“Do you derive some kind of sick pleasure from torturing me?” I mutter with my head in hands.
“What a stupid question, Jones. You know I do.”
“I need, like, three more Monster drinks right now just to hold my head up. I hate you.”
“You love me. You can’t stand how much you love me.”
If he only knew how dangerously close to the truth that is. Lifting my black wayfarers, I get a good look at the man inflicting the pain. White shirt, super stud sunglasses, worn jeans and some kind of bullshit limited edition sneakers. I shamelessly inspect each and every article of clothing he’s wearing, and as I do, I can feel my face twisting into a smirk.
“What?”
“It’s like a cry for help every time you get dressed.”
“You can’t keep your eyes off me. Man up and admit it.”
“I’ll admit you’re annoying. That’s what I’ll admit. And stop being so cheerful. That’s annoying, too.”
“I didn’t even shower this morning. The pheromones I’m giving off are especially powerful.”
“Lovely. Is that what that smell is? I thought you forgot a salami and provolone sandwich in the back seat.”
“You can’t help yourself. I get it. I’m irresistible to women and you’re––” He looks me over with a provocative smirk. “––definitely a woman.”
“I’m glad we got that cleared up.”
“It’s simple math,” the sexy bastard continues without a pause.
If I thought for a minute there was any real arrogance behind those words it might have earned him a smack down. The thing is, I get the distinct impression that he truly doesn’t know the magnitude of his appeal. My gaze swings out the window as I wrestle with a smile that won’t stay down.
“Here’s some simple math for you––two minus one equals this.” I flip him the bird.
A deep chuckle draws my attention back to him. He’s smiling again, the genuine kind, the kind that makes me want to simultaneously pick out baby names and insert a gun in my mouth.
Pulling off the road, onto a deserted parking lot, he parks the car. “Oh my God, it’s finally happened. I’ve driven you to murder and you’re too lazy to transport my body.”
“Get out of the car.”
“I am not going to walk into the woods and make this any easier for you.” I open the door and get out. Hands on hips, toe of my black sneakers tapping, I wait as he walks over to my side. When he reaches me he stands awfully close. Close enough that if he bends down, his mouth would be directly…
He pries my hand open and places something in my palm. I stare, and stare, and stare. Car keys. Then I look up and stare at him some more. One side of his mouth hooks up. I don’t know why, but he looks a little unsure and a lot serious.
“I’m going to teach you how to drive.”
My stomach sinks, the smirk melting off my face. My pride keeps telling me he’s too good to be true. That I couldn’t possibly have gotten this lucky.
I should’ve known better than to listen to my pride where my heart is concerned.
We spent the rest of the afternoon driving around the empty parking lot, a stupid smile permanently tattooed on my face while Mr. Perfect pretended to sleep through it all. Ethan left the next day, taking a piece of me with him.
Fancy: What are you wearing?
Me: Nothing.
Fancy: …
Fancy: …
Fancy: Really?
Me: He he he.
Funsize: Grady is moving. He’s going to live with his father.
How to handle this? I’m probably the last person she should be seeking advice on Love from. That’s why I type and delete four different responses. And in the end, go with the only one that is true.
Me: I’m sorry kiddo.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it isn’t this. I check the address on my cell phone one more time. Yep, I’m definitely in the right place. When Cassandra said sex shop, I thought––sex shop. I didn’t expect it to look like a Madison Ave boutique. The lingerie in the store window is stunning, a little more racy than Agent Provocateur, though not by far. I’m almost intimidated to walk in.
Inside, I am immediately met by the soft, seductive sound of Astrud Gilberto. The lavender walls, the deep purple shantung silk accents scream sophistication. As I walk further into the store, I can’t resist running my fingers over the silk of the teddies, the Chantilly lace of the garters, the butter soft leather of the…what in the precious fuck is this thing?
“Can I help you with something?” a deep, smooth voice inquires. Glancing past a display case of baffling sex instruments, I spot the owner of the voice. Dressed to the nines in a Narciso Rodriguez dress that slays on her tall, lithe frame, Cassandra arches a well groomed brow.