Instant Gratification

by Blakely, Lauren

  They might have needed me for the ceremonies, but they don’t need me to be happy.

  But I shove all thoughts of love, shagging, and deep connections out of my head when I meet Truly at the pub for lunch and a little recon.

  When I see her lounging in a dark booth in a dingy corner, her head bent, tapping away on her phone, I’m not stealing the chance to stare at her privately before she notices me. I’m not cataloging those pouty red lips, that lush chestnut hair, that tight, toned body.

  No, deliberately I’m thinking of Gigante ads, and that wipes any vestiges of lust and longing straight from my brain.

  29

  Jason

  I’m ready for my blue ribbon in resistance. Consider what I’ve accomplished so far today, and it’s only one thirty in the afternoon.

  For starters, we’ve had an entire flight of beer samples, and I haven’t made a single flirty remark. Not one.

  Nor did I utter a naughty word when Truly played a round at the pool table. Not when I caught a peek at the tops of her tits as she bent over to send the purple ball screaming into the corner pocket, and not when I watched the rear view as she whacked the next ball somewhere.

  Where, I don’t know. Because I was enjoying the rear view.

  And when she peeked under the table to run her hand along the leather material of the booth, I suggested not one filthy thing she could do while she was under there.

  This is the new me.

  Back in the friend zone. After all, we’re seeing Malone later today at a Yankees game. It’ll be the perfect chance to prove to myself, and to her, that I can stay right here, no problem.

  I take a final drink of the beer. “So how are we doing? In the friend zone, that is?”

  “And the you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours zone,” she adds, and just like that, I slide out of one zone and into another.

  “Why did you have to say that?”

  “The back-scratching zone?”

  “Yes. I’ve been completely Zen today. I’ve been totally in the I-don’t-want-to-fuck-you-senseless zone, then you say that, and it reminds me of how you dug your nails into my back last night.”

  “I did?”

  “Do you want me to take off my shirt and show you?” I ask, because when I slide, I don’t half-ass it. I don’t tiptoe into flirt-infested waters. I do it all the way. Fins up.

  She peers over my shoulder as if she can actually see the marks. “Did I really scratch your back?”

  “Yes. And I loved it. Also, thanks a fucking lot. I was going to nominate myself for the Men’s Buddha Mastery Award for Not Thinking about Sex around a Woman You Want.”

  She pats my arm. “I can still nominate you. I’m so impressed that you haven’t once said any filthy words. Like cock. Or pussy. Or fuck you senseless. Wait, my bad. You said those last ones.”

  I toss my hands up. “You’re kicking a man when he’s down, woman. You can’t say ‘pussy’ and expect me to handle it with any sort of dignity or aplomb.”

  “Dignity’s overrated when it comes to pussies. So’s aplomb. Also, pussy, pussy, pussy.”

  “That’s it. I’m going to have to give you like twenty innuendos for saying that word.”

  “Twenty? So that’s a normal hour for you and me.”

  I scratch my jaw as if considering. “Sounds about right.”

  She arches a brow with a quizzical look. “Have you ever thought about the word pussy?”

  “Have I? Literally all the time. Well, I was behaving for an hour, and you ruined it. Now all I can think about is that word.”

  “No, I mean the way it sounds. It’s kind of harsh.”

  I slide closer to her in the booth. “There is nothing harsh about pussies.”

  “But the word is harsh. Clearly, a man thought of the word. There’s no reason ‘pussy’ should be the slang term for a vagina.”

  I cringe.

  “Oh, please. Vagina, vagina, vagina.”

  “No, that wasn’t why I made that face. I simply don’t see pussy as anything less than the most wonderful thing ever created.”

  “Exactly. Therefore, it should have a better nickname. Think about ‘cock.’ That’s a fantastic nickname for the penis. It says what it is. It’s strong, it’s phallic—it’s a proud word. ‘Pussy’? Eh. It’s a little crude-sounding, a little dismissive.”

