by Evie Claire
Chapter 6
Brody
Bars were full of simple wisdom, the nuggets of knowledge that fired an arrow right to the heart of the human spirit. Alcohol loosened the synapses. Brought a clarity to life that was impossible to find among the clutters of everyday. Most of The Guns’ regulars could pontificate the complexities of life until closing time.
Brody Cantrell had heard some gems over the years. He’d tucked those truths away in a mental file he kept for a book he swore he would write one day. Someday. There were three main rules by which he lived life. Number one: if you don’t ask, the answer is always no. Number two: if you don’t step forward, you’ll always be in the same place. And number three, compliments of Uncle Nuck: sleeping with customers is the quickest way to lose money.
So why was it he found himself still staring at her number on a wrinkled bar napkin? The fact that he’d kept the napkin when her number was safely saved in his phone gave him his answer. He dragged a hand down his beard, acknowledging the trouble he was diving into headlong.
He’d been blown off before. No big deal. Women were either into him or they weren’t. He didn’t take it personally. There were plenty he wasn’t into. There’s a universal law of attraction in everything.
Phebe Stark, she was different. She’d be stuck in his mind forever if he didn’t do something about it. Uncertainty bugged the hell out of him. If she’d just told him to fuck off, he’d have his answer and be on his way. But she hadn’t. At least not yet. Knowing the little he did about her, that didn’t seem right. She didn’t appear to avoid anything in life.
That’s the kind of girl he’d been looking for. One self-secure enough that she’d understand a good bartender always gives off the impression of being “professionally single”—and she wouldn’t take it personally. A girl who had enough going on in her own life that she didn’t need to cause excess drama in his.
And then there was the small matter of chemistry. Chemistry was always the bitch. You couldn’t fake that shit. He’d played it cool with Phebe. Teased and flirted like always. It was innocent fun. Until her eyes, on his verbal guidance, strayed to his dick. It was more than the hunger glinting in hers. Though that had been fierce. It was the confidence, the implied expertise that accompanied her appraisal. Phebe Stark, he was certain, would rock his cock until it begged for mercy.
He laughed at the thought. If she could loosen up her “strictly business” buttons, they’d sure as hell have some fun. But was he being too aggressive? Probably. He balled up the napkin and threw it at the trash can a few feet away. Bank shot.
Brody grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, scooped up his word puzzle, and plopped down on his well-worn leather couch. He took a pen and scanned the list of crossed-out clues to where he’d left off.
* * *
—
Seventeen down. Galas. Five letters. Starts with B. Ends with S.
He shook his head and chuckled with disbelief as he filled in the letters. Fuck it. A girl like her would never cross his path again, unless he made her. Brody picked up his phone and fired off a text.
BRODY: Seventeen down reminds me of us.
Phebe
Phebe wrestled with the question all day and well into the evening. Should she suck it up, make up some lame excuse, and give the guy a shot? Or should she just forget it and concentrate on the ten million other things demanding her time? Work always won in her world. Normally that was fine, but lately she was beginning to feel the strain. All work and no play made Jane a dull girl.
Sitting in bed, a cable news show on mute, a half-empty bottle of red on her nightstand, and the day’s crossword nearly done, Phebe was running out of distractions. And reasons to keep her fingers from responding to Brody’s text.
When her phone vibrated in the bed beside her, she startled so badly that wine sloshed onto her Sferra sheets.
“Fuck!” she cursed out loud, knowing how badly the delicate fabric stained. Retrieving the phone, her anger was immediately assuaged when she saw who sent the text. She wasn’t a religious person. She also wasn’t an idiot. Something bigger than her normal type-A-make-shit-happen determination was at work in her life. With her heart punching at her tonsils, she could no longer deny that Brody Cantrell had found his way in.
So, what to do about that?
Phebe set her wine and crossword down. Picked up her phone, leaned back into the bank of pillows, and smiled with the assured ease of a woman who knew she was a step closer to getting what she wanted. Because after a day’s worth of deliberation, Phebe had finally admitted that—yes—she did want Brody. And what happened after she’d had him…well…those cards would fall where they may.
She ran a finger over the screen, thinking. How should she respond to their inside joke? She didn’t have the time or energy to give to a new relationship. Enough of those had blown up in her face for the very same reason. What that left was exactly what her friends knew she needed. A fuck buddy.
Brody damn sure fit that bill, assuming he didn’t stuff his crotch on the daily. No, she was pretty sure if things progressed, they could give each other exactly what they needed with zero strings attached. Isn’t that what every man wanted anyway? Hot sex without the commitment?
Well, that was what she wanted. And she was a woman accustomed to getting what she wanted. She tapped an unmanicured nail against the phone’s screen, still thinking. How to respond? She could dive right in. Get straight to the point. Invite him over right away and see where it went. While an effective approach, it all but screamed, I’m a woman desperate for a dick!
Best to slowroll him. Make clear exactly what she wanted, but drag it out a bit. Be sure it was really worth it before she committed to something that could possibly get sticky. Phebe didn’t like sticky. Phebe also sucked at flirting. Coy was so not her thing.
