“Hah!” Her voice was scratchy from sex. “I knew you’d agree with me. You were fucking me like a man on the brink of insanity.”
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’m crazy about you.” It wasn’t planned; the words had simply tumbled out without thought.
Was this a game-changer? For me, it wasn’t. But for Lucy...
Either she hadn’t heard me or she simply didn’t take what I’d said too seriously. “I think I’m literally dehydrated, Edric. I have all the symptoms: dizziness, rapid heartbeat, rapid breathing, lethargy...”
“You have a hangover,” I stated the obvious. “And we were fucking for hours. Hours.”
“True,” she said, nestling her sweet backside on my cock.
Spooning her body tight against mine, I let my hand rest directly over her breast. “I’ll make you some breakfast. I can make a mean omelet.”
“I can put water in a cup.”
“Okay.” With lazy motions, I began caressing the underside of her breast. “What’s one thing you’re craving right now?”
“Hmm.” She thought about this briefly. “Since I’m super-hungover, I’m thinking chicken wings and some creamy blue cheese dip.”
“Those are two things.”
“So? Cook me food, slave!” she commanded.
My chest moved in a silent chuckle. “How about I make you a real breakfast? And then later tonight, I’ll take you to a bar and you can gorge on chicken wings and blue cheese dip until your heart’s content.”
“Are you taking me out on a date?”
“I am.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Breaking up with your breasts. I think that’s an event in of itself.”
“That’s nice.” She spoke softly as I toyed with her tits. “Like a Breaking Up With My Breasties party? Or a Ta-Ta To My Tatas party?”
“It can be whatever you want it to be.” I traced a finger over her areola in circular motions. “Will you lose all feeling in your nipples after the surgery?”
“Aww, Edric. Are you worried about my breasties?”
I touched her gently under the chin, tilting her head so that she was forced to look at me. “It’s the surgery I’m worried about. There’s always a risk with surgery.”
“I know. But I’ll be in good hands. And from what my doctor tells me, some women experience a return of sensation, though it’s typically minimal. Most don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She took a slow breath before continuing. “It’s not exactly ideal and since I’ve opted to undergo reconstruction, there’s no way to restore sensation because the implants form a physical barrier that prevents nerves from growing through them to reach my skin.”
I fell silent for a heartbeat, digesting her words. “When are you planning on getting this reconstruction surgery?”
“Not for a few months after my mastectomy. My doctor calls it delayed breast reconstruction versus immediate reconstruction.”
“What’s the difference, besides the obvious timing of it all?”
“Delayed recon is more of a two-stage procedure using tissue expanders which are put into my breasts after the mastectomy; saline fills are injected over time to gradually expand my chest to get ’em ready for reconstruction.”
“So these expanders are like inflatable implants that stretch out your skin and muscles to prepare for permanent implants?”
“Correct. And an immediate recon is more of a direct-to-implant procedure, which would give me new breasts right away.” She drew in a hard, controlled breath. “But my mastectomy is a pretty massive surgery and I want to give myself some time to recover before going through another surgery.”
Worry creased my brows. “I see,” I said quietly.
“You’re too sweet, Edric,” she said meaningfully. “And I’m beyond touched that you’re so concerned.”
“Of course I’m concerned,” I stated. “Other men want your name and email for a bunch of mailing lists and subscriptions services. I actually care about you as a person.”
“You’re such a boob!” She giggled helplessly.
“You’re the boob.”
Turning on her side so she faced me, she went in for an attack, pinching and squeezing my nipple. “Who’s the boob now?’
“Hey, get your hands off my nips.” I smacked her hand away and she shoved at my chest with both hands, groping my nipples. This soon turned into a playful wrestling match between the sheets—an all-out battle of the nipple twist.
“You’re asking for it,” she taunted, shrieking as she came at me again. “Always freeing your nipple and strutting around topless.”
“Do my nipples offend you?” I crossed my arms over my chest, laughing as she lunged forward and squeezed my nips hard. “Argh!” I barked. “Get your tentacle fingers away from me.”
