The F-Word

Then I step on the gas and get the hell away from temptation.

Driving home is difficult. Not the drive itself. What’s difficult is trying to get past those last sudden minutes of, I don’t know, insanity. Wanting to kiss her again.

And again.

And…

I take a long breath, hold it for a count of five, and then slowly expel it. Doing eighty on the highway might not be the best place for Zen, but neither is realizing that something in what had looked like a simple plan has gone terribly wrong.

My brain feels scrambled.

Was it the hours spent learning the differences between petite, juniors, misses and women’s sizes? Not even the positions in football are that confusing, but no, that stuff had all sorted out pretty fast.

Was it the total realization of what I’d volunteered to do? Playing a game of payback to get even with a woman who’d subjected my girl—sorry, my PA—to years of not-so-subtle torture? Nope. Payback’s a bitch, and Vituperative Vi deserves everything she’s gonna get.

Okay, Mr. Contestant. So if it’s not Number One that made you run like a rabbit and it’s not Number Two, what is it? After all, the plan is set. The game is about to begin. I am ready and eager to start.

True.

But I’m also ready, eager and desperate to have my way with my girl. With my PA.

With my Bailey.

I frown. Have my way with who? With whom? Frankly, I don’t give a crap whether it’s who or whom. What matters is that Bailey is not my anything. Well, yeah. She’s my PA. But the rest of it…

Jesus.

What I want to do is fuck her.

And that is definitely not part of the plan.

I could do it too. I’m no idiot. I know women. I know what it means when a woman slips into my arms, when she raises her face to mine, when she makes those soft little sounds as we kiss…

A horn blares. I spin the wheel to the right and it takes a long two seconds of sweat before I avoid ending up on the median, which is unthinkable. I am a good driver. Better than good. I’ve done some semi-pro racing—Corvettes are made for speed, after all—and I take pride in my never-had-an-accident-anywhere-anytime record. Which I came awfully close to breaking just now.

Carefully, I maneuver to the right lane. I take the next exit, pull over as soon as it’s okay to do so, take out my iPhone and hit a speed dial button.

Cooper answers.

“What?”

Not a good sign. He sounds distracted. That gives me two choices. He’s either with a woman—Coop, like me, is no slouch when it comes to women—or he’s just made some kind of scientific discovery that will undoubtedly win him the Nobel Prize.

I don’t care.

I need his full attention, and whether he has to zip up his fly or his head doesn’t matter.

“It’s me.”

“And?”

“Are you in the middle of something?”

“I’m almost in the middle of something. Speak, and make it fast.”

“I have to talk to you.”

“Call back in five minutes.”