We move over to the couch in the living room. We’re sitting close together.
“While I’m gone, you’ll be working with the new therapist, Troy.”
“Who?” I ask.
Great. Just when I’m getting used to the physical therapist I didn’t want but was assigned anyway – and not just because I want to rub her clit and eat her pussy hole until she’s screaming my name in pleasure, but also because I think Anne was right that she’s a pretty damn good therapist – I have to have another one, at least for a while.
I don’t know which fate is worse. This or Texas.
“Troy,” she says.
“Troy,” I repeat. “He sounds like a douchebag.”
“No, he’s very nice.”
She gets up and closes the curtains.
Then I think, why the hell not? I haven’t seen my mom in so long. I should really see if she’s still alive and hasn’t drunk herself to death. Or worse. I would hate it if she had OD’d.
But I tell myself it’s just the wine talking. And my raging boner.
I shouldn’t think with that head. I’d better get out of here.
“Well, I gotta get going,” I say and stand to leave.
“Sure,” she says. She accompanies me to the front door. “Thank you so much for dinner.”
“Thank you,” I say.
She puts her hand out and I shake it.
“See ya,” I say.
“Bye, Lincoln.”
I start out the door and then turn to her.
“OK, I’ll seriously think about doing it.”
She furrows her brow. “Doing what?”
“Going to Texas with you.”
“Oh, Lincoln,” she says and places her hand on my shoulder.
I look at her hand on my shoulder and she removes it.
“You don’t have to.”
“No, I will,” I say.
“OK, we’ll talk about it.”
I nod and turn to leave.
“Good night,” she says and clicks the door shut behind me.
If going to Texas means being with Amanda, then I really will think about trying to do it.
I just hope I don’t end up regretting it.
Chapter 9
Amanda
I don’t know why I asked Lincoln to come with me to visit my family. It just felt right at the moment, but I guess now I’m having my doubts.
I start to clean up when Margie, my roommate, comes home. She’s as flustered as ever and breezes in with her characteristic irritation.
“How was your day?” I ask, knowing full well what kind of answer I’m going to get.
“Horrific as usual,” she says and plops down on the couch.
She takes out her phone and checks it.
“You really need to mellow a bit, my love,” I say to her.
“Tell me about it.”
Margie is a woman in a man’s world. She’s kind of an antique: while many women have gone all out on femininity these days, she’s kind of stuck in the 1980s, and I don’t mean just the songs she likes. She dresses in mannish suits, wraps up her hair in a bun, and wears severe glasses and no makeup because she thinks that’s what she has to do.
Of course, the firm she works for, Ambler & Wharton, is still so old school, even for the twenty-first century, but I tell her that that’s no excuse. She dismisses me with her comments about my being too much of a girly girl, but I think that’s why Lincoln likes me.
Lincoln, always in my head. I can’t get him out of my mind.
But I love Margie. She’s my best friend and the first person I met upon relocation. I want to talk to her about Lincoln but she’s tired.
I retreat to the kitchen.
“Something smells awfully good,” she says.
I start to reheat the beef stew, put some bread and cheese on a plate, pour a glass of wine and take it out to the living room.
“Here, love,” I say.
She looks up at me and smiles.
“Sorry for being such a bitch,” she says.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I am,” she says.
She throws her phone to the side, takes off her glasses, lets down her hair and kicks her shoes off.
“This really tastes so good,” she says, as she eats the bread and cheese. She looks up at me. “Thank you for being so kind to me.”
She strokes my arm with her hand.
“I’ll have some nice stew for you in a moment.”
“Thank you,” she says and sips her wine.
She places the glass on the coffee table and turns to look at me.
“So, tell me, who was that guy I saw?”
“What guy?” I ask.
“Yeah, come on,” she says.
“That was Lincoln,” I say, and plop myself next to her on the couch. “Lincoln Drake.”
“You mean the boxer?” she asks and lifts her legs onto the couch and sits on them.
“No, MMA.”
“Oh,” she says. “Well, I don’t know all the lingo and I’m not a fan of it, but even I’ve heard of him. He’s pretty legendary here in New York, and he was really big for a while on the Vegas circuit.”
“Cool,” I tell her.
I try to sound nonchalant, but it turns me on to think of seeing him sweating in skimpy clothes, fighting some other guy and winning because he’s so strong. Maybe afterwards we’d celebrate his win by fucking in a jacuzzi. He’d hold my pussy up to the jets so the pressure will be even more intense as he fingers me and then puts his undoubtedly big cock up inside my pussy which is wet because of more than just the jacuzzi water.