“Your dad never had it fixed?”
“No.” She shook her head. “My mom wouldn’t let him.”
“Why not?”
“She said if he was dumb enough to get ‘pslam’ tattooed, then he needed to keep it to learn a life lesson.”
I chuckled, licking the salt and grease from my fingers. “Tell me more.”
“About what?”
“Your past, your parents, your home.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” I quipped. “I want to know more about you. What makes you—you... the person you are today.”
“Okay,” she began and I listened with rapture. “We lived on a farm a ways out of town and for a little girl, it was quite lonely to grow up in the middle of nowhere. So when I was five, my mom and dad got me a horse. She was a feisty Morgan.”
“Her name was Morgan?”
“No, Morgan is a breed. I named her Mozza. After Mozzarella balls.”
“Of course you did.”
“It took me a some time to warm up to Mozza. I was scared and she was so full of spirit. And my dad—he just plopped me on her with no saddle.” She smiled at the memory and I caught myself staring at her, captivated and awestruck.
Her smile is literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“I taught myself to ride bareback and I did loping, posting, rollbacks—you name it—all before I was allowed a saddle. I’m quite proud of that actually, and I feel like it gave me uniquely solid feet. Yeah, I fell off in the beginning, but falling off enough made me realize it’s really not that bad. And it made me less afraid of it.”
“Err...” I was gobsmacked. “Wasn’t that dangerous?”
“In some ways I think it was safer because when I did slide off, I didn’t have tack to get caught up on, like getting my foot through the stirrup.”
“So your parents just let you do your own thing.” A statement, not a question.
“Pretty much. Don’t get me wrong, they were loving parents and they missed me like hell when I went off to college. Although you could never tell from the way they act.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re always giving me so much crap. And you won’t believe how much crap they gave me when I ended up in an all-girls’ residence hall.”
“Hold up! Your college had an all-girls’ dorm?”
“Yeah, I went to Aquinas College. It’s a conservative Catholic school and the campus is basically a marriage hunting ground. They have co-ed dorms, too, with single-sex floors, but somehow I ended up in the all-girls’ dorm, and my mom and dad were like, ‘Sweet suffering Jesus! Lucy, we are never gonna get you married off.’”
“They didn’t actually mean that, did they?”
“No, but all the other parents wanted their daughters to leave college with their MRS.”
“Nice wordplay on MBA, by the way.” I gave her credit for that.
“Why, thank you,” she said graciously. “You won’t believe how many parents hoped and prayed their kids would graduate and get married so they did not come back home. And my parents—they knew. Oh, they knew how ridiculous I found this, how much it grated on me and scraped my nerves, so they just amped up the bullshit.”
“Tomfooleries.”
“I’m telling you, they’re a trip,” she said fondly when her phone dinged. “Speaking of which, that’s probably my mom texting me right now, wanting to know if I’m married yet.”
I laughed.
“Or she’s sending me pictures of meth heads with rotting teeth and skin scabs.”
“You’re a meth head?”
“Is my face pockmarked with craters?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Pssh!” She rolled her eyes. “Obviously I’m not a meth head. How dare you.”
“A pot head, then?”
“No,” she firmly protested. “Honestly, I haven’t smoked a joint since college. And, yes, I’ll admit I did some dumb shit back then, but what better time than college, right? It was a time in my life when I was old enough to know better and too young to care.”
“Oh, you mean when you were trippin’ balls after smoking Alaskan Thunderfuck and you didn’t wanna be high no more?”
“Shhhhhh.” She pressed a finger to my lips. “We don’t talk about that anymore. And it was Amnesia Haze, not Alaskan Thunderfuck.”
“So you liked to get toked up on the weekends? We’re not talking about daily use here?”
“Daily use?” She guffawed. “Never. I maybe got stoned four or five times. Max. See, my parents—they know this. I share everything with them. Everything.”
“So they randomly send you Faces of Meth just to fuck with you?”
“Exactly!”
