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1
WHALES DON’T BELONG ON THE BEACH
Good goddamn,I thought, sex should not be boring.
At least not according to the books I narrated for a living. But I lay staring at the ceiling while Tristan screwed me with as much gusto as an eighth grader taking an algebra test, and I was B-O-R-E-D bored.
Anemic morning light filtered past the room’s dark-blue, floor-length curtains. Early October rain drummed on the townhouse roof and pinged off the gutters. Across the driveway, a garage door rattled open, a car engine revved, then the garage door clattered and thudded shut as one of my neighbors left for work.
Seattle was waking up and starting its day.
I was flat on my back, legs spread, getting nothing.
I sighed.It really shouldn’t be like this.
My boyfriend of two years was what dreams were made of — six-two with green eyes, an angular jaw, and a body like Thor, the Motherfucking God of Thunder. But Tristan proved looks weren’t everything. Turns out giving a shit counted for a whole helluva lot more than a pretty face did.
Tris came with a grunt, rolled off me, and sat up. It was his day off, and hoping to interest him in getting me off too, I caressed the hills and valleys of his wide, pale back. He was a personal trainer and it showed on every inch of his lean, muscular body.
“What’s your hurry?” I murmured, hoping I sounded alluring.
He glanced over his shoulder at me, then stood. “Going for a run.”
Okaaay, looked like Zelda’s orgasm was off the Monday morning schedule.
I threw back the covers. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.” He tugged up his boxers.
His curt tone stung. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to run with you today.”
He never wanted to do anything outside the house with me anymore. “Sometimes I think you don’t want to be seen with me.” The bitter words slipped out before I could stop them.
He pulled his shirt down then leaned over the bed, fists planted on the mattress. “Zel, I work out with people all fucking week. Sometimes I just want to set my own pace and run without dead weight.”
I pressed my lips together. He didn’t look so handsome when he was being an asshole.
Tristan grabbed his red hoodie from the foot of the bed and headed for the door. “Everything isn’t about you, Zaftig.”
I collapsed back into the bedding and wrapped the yellow comforter around me. It was warm and cushy, but it didn’t keep out the chill of his cold shoulder. Nor could it cushion the blow of the nasty nickname.
Zaftig Zel.
I didn’t know who started it, but in fourth grade one of the kids learned the word meant plump and juicy. Of course they pinned it to the school’s only chubby girl.
Me.
It stuck. And Zelda Claudette Gordon got to be Zaftig Zel for eight long years.
“Fuck-nut.” I gnawed my thumbnail. He was perfectly happy to eat my cooking and stick his dick in me, but God forbid I should expect anything in return.
With a delicate trilling meow, Lulu, my little calico kitty, hopped onto the bed and made her way across the mountain of covers to head-butt me. Right behind her and twice her size, Frank launched all fifteen pounds of his furry self onto my stomach.
“Oof! Frank, you’re killing me!” He was a tuxedo kitty with white whiskers and white paws that somehow managed to feel like they were crushing my ribs with each step.
The cats smashed their fuzzy faces against my fingers. “It wasn’t always like this, right, guys?” They purred in response and Lulu chewed my thumb like a kitten.