  “What would you call that wonderful treasure between your legs?”

  “If it were up to me, I’d have coined a much better nickname. Like silver. Or lily. Or summer. And then I could say, Oh, please touch my lily. Please finger my silver. Or go down on my summer. Go down on my summer now.”

  My skin is sizzling, and I’m officially toastier than a forest fire. “Yes, I’d very much like to eat your summer, lick your lily, and kiss your silver. Also, I’d like to bury my face in your pussy.”

  She lets out a shuddering breath as if this is hard for her too.

  “And on that, want to go to Yankee Stadium and see your brother?” I ask.

  “Thanks for the buzzkill.”

  “You started it.”

  30

  Jason

  It’s not football. And by football, I mean proper football. But baseball will definitely do.

  Truth is, I rather like this American pastime, and that is unrelated to having an American-born dad and entirely down to how utterly cool his mother—my nan—was.

  Nan, a born-and-bred New Yorker, was loyal to the Bronx Bombers till her dying day. She made me read her the box scores from the newspaper—the actual ink and print thing, not even online—during her last few days. She had season tickets before it was cool to have season tickets. She sat in the upper deck, hunched over in her blue-and-white windbreaker, keeping score and teaching me.

  Yes, that’s one of my party tricks. I can record errors, strikeouts, fielder’s choice, double plays, and line drives.

  I do it this afternoon, recording the first play while enjoying peanuts and more beer as the sun shines brightly overhead.

  “Your little scorekeeping notebook is so cute. Don’t forget to record all the balls,” Malone says as I write down the count on which the pitcher walked the guy.

  “Classy, Malone. Mock me for my hobby. Do I mock you for singing?”

  He scoff-laughs. “Every. Single. Time.”

  “No,” I say, affecting seriousness. “I sing along.” I slide into the tune I heard him singing the other week. “Tell all the gang at Forty-Second Street, that I will soon be there. Give my regards to old Broadway . . . See? I’m a much more supportive friend than you, being all respectful of your hobby.”

  I write down the flyout that comes next on the field. But as my words make landfall, I wince. I’m not entirely the better friend, not even close. I’m the worst friend, given what I did in a limo last night. But I’m on the straight and narrow today. Turning over a new leaf.

  Malone takes a drink of his beer. “Like I said, you mock me every time, and if you didn’t, I’d take you to the hospital for a psychological evaluation. You told me that once. That’s how I’d know you were an impostor.”

  I stroke my chin. “True, true. Your insults are proof that it’s you and not a doppelgänger, pod-person, or robot.”

  “Hey, I have an idea,” Charlotte says as the pitcher winds up. “We could actually, I dunno, watch the action on the field?”

  Truly pats Charlotte’s shoulder. “It always falls on us women to make sure the men know why they’re actually at a game. Everything is a trash-talk fiesta for them.”

  Malone shoots the woman I screwed last night a curious look.

  I mean, his sister. He gives his sister a look.

  “But I thought you came here because you liked the way the shortstop looked in his uniform,” Malone remarks.

  “Ah, the plot thickens. Is that so?” I ask Truly. “Don’t deny it. You do come here to perv on Lorenzo Marquez.”

  Truly shrugs like she has a naughty little secret she’s not giving up. “Truth. Preach it.�
��

  Charlotte nods. “Amen. Shortstops are the hottest. I think that’s why my husband decided to play shortstop on your softball team.”

  “Because they’re hot?” Malone asks incredulously. “That’s why Spencer is the shortstop? I thought it was because, call me crazy, he was actually good at fielding the ball.”

  “That too. But also because shortstops are traditionally the hottest players. If you don’t believe me, just look it up.”

  “And you’re complaining that we sit in the stands and do things other than watch the game and only the game? I believe that makes you the pot calling the kettle black, ladies,” Malone says.