PHEBE:
Phebe played it safe, sending a text with every ball emoji that existed. She pressed the send arrow, darkened the screen, tucked her phone under the pillow, and jumped out of bed. She couldn’t stand waiting around to see if he took the bait.
Instead, she went into the kitchen. Sugar. That would help manage the butterflies that teased their wings against her belly walls. If she couldn’t hear the phone, and he didn’t respond, she’d just forget it. Minutes passed. After slowly savoring a strawberry fruit rollup while staring out her kitchen window, she decided it was time to go back.
To her excitement, she could hear a gentle buzz from her bed when she reentered the room. Once again, her heart leaped.
BRODY: Holy shit. Is it really you? Phebe Stark in the flesh…er text?
Okay, so he was going to be funny about it. She’d see his dry humor and raise him a smart-ass reply. Without even thinking about it, her fingers flew over the keys.
PHEBE: Yes, you weird-ass stalker. What do you want? ;-)
She added the winky face as an afterthought, just in case he didn’t truly appreciate how dry her wit was. Immediately, three gray dots appeared in a text bubble on his side of the screen. Then disappeared. Reappeared for a few seconds. Went away again. Phebe sighed loudly. Nerves tickling her throat, she prepared to type LOL. Thumb reaching for the L, she stopped cold when his answer popped up.
BRODY: It’d be easier to tell you what I don’t want.
Hormones and heat flooded her body. How could a single text be so damn sexy? Or was she that hard up for an orgasm that involved another human being? Either way, she lay back against the cool pillows, relishing how fiery her own skin felt against them, wine stain and all. It was a text so loaded with lusty innuendo, she had to read it again to be sure she wasn’t seeing things. Guys were never so aggressive with her—too afraid her bite was way worse than her bark. Not Brody. That impressed her.
PHEBE: How did you get my number?
BRODY:
Going out on a limb that you aren’t invested in Tiny’s Bait and Tackle. And you only changed one number. In the area code. Either you’re a cheap drunk. Or you wanted me to figure it out. I’m hoping for the latter.
Fuck. He barely knew her but read her so easily. The Twenty-One Guns’ door hadn’t even closed on their encounter before she found herself hoping he would be smart enough to figure it out, hoping it wasn’t the last she’d seen of Brody Cantrell. She’d liked him from the moment her eyes first strayed across his tattoos. His tattoos. The mental image of his arms coaxed a throaty sigh from her depths. She clenched her thighs. Her phone buzzed again.
BRODY: What are you wearing?
Well, there you go. Brody Cantrell, it appeared, wanted exactly what she did. With one text he had deftly steered the conversation in the exact direction she wanted it to go. And damn if he wasn’t as aggressive and unapologetic as she was about it. She liked that.
Enough time passed that her phone buzzed a reminder of the waiting text. Right, her turn to answer. She looked down at her ratty Atlanta Braves T-shirt and gray fleece leggings. They would not do. And she was feeling frisky. Quickly she whipped the pants off, tossed them on the floor, and tangled the sheets around her body, allowing one bare leg to remain exposed clear to the bikini line.
Holding the phone’s camera at a flattering angle, she checked to be certain there were no identifying elements in the shot and thumbed the red button. Even she was impressed with the results. Before she could think better of it, she fired it off. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. Shit. Was it too much? Had she misread the direction of their sext?
BRODY: Forgive the delay. I was picking my floor up off the jaw.
Phebe giggled. Brody was funny, sexy, and (she hoped) endowed with a huge pecker. God, please let it be gigantic.
PHEBE: Too much?
BRODY: Fuck, no. You just make me want more.
PHEBE: How much more?
BRODY: I want you here, right now.
BRODY: So my lips can learn the depth of the dip at the base of your neck.
BRODY: So my tongue knows the taste of Hendrick’s on yours.
BRODY: So my hands can trace the curves your silly suits can’t hide.
BRODY: So my ears hear you moan my name.
BRODY: So my body feels the satisfaction of waking up wrapped around yours.
Holy fuck. The barroom poet in Brody was about to make Phebe orgasm. Her breath neared panting. Her lips went bone-dry. Her legs trembled when she bent her knees. The soles of her feet flattened on the bed. She imagined him climbing on top of her. His weight, his heat. His manly smell. She’d take every bit of him and then some. It was her turn now. In their imaginary make-out, if she could have anything, what was it she wanted most from him?
PHEBE: If I was there…my fingers would trace every hot as fuck tattoo you have
PHEBE: …and so would my tongue.
PHEBE: My hands would tangle in that glorious hair of yours while you’re busy with other parts of me.
PHEBE: And when you’re done with that…
PHEBE: there’s ONE part of me desperate to know what your zipper can barely contain.
Phebe couldn’t help but remember his cock straining against those damn hipster jeans of his. And when he turned around, angels sang. Because, his ass. Good lord. The thought of that naked work of art tangled in her sheets had her reaching for the drawer she had resisted earlier. By the fates of fucking, her LELO wand was charged and ready. With the phone in her left hand, she gripped the medical-grade silicone handle with the other, and slipped it beneath the sheets. Her phone buzzed as the tip touched her. She gasped. It was a picture of beautiful, perfect Brody. Just what she needed.