“I don’t blame them,” I said. “It’s fun to see you get all riled up.”
“Shut up!” she hissed. “Now what about you? Got any crazy stories from college?”
“Not really. I played tennis at UC Berkeley so that took up most of my time. That and the frat house.”
A smirk lifted the corner of her mouth. “Of course you were in a fraternity. How lame.”
“It was all about networking.” I gave a careless shrug. “All those connections I gained through Sigma Chi—I’m still reaping the benefits to this day.”
“What a hoity-toity,” she scoffed. “C’mon, now. You don’t have any horror stories from your college days? You gotta have at least one.”
“Hmm.” I considered this briefly. “I was nearly decapitated by a Frisbee one time.”
“For real?” Her phone dinged with an incoming text and she glanced at the display. “See, that’s my parents again with yet another picture of a meth head.” She shook her head, though a smile played around her lips. “They’re crazy, impulsive, weird and annoying at times, but I love them for it.”
“Funny,” I said. “Because that’s exactly how I feel about you.”
“Same.” She elbowed me playfully. “Like I love you, not in the way you love your significant other, but in the way you love a big lumbering dog that runs into a screen door.”
“You mean like Beethoven?”
“Yes, like Beethoven.”
“Lies.” I cut her a smug-ass grin. “Stop pretending. I know you love me.”
“Oh, I know you’re in love with me,” she said with sass. “You stare at me the way I stare at all forms of cheese, so I would know.”
“Whatever.”
“You lost the bet so pony up!” She thrust her hand out, palm up. “Give me my money now.”
The waiter chose that moment to return with my order of fries and I immediately grabbed one. “Excuse me? You’re the one who’s in love with me. You stare at me the way I stare at all forms of potatoes, so I would know.”
“Hey!” She frowned. “You just copied me.”
“Facts.” I popped the curly fry into my mouth. “Simply stating the facts.”
Lucy didn’t deny it. Instead, she jutted her chin at a group of sorority girls gathered nearby. They were uproariously drunk and every single one of them was in a strapless dress that resembled a tube sock.
Tube sock number one stood up and raised her glass. “Here’s to speaking my truth,” she announced, making a grand toast to herself.
Her sorority sisters raised their glasses in the air. “Yas, girl. Yaaaaaaas,” they shrieked. “To your truth!”
Lucy and I exchanged a look. Then she said, “Raise your hand if you’d like society to retire the phrase, ‘Speaking my truth.’”
I flung my hand in the air, grinning as she raised hers. “We are the worst, aren’t we?”
“The worst.”
Moments later, tube sock number two decided to make a toast. “Guys. Guyyyyyyyyys.” Her voice pitched higher. “I’m so excited for Grayson and I’s relationship.”
“Get out your Bingo card,” I said wryly. “If you had ‘Butchery of the English Language’ on your card, score one for you!”
“Score!�
� Lucy squawked.
Tube sock number two went on slurring her words. “So guyyys, I’ve been getting so many signs from the universe. Every time I’m on my phone, all I see are these awesome package deals to Cabo. So guess what?” Her shrill voice rent the air. “Grayson and I are going to Cabo San Lucas for spring break! Yayyyy! Cheers to us.”
“Signs from the universe?” Lucy snickered. “More like Google ads.”
“People actually click on Google ads?”
“Apparently.” Lucy jerked her head at tube sock number two. “She did.”
“Look at her leather jacket,” I observed. “Why is it draped over her shoulders like a cape? Is that some sort of new fashion trend?”
“Not really.” She brushed my words aside. “It’s so Kardashian 2017. If you ask me, arms on jackets are there for a reason. Use them, please. All in favor?”
“Aye,” I said.
“All opposed?”
Radio silence.
Meanwhile, the sorority girls were talking obnoxiously over one other. Tube sock number three was going on and on about some vague charity she had started—Alpha Gamma Delta Against Munchausen by Proxy, if memory serves me right, but don’t quote me on that—and informing her sorority sisters that she had created a GoFundMe campaign to raise money.
