Pushing the Limit

Peppermint

Ijoked about Dash wrestling around with Bishop, brushed it off as a thing guys do. But not all guys do that. Men my own age don’t do that immature shit on a regular basis. It’s just another reminder that he’s so young — too young for me.

He plays video games. I play classical music.

He likes smoking joints. I like burning incense.

I graduated high school when he was probably still in diapers. That’s a disturbing thought. Even more disturbing because it doesn’t change the fact that I have fantasized about having his face buried between my legs.

“I need a drink,” I say, pushing the dirty thoughts from my head.

“Me too,” Davina agrees. “Let’s toast to the opening of Harlot’s Haven. It’s not official yet, but it’s close enough.”

Lina grabs a bottle of tequila and pours us each a shot. We toast, clinking our glasses, and I down mine in one gulp. The liquor burns, making me wince, but I tap the glass for a refill. Lina grins and pours us all another.

“Oh, have mercy, my only thought,” Dash sings from over at the pool tables, “was tequila makes her clothes fall off.”

Davina laughs. “And whose clothes are you wanting to fall off, Dash?”

“Why? Are you going to strip down?”

He’s joking, completely teasing Davina, but a twinge of jealousy shoots through me. She’s not interested in Dash, but the fact that there is a slim chance he could be with her — with anyone else — doesn’t sit well with me.

“I’m going to head out, ladies. See you tomorrow night,” I say.

I have to get out of here. Jealousy isn’t my color. I almost make it to the door before Dash reaches me. His hand rests at the small of my back as he follows me outside.

“I don’t need you to walk me out.”

“I know. But you’ve been drinking so I wanted to make sure you’re okay to drive.”

“I had two shots, Dash. That’s it.”

“That’s all it takes. Trust me.”

He’s serious, his tone suddenly somber. I almost ask why but decide not to. Finding out more about him, about whatever it was that caused the change in his voice, is not a good idea. I’ll want to help. To make it better.

“I wouldn’t drive if I were drunk,” I assure him. “I have my son to think about, you know?”

“Right.” He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“Dash?”

“Just be careful, okay?”

Before I can reply, he cups the back of my neck and gently brushes his lips across mine. He doesn’t linger, simply giving me a good night kiss. He walks back inside, and I climb into my truck to head home.

Something definitely happened to make him behave like that. It might not be any of my business, but dammit, I want to know. And yes, I absolutely want to make it better for him.