A tanned and taut stomach filled the upper portion of the shot. Wiry dark hair lined the center shadow between his six-pack. The hair disappeared beneath dark blue sheets. But something else protruded above it. A tent, pitched like only a good Boy Scout could, rose a solid eight inches in the air. Phebe exhaled her relief. It would be cruel to tease a girl about such things.
She stared at the picture, licking her lips as she slid the pulsating wand past her other lips. With a pleasurable moan, she closed her eyes and imagined his dick sliding into her depths. Slowly. Oh. So. Slowly. It filled her until she couldn’t take any more. She looked at the image on her phone again, noticing that his free hand was hidden beneath the sheet.
PHEBE: Where’s your hand?
Phebe teased.
BRODY: Exactly where yours is.
Phebe bit her lip, oddly turned on by him knowing what she was doing. She pulled back on the handle, hovering at her entrance, sliding the rubber knob up to her clit, imaging it was Brody’s tongue coaxing pleasure and wetness from her folds. Something started to build beneath its rippling tip. Phebe knew her body. She could get herself off in less than five minutes if she had to. Every single girl should. But the sheer excitement of sexting with Brody Cantrell made it happen at Mach speed.
She looked back at the picture and imagined his stomach sliding over hers. His heat pressed against her. His tattoos wrapped around her. His dick deep inside her. The image of him in her sheets came back to mind. She lost it. Phebe’s mouth fell open, releasing a feral moan. She came hard. So hard she curled into a ball, in near pain, longing for the forgiving flesh of his cock instead of the unrelenting shaft of her dildo. When the ecstasy faded, she fumbled in the sheets for her phone. Not surprisingly, there was nothing on his end. And then three dots appeared. Followed by his text.
BRODY: Was it as good for you?
PHEBE: It’d be better in person.
BRODY: It always is, Love.
She didn’t respond. Something stopped her. Told her it should be him that made the next move. Not that she cared about antiquated dating rules—and not that they were dating—but some part of her wanted to feel like a woman for a change. Wanted to be pursued.
Instead of responding, she set her phone on the bedside charging station and curled up in the sheets. For the first time, she imagined her pillow as a man’s warm chest. An ache grabbed her heart, and she found herself admitting something she’d denied forever.
She was lonely. She wanted a man. And she was certain Brody Cantrell’s chest would make the warmest pillow in the world.
Chapter 7
Phebe
Phebe was not a woman who waited well. In her mind, decisions were simply made—either shit or get off the pot. Monday morning made the fourth time she had submitted plans to the Zoning Department. The fourth time she’d had to draw blood to keep her engineer on track and adjust a project time line that had zero wiggle room left. As she studied the documents she’d neatly bound in clear folders for the zoning board members, she couldn’t imagine there were any other hoops they would make her crawl through.
Salted-caramel latte in hand, briefcase, purse, and gym bag at her feet, she waited—not so patiently—for the ten minutes Maddie had promised. Sure, she was thirty minutes early and overly caffeinated, but she was still ready. Tense, but ready.
“Can I get you anything?” the secretary asked her for a second time. No doubt because Phebe’s crossed leg was pumping back and forth so wildly it caused her whole body to move. Okay, so maybe she was nervous, too. Still, she was ready.
“No, thank you.” Phebe smiled and tried to stop fidgeting. “I’ve got all I need.” She held her latte up and nodded toward it.
“Of course,” the secretary said, frowning, obviously confused by how more coffee was going to help calm Phebe’s nerves. Her gaze slid down to Phebe’s foot. The one that had started pumping back and forth again in the five seconds since Phebe had purposefully stopped it. When the secretary’s eyes found Phebe’s sh
oes, they brightened. “I love those shoes!”
“Thanks. I got them this weekend.” Phebe looked admiringly at her shoes, because she loved them, too. Ferragamo’s patent leather platform pumps with a bow had become her signature shoe. She now had them in every color. It was a simple touch of femininity that her suit pants usually covered. Sitting with her legs crossed allowed the bow to show.
“Are they comfortable?” Her eyes strayed down the nearly four-inch heel.
“I think they are. But I’ve been running in heels half my life.”
“They’re fabulous.” She made a small tsking sound like she wished a pair were on her feet as well.
Phebe was just about to take one off and hand it over when a door opened and Maddie Jones appeared.
“Phebe! Thank god you’re early!” Maddie rushed to Phebe’s side and helped her gather her stuff. “The board wants to leave. You gotta hurry if you’re going to get your ten minutes.”
The women rushed down the hallway and opened the boardroom’s door just as the first member was about to escape.
“Hey, guys!” Maddie got everyone’s attention, ushering the member back into the room before he could get away. “We had a scheduling mix-up last week and Phebe Stark was unable to present her amended plans to you then. She graciously agreed to stop by this morning. Phebe, do you have your plans ready?” Maddie moved quickly, not giving anyone time to protest, and allowed Phebe to take center stage.