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“So I can live vicariously through you, of course.”
I stuck my tongue out at him, and Patrick laughed. By now, Patrick was used to the irreverent atmosphere at Molly’s and also to Robin’s antics, and he was much more relaxed.
“That’s very mature,” Robin said. “Fine. Have it your way. I don’t care what the fuck you did up there.”
“Yeah, you do.”
His face fell, and he folded his hands together in a begging gesture. “Oh fuck, Toby, please? Just tell me one thing! You’re living the fucking dream, you know!”
“Oh, as if. I’m sure you’ve been to the Bordello, and probably with one of the regulars. Or all of them, maybe?” I said, thinking of all the times Robin had hinted that he’d done exactly that.
He played his fingers along the edge of the settee. “Actually, I haven’t.”
I stared at him, while Patrick’s gaze went back and forth between us. “But…you’ve told me—”
“I have a big mouth—and an even bigger imagination.”
“Huh. I always thought those stories were true,” I said, regarding him from a new perspective.
He shrugged. “Well, I had to say something. You all think I’m a huge slut. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”
“Robin,” I said, “trust me. Nothing about you is disappointing.”
He nodded and didn’t say anything. But he almost smiled.
“I wouldn’t mind hearing what you guys did back there,” Patrick said in a hopeful voice.
I sighed, because although Robin could be disingenuous and annoying, he was also kind of hilarious and I loved him in a weird way, and Patrick was unbelievably sweet. The two of them seemed to be forming a bond, and Patrick might be a calming influence on the flamboyant server.
“It was nothing. He dressed me up and spanked me, then sucked me off. Then I sucked him off. No big deal.”
“But you could have done all that at home,” Patrick said, sounding disappointed.
“Well…” I smiled, remembering the details.
“Never mind, Patrick. He’s not going to tell us,” Robin stated, ushering Patrick out of the room.
It really did sound like nothing.
But it had been everything.
* * * *
Alastair’s phone alarm woke us at eight-thirty on Tuesday morning, which was later than Alastair got up on a workday. He’d booked the day off, so he was cheerful when he got out of bed. I wished I felt the same.
“It’s fine. I don’t need any of that stuff. Let’s forget it,” I mumbled, turning over and closing my eyes.
The mattress dipped.
“Toby.”
“Shhh.”
“Get up.”
“Nope.”
The bedclothes flew off of me, and a hand cracked against my backside.