At last, she stopped. And in a rich, sonorous, Liam Neeson voice, she said, “I will look for you. I will find you. And I will pinch your nips.”
“I’m so scared,” I said in a lackluster voice.
“I can tell.”
“This is how you do it.” I cleared my throat twice. “I will find you.” My voice distilled to a rough whisper. “And I will kill you.”
“Not too bad,” she acknowledged. “Aside from the poorly imitated Irish accent. This is how you do an Irish accent.” In a lilting voice, she said, “Ha-ware ya?”
Tightening up the corners of my mouth to achieve a hardened R, I said, “Right. You’ll be comin’ with MEY, then.” A dramatic pause. “Now that’s how you do an Irish accent.”
“You sound demented.”
“You’re demented.”
“We should watch Taken tonight,” she suggested.
“Nah, I’ve seen my fair share of revenge movies. Lesson learned: Don’t mess with Liam’s kids.”
“And don’t mess with Keanu’s pets.’
While I nodded a distracted yes, Lucy pounced, making a quick lunge for my nipples and twisting them hard. “You devious woman.” Swatting her hands away, I blocked swiftly, parried her return assault, and blocked her again. “I have cat-like reflexes.”
“So do I.”
“Stop this now or I’ll never touch your tits again.”
“Fine,” she surrendered. “Why the fuck do men have nipples anyway? It’s utterly pointless.”
“Who knows?” I said dryly. “Evolution decided that tails were useless, but nipples on men made perfect sense.”
“You don’t lactate, you don’t nurse babies. It makes no sense. And if men were created before women, then why do they have nipples?”
“Definitely something to think about.” I fell into ponderous silence.
Lucy studied me, her lips pressed together in a thoughtful line. “So... chicken wings tonight?”
A smile crooked my lips. “Jarring transition, by the way.”
“Well?” She cocked her head to the side. “Is that a yes? I just want to make sure we’re still celebrating Breaking Up With My Breasties and Ta-Ta To My Tatas.”
“Yes,” I promised her. “Tonight. We’ll spend all afternoon in the stables with Gouda and then I’ve got a lacrosse game at five. How about I meet you at the Drunken Horse at seven? They have the best chicken wings in town and the best curly fries.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Her voice was pitched low, little more than a purr as she palmed my balls, cupping a hand over the sac. “I’ll come if you make me come.”
Devious, devious woman.
Fuck. I wanted to bury myself deep inside her soft and pliant body and watch her come again. But I also wanted breakfast.
“Come on, Big Sexy.” I smacked her ass and watched those sweet cheeks jiggle. “Let’s get out of bed before I ravish you again.”
“Edric,” she said gravely. “We need to put a moratorium on the word ‘ravish.’”
“Lucy,” I said equally gravely. “We need to put a moratorium on the words ‘breasties’ and ‘tatas’”
“Agreed,” she said. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
AT FOUR-THIRTY P.M. I pushed through the front doors of the Drunken Horse and found Scarface vigorously wiping down the counter. A thick razor scar ran across his left cheek, hence the nickname.
As I approached the bar, Scarface caught my eye and jerked his chin in my general direction. “Haven’t seen you here in a while, my man. What’s poppin’?”
“Popcorn.”
He chuckled, wiping a dry area on the bar between us. “So what brings you here so early?”
“My foxy lady will be coming in later tonight at around seven. You won’t miss her. Leggy brunette, tough as nails, about five nine, looks like a cross between Gal Gadot and Xena: Warrior Princess. She’ll probably be in jeans, a plaid shirt, and cowboy boots.”
“Mmph.” He braced his hands on the counter. “Got a picture of your woman?”
“I do.” I scrolled through the photos on my phone, stopping at one I’d taken of Lucy and Gouda. Her eyes were closed, her long, dark lashes casting shadows against her skin as she pressed her cheek to her horse’s nose.
It was a candid moment between a rider and her horse.
“Here,” I said, aiming my phone at him.
