Page 68 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
“Woohoo!” She pumps her fists and jumps up and down as if I just completed an Ironman. “I knew it. He had sex all over his voice when he called me. It was so damn hot I almost had to get myself off.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you got laid. So . . .” She pats the makeshift bench of a two-by-six piece of wood sitting atop two spaced out sawhorses. “You better not leave out a damn bit of detail.”
“You really want a blow-by-blow?”
“Ohh, you naughty girl!” She screeches. “You blew him, too. I love it!”
“No—I—oh my God, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“So, you didn’t blow him?”
“Desi!”
“Yes, that just means there’s going to be another time to explore all other avenues you haven’t ventured down yet.”
“Slow down, Turbo,” I say as I put some of my supplies back on the cleaning cart before taking a seat beside her. “It wasn’t like you’re thinking.”
“It wasn’t?” she asks, her smirk only growing wider. “Was it more swing from the chandeliers or more gasp for breath because your face is pushed into the mattress because he feels so good from behind?”
“Jesus,” I choke out but shouldn’t expect any less from her.
“Did you satisfy your curiosity then?”
“You know what they say about curiosity . . .”
“It killed the cat, yeah, yeah. But honey, by the grin on your face, I know your kitty meowed. A lot.”
“How about you stop or else you don’t get any details.”
Her face falls, and I know I’ve hurt her feelings when I didn’t mean to. I love the woman to death but subtlety is not her forte and overboard dramatics definitely are.
“Okay. I’ll shut my mouth so you can give me the 4-1-1.”
I laugh. We’ll see how long that lasts. “I don’t know,” I begin. “We had some drinks. We talked for a few hours. We were too tipsy to drive so we walked back to his house. On the way, we decided that if we got each other out of our systems, we might be able to stop this nonsense competition we seem to be in over who has to be in control. A one-time romp with no strings attached.”
“Get each other out of your systems?” She guffaws and just barely manages not to laugh at the idea. “Because that’s what normal childhood friends do when they reunite after twenty years.”
“Reunite? Is that what it’s called?”
“I am trying to be good here. What word should I use to describe it?”
“How about ‘fucked’?” She isn’t the only one who can deliver the shock value, and by the way she just choked on her next word, I’d say I was successful at it.
“Fucked. I can approve of that word.” She laughs. “But the question remains: Did it work? Did you get each other out of your systems?”
I stare at her as I try to figure out how to answer.
Of course it didn’t work. Being with him once only left me wanting more. Pride prevents me from acknowledging that every time my phone rings, I jump to see if it’s him, only to chastise myself that it doesn’t matter if it is.
One time. That’s all it can be.
My rule. Not his.
And I hate that the only time we’ve talked was when he called to apologize for his brothers showing up unannounced.
“So, the one-time thing,” she continues on, well aware that I haven’t responded to her last question. “Was this his rule or yours? My bet is on you.”
