Page 51 of Rafferty's Rules
‘But it’s chocolate!’ she repeats, this time with a shrill squeal, her cheeks wine pink. ‘Not a real live penis dipped in chocolate that I’m asking if you’d put in your mouth. Just a fake one made fromchoc-o-late.’
‘I don’t likechoc-o-late.’
‘What? How can you not like chocolate?’
‘I just don’t.’ I shrug. ‘Never have.’
‘You’re just saying this because you don’t want to eat a chocolate penis.’ Her gaze narrows my way almost comically.
‘It’s not a penis. It’s a dick, darl. Definitely a dick.’ I stretch out, clasping my hands behind the back of my head. ‘To be a penis, it’d have to be anatomically correct.’
‘And you think it’s not?’ she asks a little primly, glancing down at the webpage on my iPad. We’d moved on to it from shopping on my phone. ‘But the one we ordered seems to have all the usual... accoutrements.’ It’s almost like that wasn’t the word she wanted to use, but rather it was the nicer choice of the two. Naturally, this just makes me want to hear her say very bad things and watch her go pink while she’s saying them.
I bark out a laugh. ‘The dick had accessories? I don’t remember seeing piercings.’
‘Okay, so not accoutrements exactly. Features. Testicles and veins and stuff. Even if the size was eye-wateringly big.’
‘You’re cracking me up,’ I say, still chuckling. ‘And how very proper and anatomical of you. Anyone would think you hadn’t just sent your ex a foot-long slab of chocolate man meat.’
‘In a flowery box,’ she protests. As though the girly packaging makes the gift somehow socially acceptable.
‘Ah, so we’re talking about dick wrapping now. For the record, I always wrap mine. And I don’t mean in flowery paper or a bow.’
‘Pity,’ she says, before adding hurriedly, ‘pity you don’t like chocolate, I mean.’
‘I’m sure that’s exactly what you were thinking.’Not
‘And speaking of thinking,’ she begins sweetly, ‘I don’t think we finished our conversation this morning on the kitchen floor.’
‘Yeah? What conversation was that?’ I ask, knowing full well what she’s talking about.
‘’You must remember.’
‘Sorry, darl. The whole morning is a blur,’ I lie.
‘That’s a shame,’ she pipes up, her eyes dark and glittering. And she surprises and disappoints the fuck out of me when she leaves the conversation right there and picks up my iPad again. Curled in the corner of the outdoor sectional sofa, she spends the next half hour window-shopping for other types of revenge gifts, ranging from a personalised but sloppily iced cake (Sorry you’re an asshole, William) to ribbons you might not win at a sports carnival, (#1 douchebag award) and a weird zoo led adopt-a-cockroach scheme where you pay to name one after your ex, then send him the certificate. There are deliveries of dead fish and other unattractive things, and then the less aggressive regular old sorry-I-dated-you notes delivered in pretty yet tasteless greeting cards. And all the while she’s window-shopping, she’s snorting and giggling as she describes the revenge market wares. And all I can think of is when we’re going to come back around to the topic of sex. Will this be a fake relationship with benefits or something safer instead? I know what it should be, and I know what I crave. Conflicted doesn’t even cover how I feel.
‘Hell hath no fury like a scorned woman with a search engine,’ I say as she giggles at yet another retribution gift.
‘Says the man who just paid for a massive chocolate penis to be delivered to my ex.’
‘Dick, not penis. Didn’t we already establish that? And on second thought, I don’t even think dick covers the monster you just sent. I think cock is the only acceptable label for that thing.’
‘Whatever,’ she replies, her colour heightening as she dips her gaze to the iPad again. ‘I’m not really going to send any of this other stuff to him. And it’s certainly not like I’m planning to superglue his genitals to his legs or anything.’
‘Dick—’ Far out. Of course, she heard. I blow out a breath long and hard. ‘Fucking Roman. Remind me to kill him next time I see him, would you?’
‘No, I like him. He’s the human equivalent of an oversized puppy. Like a golden retriever, bouncing around, teasing and eager and happy to please.’
‘Yeah, he’d be happy to please you, all right.’
‘I think I prefer my men when they play a little hard to get,’ she replies saucily. I try not to smile. And fail badly. Before I can answer, she’s speaking again. ‘Besides, it’s clear he worships you and wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.’
‘Worships the ground that will eventually cover me,’ I mutter, my brows pulling in as I briefly examine how my behaviour towards Byron has been the exact opposite of Roman’s to me.
‘What? You mean like when you die? That is an awful thing to say, Rafferty. Take that back.’ Along with the reprimand comes a flying cushion. But you know it, she doesn’t look like she’s joking, not even a little bit. ‘Life is precious, and I’m sure your brother isn’t waiting for you to die. What a horrible thing to say.’
‘It’s just a silly expression,’ I reply calmly, sliding the cushion behind my back. ‘I know I’m lucky to have the family I have. We take the piss and generally act the goat, but we’re like an army of four whenever one of us needs something.’ Which is why it’s so much harder these days for me to live with myself.