“Damn, son.” Scarface gave a low whistle. “She’s a babe.”
“I know.” Smiling a little to myself, I put my phone away and slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter. “I might be running a bit late tonight. Tell her drinks and chicken wings are on me.”
In a gruff but measured tone, he said, “Will do.” Then he turned to reach for a bottle on the shelf. “Your usual?”
“No,” I said at once. “Not now. I’ve got a lacrosse game in”—I checked my watch—“twenty-five minutes. Gotta jet. Thanks, my man.”
“No problem, my brother.”
Halfway out the door, I paused and yelled over my shoulder, “Yo, Scarface!”
“Yeah?” he grunted without looking up.
“Blue cheese. She likes blue cheese dip with her chicken wings.”
Stone-faced, he raised a hand in acknowledgment and went back to wiping down the counter with vigor.
Chapter Fifteen
Edric
BY THE TIME I’D GOT done with my lacrosse match, showered and changed, and hauled ass back to the Drunken Horse, it was seven-fifteen p.m.
There was a hearty roar of laughter at the bar where a group of men stood drinking and Lucy was in the thick of it all, having a gala time with Scarface. They appeared to be shooting the breeze with the ease of a long friendship.
Frozen, I stood rooted to the spot, watching the men around her bask in her larger-than-life presence.
This is Lucy’s world, I thought as I looked on. And the rest of us here are just living in it.
“Here’s what I find annoying,” she said. “In TV shows and movies, the bartender is always obsessively and compulsively drying a glass. You never see him stocking ice, or fixing a drink, or wiping down the bar, or trying to keep the customers engaged. Nope. All you see is the bartender drying a glass like his life depends on it. Am I right?”
This elicited a chuckle from Scarface, who, mind you, was a stoic man who almost never cracked a smile. “In real life,” he said, “OCD bartenders who always have a glass in their hand tend to get fired.”
“Hah!” Lucy banged her fist on the counter. “I knew it!”
The men around her laughed and tried to engage her in conversation, but she merely snubbed them and shut down their advances.
My own lips twisted in quiet satisfaction.
That girl has spunk but she’s harsh. Her temperament is not for the faint of heart.
I took one step forward, then another, slowly breaching the distance between us.
“Turn around,” I said in a deep baritone.
Lucy’s shoulders stiffened. In a raspy voice, she said, “Every now then I get a little bit lonely and you’re never coming round.”
“Turn around.”
“Every now and then I get a... shit! I forgot the lyrics.” She finally turned around and we erupted in laughter.
It wasn’t long before she found her voice. “You’re late.” Her tone was accusing.
“Sorry.” I slid onto the seat next to her. “This is the earliest I’ve ever been late.”
Just then, a waiter plopped down a basket of hot chicken wings in front of us. “Fresh out of the fryer and”—he plunked down a large bowl of dip—“some creamy blue cheese dip as requested.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And can we get a large order of curly fries, too?”
“For sure,” he replied before disappearing into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Lucy was clasping her hands together and holding them over her heart, grinning from ear to ear like the Grinch. “I forgive you.”
Scarface magically appeared and I sent him a look that said, I owe you one, buddy.
“Everything to your satisfaction over here?” he asked.
“Mmmm.” Lucy was already biting into a hot chicken wing. “Marvelous.” She gave a heavenly moan.
“Everything’s marvelous,” I said. “Thanks, my brother.”
“Anytime.” Scarface gave a single nod and grabbed a copper mug from the bottom shelf. “You ready for your Moscow Mule?”
“Yep,” I answered and he went about fixing my drink.
“How was your game?” Lucy asked.
“Good! My team won. I scored thirty-six seconds into the game for my first of three goals in the opening half. We struck first in all four quarters and fought off every rally our opponents put together.”
“Nice.” She took another bite. “I don’t know what any of that means, but I’m glad you won.”
Scarface set my drink in front of me and I nodded my thanks. “What are you drinking, Lucy?” I asked before taking a sip of my drink.