  Truly squeezes his arm. “Dear brother, at some point, you’re going to have to accept that baseball history is incredibly inclusive and now encompasses everything from not only the greatest ballparks, players, and plays of all time, but also the best parks for craft beer as well as the cutest butts in uniform. Also, I know you’re a historian of athletic physique too. You had a poster of Brandi Chastain above your desk in high school.”

  “Whoa,” Charlotte cuts in. “I’m just hearing this story now? I’ve known you two clowns for years, and I’m just now learning your brother had a crush on Brandi Chastain?”

  Truly wiggles her eyebrows. “The one and only. He has good taste.”

  I tap Malone’s shoulder. “It was the picture, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “I had that picture too. She was tops when she won the World Cup with the fifth kick in the penalty shootout. Have you ever seen any game that fantastic before?”

  Truly cracks up. “Jason, you’re so adorable. He did not have the photo because of the absolutely incredible play she made. He had it because of the sports bra.”

  Malone cuts in. “Just like you had posters of Derek Jeter all over your room because of his five Gold Gloves or his World Series victories?”

  Truly gasps indignantly. “I totally had his picture because of his World Series wins. He’s the man in the post season.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, winking. “Of course. That’s why you hung up his shot. Just like everyone who read a certain magazine for, ahem, the articles.”

  Truly crosses her arms, straightens her shoulders. “I admired him.”

  “Admired his backside,” Malone coughs under his breath.

  “I admired his gamesmanship.”

  Malone chuckles, raising a finger to make a point. “So much that you also used to draw hearts in your notebook and write TG and DJ.”

  She slaps his thigh. “I did not.”

  Charlotte holds up a hand in admission. “I’ll confess. I did that. I also liked to add TLF for True Love Forever. But in my defense, I was fourteen.”

  “Same, same,” Truly says quickly. “And just to be clear, I liked him because of his talent. Because of his skills.”

  Malone clears his throat. “She liked his ass. It’s that simple.”

  I pop a peanut into my mouth, making a mental note that some things never change. Truly Goodman is an ass woman. She squeezed mine the other night on the street, after all. And I have to say, my derriere is just as good as Jeter’s. Maybe not on par with Enzo’s, but Jeter’s will do.

  Wait. I can’t be thinking about her interest in my ass. I’m at a game with her brother.

  I direct my thoughts to baseball and only baseball for the next several innings as Malone and Truly trade stories, poking each other in places only a sibling can reach, with Charlotte and I chiming in from time to time.

  But as we slide into the seventh-inning stretch, something I’ve been sidestepping is becoming unsidesteppable. These two are so connected. They love each other madly, and they support each other savagely.

  As it should be.

  I love my little sister like crazy. I’d do anything for her, and I do—running a second business to finance her education. And I have zero regrets about it.

  I understand the deep and abiding love between siblings.

  But guilt is a splinter under my skin. Guilt over the lie I’m telling Malone. The lie of omission.

  For the second time, I slept with my best mate’s sister.

  Once can be a mistake, can be forgivable, even.

  But twice is deliberate.

  And if I do it again, it’ll feel like an affair.

  Though nothing about last night felt illicit. Everything felt all too right, all too true. Was it that way for her? Did she feel the same something more too?

  The loudspeaker crackles, interrupting my thoughts as the announcer tells us it’s time for “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

  We stand and sing a rousing rendition.

  When it ends, Truly smiles at her brother. “Remember how we used to duet that song when we were kids and Dad took us to the games?”

  Malone’s smile is genuine and a little wistful, like he’s remembering those times with their father. “We duetted everything. We had a blast, especially with Dad.”

  “We did.” Truly drapes an arm around him. “You have the pipes, but I can hold my own. We killed it at Christmas.”

  “Jingle Bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” Malone croons.

  “Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh,” she sings.

  Malone returns to his speaking voice. “But that was nothing compared to the time you came home from college, and whipped up some pancakes for breakfast and a song about them too. Right on the spot, with your spatula as a microphone. I was all kinds of impressed.”

