Page 5 of Play With Me

“Do you think I have daddy issues, Has?” I asked, tearing my eyes away before he looked back and caught me drooling.

“Probably. I assume we both do, and that’s why we’re friends,” he said, not surprised at all by my question. He checked over his shoulder, then back to the camera view to make sure I couldn’t see Will’s naked ass when he whipped his towel off and twerked somewhere beyond Hasan’s ludicrously fat head. Probably.

If I knew my friend as well as I thought I did, he truly believed that being careful not to violate Will’s privacy kept things respectful—that sweet summer child. Me: a Regency gentleman consumed with filthy thoughts about ladies’ ankles. Will Hawkins: a lady’s ankle.

As much as proximity to an attractive, presumably unrelated man tempted me to make unwise choices, I wasn’t worried about getting lost in a guy. I have been a master of casual sex ever since my first time with Joshua Liston, senior year of high school, which we reprised at least once a year until he met his soon-to-be wife.

I’m not trying to brag or anything, but I crushed undergrad when it came to hookups. I know, I know… Say I was a slut without saying I was a slut. Quite frankly, I was a slut. But I graduated with a hell of a lot of good sex under my belt and no unintended pregnancies, STDs, or broken hearts. If I were a man, I’d put it on my resume.

As far as I know, I have yet to fall victim to the psychological ramifications of being abandoned as a baby that the child psychologist predicted would rule my life. Aside from an egregiously codependent relationship with Hasan. Dr. Jacobs suggested “emotional misalignment” would hinder my relationships, but that was assuming I wanted any in the first place. I didn’t.

At some point, Has walked away from the computer, so I was just clipping my toenails when I registered the time. I needed to get going if I was going to put a dent in the lampshade order I’d been commissioned to produce for a local restaurant. I looked up at the camera just as Will walked by on his way out the door. Like a USMC recruiting poster and Paul Newman had a baby, raised him to be the strong, silent type, and sent him to school in the uniform featured in every woman’s WWII fantasies. For real... God did not have to go that hard.

I wolf-whistled, but the only reaction was a shriek from the bathroom. Shit. Hassi still had his headphones in.

“Sorry, babe. I hope that clench helps you wrap up in there.”

I heard a muffled “Gross!” from the bathroom.

“You’re welcome. I’ll call you tonight when I hear back from Rach,” I said, ending the call.

After a disastrous hookup attempt in college, Rachel and I had instantly become friends-who-will-never-try-that-again-with-each-other, and now she’s a painter and art teacher in the Greater Boston area. She wanted to go halfsies on a studio space she found in downtown Boston and was going to FaceTime me when she toured it. I unplugged my iPhone, tucked Scooter McGavin under my arm, and locked up the apartment behind me.

I loved the city, but it hadn’t felt like home since Has left. He hadn’t come back to our old stomping grounds nearly as frequently as I did once we took off for college. Then he’d gone and accepted a graduate position at BU for what he was so sure was love, only to break it off a month or two later.

I strapped on my helmet and headed for the studio.

Kids were at recess when I scooted by the school. Desi was nowhere to be seen, but a couple of the middle school boys I knew swaggered up to the fence line just to piss me off.

“Damn, girl, you lookin’ juicy today! Smile pretty for us, Isa!”

Round of applause, please, for Fordham’s very own aspiring fuckboy, Robert deAngelo, Grade 6!

I know every generation complains about kids these days, but honestly, it’s not their fault that they suck so hard. These poor kids missed out on the pure golden sunshine that was Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.

My upcoming move to Boston would mark the end of my influence on the children of my neighborhood, and I’d regret not making the most of what I had left.

“Hey, Robbie—” I waved over my shoulder. “Your dad called and he still doesn’t want you!”

3

Eilidh Swan

Boston, MA

Will

Between checking in at my unit and what was bound to be Apology Hour with Malik, I absolutely demolished the rest of my cigarettes. I needed to punish myself for being an idiot and a pervert, since finding out the woman on screen was unofficially “taken”—by my roommate, no less—didn’t stop me from jerking off in the shower thinking about her pretty tits and rosy lips. Embarrassment lingered, stubborn as ever. It was clear I needed to get my shit together.

Still stuck with the computer lab and a flip phone, I hadn’t even considered that Hasan might be on a two-way call. I’d only Skyped my family occasionally on my last deployment, and I’ve spent the better part of a decade living with glorified man-children, so hot woman on screen equals porn or girlfriend was a pretty solid assumption. He’d said he didn’t have the latter, but they were obviously something—they were buying a house together for fuck’s sake.

To add to my anxiety about the whole situation, there was also the fact that I’ve definitely met that chick before, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where or when. It’d be just my luck that we hooked up at some point—can you imagine? Oh, hey, not only did I think your girl was a porn star, but I also fucked her a while back and forgot her name. Then I accidentally jerked it all over your shampoo bottle thinking about her, even though you guys are probably a thing, and now I feel so guilty that I’m already planning to lie to your face about it later. I needed to stop before I spiraled face-first into another pack of smokes or the nearest pussy.

As awkward as the whole exchange felt, my most fervent wish wasn’t for a do-over, but that I could relay the whole fucking saga to my dad. It was objectively hilarious and exactly the kind of story that would’ve had him rolling, and God, I missed hearing him taking the piss.

I heard footsteps approaching and tossed my empty pack in the trash. I’m quitting for good, starting now. A bald head I’d recognize anywhere came around the corner. I grinned from ear to ear. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Ortiz,” I said to my old friend. I loved that the Marine Corps was such a small world.

“Hawk! My man,” he said, wrapping his arms around me in a genuine hug, his hand cupping the back of my head and rubbing the short hair there. A swell of emotion crashed into me when I realized I hadn’t been hugged by another man since Christian Ortiz showed up at Dad’s funeral a little over a year ago. I gave him a quick squeeze and broke the embrace to cradle his face and slap his cheek affectionately.