A wry smile touched her lips. “After downing enough shots to kill a small child last night, I’m just having some seltzer water with lime. Speaking of which, do you want to hear my gripe of the day?”
“Only if you’ll hear mine.”
“I’ll go first,” she said and launched right into it. “I absolutely hate it when I slam my straw down on the table and it doesn’t pop out through the paper wrapping. Instead, it crimps, rendering the straw useless and totally unusable.”
“Yeah, that sucks. And then I feel all guilty because plastic straws are clogging the ocean and hurting the fish.”
“Ahh, the guilt kills me.” She sighed dramatically. “It eats away at my soul that I’m adding to the volume of waste in the Pacific trash island. Especially when I don’t even get to use the damn straw. It’s almost as bad as the lime wedges in my drinks that I don’t get to use.”
I knew exactly what she was talking about. “Oh, you mean the lime slices that are too fuckin’ narrow to squeeze?”
“Yep,” she deadpanned. “When that happens my disappointment is immeasurable and my day is ruined.”
“Same, girl. Same.”
Scarface broke character and chuckled. His massive shoulders shook at the effort. “Edric, I believe you’ve found your match.”
“Yeah, Scarface,” Lucy said in a playful voice. “Next time, we’d like our lime slices to be nice and fat and juicy. No more bony, anorexic limes, okay?”
“Listen to the lady.” I reached for a chicken wing and dunked it in the creamy dip. “I believe it’s my turn to gripe now.”
“Carry on,” she said. “I’m listening.”
“Have you noticed that nicknames have become something of a lost art in sports? In the past, there was Elroy ‘Crazy Legs’ Hirsh, the Mad Stork, Andre ‘Bad Moon’ Rison, Jake Tatum ‘The Assassin.’ These nicknames didn’t just describe the way they played. They captured the aura of these players and the spirit with which they played the game. It established a mystique built on equal parts performance and—”
“Pfffft.” Lucy blew out an exasperated breath. “For the love of God! I’ve never met someon
e better at not getting to the point. Like my children grew up, raised children, died, and those children had children—that’s how long you took to get to your point.”
I blinked. “Okayyyy.”
“So,” she said, cutting right through the bullshit. “What shitty nickname did your teammates give you?”
“Hanes Her Way,” I mumbled under my breath.
“HANES HER WAY?” Her voice rang loud and clear across the room. “Why do they call you HANES HER WAY?!?”
“Say it louder for the people in the back,” I said dryly.
“So why do they call you that?” she persisted.
“Because I wore an old pair of Hanes sweatpants to practice. Once!” I held up my index finger. “One time.”
“Men’s or women’s?”
I cocked my head to the side and sent her a look that said, Do you even have to ask?
But ask again she did. “Did you wear men’s or women’s sweatpants?”
“Men’s!” My voice pitched lower. “Hanes makes menswear, too, ya know.”
“No, I did not know.” She gave a careless shrug. “And as far as nicknames go, Hanes Her Way is not nearly half as bad as my dad’s nickname.”
“What’s his nickname?”
“First, I have to give you some backstory.” She took a sip of water before continuing. “When my dad was in college, he got a tattoo on his arm. Being that he was a religious man, he wanted Psalm 27:1 inked on his skin. But the tattoo artist misspelled ‘psalm’ and my dad ended up with ‘pslam’ on his arm.”
A snort of laughter escaped me.
“Oh, you haven’t even heard the best part.” Her eyes gleamed with humor. “So right before every football game, he’d be in a huddle with his team and they’d all do the pre-game chant to get fired up and right at the very end, they would all yell, ‘P-SLAM!””
“That’s priceless,” I said with a smile.
“And his team never stopped giving him shit for that. My mom still calls him P-Slam to this day.”
“I guess you’re right,” I acknowledged. “That’s almost worse than Hanes Her Way.”
“The tattoo itself was a hack job, too. It looked like someone drew on his arm with a Sharpie.”
The Good Mistake (Hemsworth Brothers #3) Page 18