans villain-era look.” He wipes his hand over his mouth, needlessly and dramatically smoothing the wiry hair down and then grinning as his hand transforms into a finger gun. “Oh, yeah,” he rumbles, nodding as if that show was the epitome of sexy-cool.
Mason is my best friend at work, and beyond, too. He’s a great guy, and I’ve worked with him for years at the care center, helping him go from newbie nurse to confident caregiver. In return, he’s my personal hype guy, cheering me on, boosting me up, and telling everyone else at the center ‘move, bitch’ when my polite and too-quiet ‘pardon me’ isn’t enough. Along the way, we’ve gotten to know each other, and he’s one of the few people I feel comfortable joking around with.
I knew he was listening, which is the entire reason I mentioned his facial hair, so I grin back. “I’m right and you know it. Your chinny-chin-chin hairs are epic, and you’ve proclaimed an annoyingly high number of times that the ladies love your beard,” I tease. “Hell, we joked about taking a cue from LL Cool J and calling you LL Hairy M, but that has a completely different vibe, so... ew.”
His natural confidence melts, and he ducks his nearly naked chin with a shy shrug that is the antithesis of his usual swagger. “Greta wasn’t a fan.”
“Then we’re not a fan of Greta,” I counter with a raised brow and a fire I wouldn’t typically express, but Mason’s situation calls for it. When he doesn’t seem any surer, I propose, “If you told her that you prefer blondes, with even the barest hint of a suggestion that she color her hair, she would rightfully burn you in effigy. And all of womenkind, myself included, would cheer her on and offer a lighter. Why should your beard be any different? If you like it, rock it.”
Ever heard the expression,Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach? Yeah, I’m teaching hard right now because Mason reminds me, “Aren’t you the same girl who got a professional blow-out that took three whole hours and several hundred dollars because Henry thought your hair should look less wild for the company Christmas party?”
“Well, yes,” I agree. “But that doesn’t make it right. And my hair is crazy. Your beard is like an ad out of a lumberjack magazine. Don’t waste it.”
“You’re right,” he allows, but I don’t think he actually agrees. Hopefully, the seed’s been planted, though, because he deserves someone who appreciates his sly humor, good looks, and heart of gold. If that’s Greta, great. If not, Mason could have women lining up down the curb with a look. “You and Henry heading out for some R-and-R-and-R?” he asks, redirecting the conversation away from things he’d rather not examine too closely.
Of course, I let him, not arguing a bit. But I frown, racking my brain for what the third R might be. Rest, relaxation, and...?
“Relaxin’, romancin’, and ridin’ ‘em, cowgirl,” he hoots in the worst fake twang I’ve ever heard. Twirling an arm overhead, he mimes riding a bull... or something else. “Yah, yah!”
The moves become more spanking and less rodeo, and I can’t help but laugh. Glancing over my shoulder at Mrs. Michaelson, I scold him through a smile, “You’re awful and that’s wrong, so wrong. She’d be clutching her pearls and wagging a finger at you, for sure. Mason Bowen Tillman!” I throw my voice high the way I imagine she might sound, using his full government name to give him a talking-to for being crass.
“Probably,” he agrees as his pleased grin only grows. I shake my head, still giggling a bit myself. “For real, have fun. You deserve it, Janey.”
“I know,” I quip as I sign off on the chart.
I deserve this.
I keep saying it to myself, hoping that if I make it into a mantra, I’ll start believing it. So far, it’s not working. But I keep trying, practice-makes-perfect style.
Despite my judging Mason’s relationship, I didn’t tell him that Henry bailed on me in favor of work. I know what he’d say, and I don’t want another TED talk about how I’m letting Henry walk all over me and giving way more than I’m getting. We’ve already had that convo a few times, and I stand by my argument that while Henry’s not perfect, neither am I, and we’re making it work, even taking steps toward a more serious relationship.
Like a vacation together.
And going to a wedding.
Besides, these days, I thank my lucky stars that I have a boyfriend who’s gainfully employed, has a car and place of his own, and doesn’t drink to excess. Things that should be bare minimum requirements but are all too often a hard find in a single person.
“Hey, Mrs. Michaelson. I’m Mason. You and I are gonna have some fun tonight. We’ve got a lovely 2023 electrolyte dosage prepared for you this evening,” I overhear him say as if he’s reading her the wine list.
I wave to the other nurses at the desk, friendly to a fault, and I’m off. My first vacation in years and my first solo vacation ever. Even if it’s only for a few days until Henry finishes the McDermott project.
* * *
I’ve got my favorite strawberry apricot Red Bull in the cupholder, a smutty audiobook playing, and surrounding the gray strip of two lane road I’m driving down is nothing but dark green forest, making me feel like a million bucks. Miles to go before I sleep? Fuck you, Robert Frost. I’m feeling like I’ve got miles to go in order to live.
The sun dances through the leaves, creating a dappled effect in front of me, and I feel like with every mile further from the city I go, I can breathe a little deeper. I do deserve this.
“Yes, my Queen. Show me how you need it. I am here to serve.” Devon’s cock pistons in and out of Veronica’s slippery pussy as he bares his neck, inviting her sharp bite. Veronica moves her fingers to dance over and around their connection, finally feeling full and complete. In one way. But in another way, she’s still hungry... so hungry.”
An automated voice interrupts my book, and I startle, feeling my cheeks go hot like I’m the one getting railed and ravished.“Take the next right onto private drive.”
“Shit,” I hiss and then immediately laugh at my overreaction. “Carry on, you two,” I say as Devon and Veronica’s story starts back up again.
But a moment later, I have to turn it down so I can concentrate. This ‘private drive’ is more like a trail, with trees encroaching on both sides of Sioux-B, my yellow Crosstrek, and I have to stay directly centered in the two tire tracks to keep the branches from scratching my paint.