  “Hello? I love pancakes. They deserve all the odes.” Truly shimmies her shoulders, and with a bluesy tone, she and Malone sing to the tune of “On a Bicycle Built for Two.”

  “Pancakes, pancakes, give me your answer true . . . I’m half-crazy over the love of you . . . it won’t be a stylish affair . . . we can’t afford flatware, but I’ll gobble you down, till you’re all around . . . in my huge belly!”

  I lean back in the seat, watching them. It’s completely endearing. It tugs on my heart and makes it ache at the same damn time. When they’re done, I slow-clap along with Charlotte.

  “And this is why I’m so damn grateful you sing at my bar too,” Charlotte says, patting Malone on the arm.

  “It was nice of me to share my brother with you, wasn’t it?” Truly says.

  “Ladies, ladies. There’s enough of me to go around,” Malone says, then looks at Truly. “But that’s your family-friendly pancake number, sis. Don’t hold back on the naughtier one you sang when Mom left the kitchen. As a matter of fact, I sang it to Sloane the other morning.”

  “You sang my pancake seduction number to your fiancée? The woman who swoons every time you sing? I’m shocked.”

  He shrugs with a smirk. “It worked.”

  I chime in. “I want to hear the pancake seduction tune.”

  Truly huffs, the kind of sound you make when you’re not really irritated. “Really? You want my not-safe-for-work pancake song?”

  Charlotte’s hand shoots up. “Hello! How did I not know about this? Sing it, girl. Sing it now.”

  Truly straightens her shoulders, purses her lips, and makes a sexy little humming sound in the back of her throat. “Come get some pancakes. I know you want 'em. I got some pancakes. Hot off the griddle. Come get some pancakes.”

  I tug on my collar because it’s too hot for words here. I’d like to come get her pancakes. I’d like to pour syrup all over her and lick it off.

  And yet, here I am at a ballgame, having a blast with my friends. Am I willing to risk moments like this too?

  There are my stakes, there are hers, and then there are these. This deep familial bond.

  Truly and Malone are so close they can sing Christmas songs together at Yankee Stadium. They can harmonize about fluffy carbs, they can talk about missing their dad, and it’s all part of who they are.

  I can’t ruin that. I can’t take a chance I might damage this precious connection.

  I have to stay out of the horizontal zone with Truly. No matt
er how hard it is.

  31

  Truly

  I wash my hands then dry them under the air-dryer. A toilet flushes, and Charlotte pops out of the restroom, heading to the sink.

  “That went well, I’d say,” I remark.

  “Yes, I’m super skilled at going to the bathroom.”

  I roll my eyes at her in the mirror. “I meant the game.”

  “Well, they won. Of course it went well.” She stops to lather her hands with soap then pauses to give me a look. “Oh, did you mean how you and Jason should be nominated for Oscars for acting like you’re friends?”

  “It’s not an act.”

  She turns off the sink and heads to the dryer. “I know. You really are good friends. Like Spencer and I were. And, obviously, still are.”

  “And now you’re husband and wife, and mommy and daddy too.”

  “I’m just saying. But anyway, you guys did fine. You are fine. I didn’t smell anything fishy. Well, except for the floor of Yankee Stadium, but that’s up there with the ten surfaces on which you never want to place a purse.”

  “Alongside the Port Authority?” I ask as we head out.

  “And any men’s restroom. Including those in the Four Seasons.”

  “Don’t forget the Ritz too.”

  Charlotte flicks her blonde hair off her shoulders. “Anyway, just keep on this falling-out-of-bed path, and you’ll be fine. As long as you don’t slip onto his dick again, you can totally be friends forever.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll try to avoid falling onto his cock.”

  “Well, you do have a history of accidentally landing on it.”

  “Purposefully. It was a purposeful landing.”

  “Own it.”

  As we rejoin the men on the ride back into Manhattan, I do my best not to think about slips onto dicks—purposeful, accidental, or any kind at all.

  32

  Jason