“Humph.” I grunted. “Good people always like to tell you that they’re good people. It’s low-key annoying.”
“Agreed.” Lucy reached for a curly fry and flapped it at me. “And good people, in my experience, are the most insufferable kind of people.”
“Accurate.” I gave a crisp nod. “And,” I added as another tube sock got fired up about all the good she was doing in the world. “If you had ‘I’m Such a Good Person’ on your Bingo card, score one for you!”
“Score!” Lucy called out.
After polishing off our bucket of chicken wings and curly fries, while playing our own version of Bingo, we wiped our greasy hands on some wet wipes.
“Here’s another moist towelette.” I slid two packets across the counter. “Usually I need three of these moist towelettes to get my hands clean.”
Lucy appeared woozy. “Ugh. Do me a favor and don’t ever say that word again.”
“Say what?”
“Moist towelette or moist anything. The word ‘moist’ literally sickens me.”
“Really?”
“Really. I get so nauseous, especially during Thanksgiving time when all my relatives are talking about their moist turkeys on Facebook.”
“And moist rolls and moist cakes,” I added. “And moist pies on Moist Mondays.”
“BLERGH.” Lucy made a gagging noise. “Please stop.”
“Tsk.” I clucked my tongue. “Your disdain for the word ‘moist’ is highly irrational.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“My opinion stands. And now that I know I can make you squirm with just one word, should we order some moist raw oysters? There’s nothing like shucking and digging into some moist oysters, wouldn’t you agree?”
Her hand flew to her mouth and she shook her head fiercely.
“Just imagine noshing on those plump, succulent, moist raw mollusks. Mmm-mmm.” I smacked my lips and moistened them with my tongue. “Or perhaps moist mussels in lemon butter would be more appetizing to your moist palate?”
Her face turned a greenish hue and she muffled something incoherent.
This was too easy. “What’s the difference between oysters and mussels anyway? Besides them being moist mollusks, moist filter feeders, and moist shellfish? And as for raw oysters being an aphrodisiac? Pfft! That sounds more like a moist gastro-intestinal nightmare than a precursor to a hot night to me.”
At this point, Lucy looked visibly ill. “Ugggghhhhh. I’m about two seconds away from throwing up.”
“All right,” I said with unsuppressed mirth. “I don’t want you projectile-vomiting all over me.”
It took her a moment to compose herself. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “By the way,” she said at last. “Oysters and mussels are a big NO for me.”
“How come?”
“They make your breath smell like a bikini bottom reeking of butt sweat.”
“I see,” I said pensively. “For a moment there I thought you were talking about Bikini Bottom from SpongeBob. That’s his hometown, you know—Bikini Bottom.”
“Ohmigaaaahd,” she cried. “That anthropomorphic sponge who lived in a pineapple under the sea was my childhood icon.”
“Ohmigaaaahd!” I mimicked her shrill voice. “Same, sis, same. Remember when SpongeBob said, ‘The inner machinations of my mind—’”
“‘—are an enigma,’” Lucy finished. “And remember when Plankton couldn’t understand the basic concept of fun? F is for the fire that burns down the entire Bikini Bottom town.”
“U is for uranium bomb,” I added. “And N is for...”
“NO SURVIVORS,” we chanted simultaneously right before rolling into fits of laughter.
I took a moment to catch my breath. “I enjoyed that tangent, by the way.”
“Me, too,” she said before casting her gaze around.
I, too, scanned the room, contemplating our next move.
“Decisions, decisions,” Lucy mused aloud. “I can’t decide if we should ride the mechanical bull or hit the dance floor.”
“Easy,” I said. “There is not a single person who has walked into a bar and laid eyes on a mechanical bull and said, ‘I don’t want to ride that.’”
“True,” she agreed. “If he did, he’s a liar.”
“Liar!” I boomed. “Everyone wants a shot at the bull. It’s so easy. I mean, just look at that douchebag over there showing off.”
“Ew.” She pulled a face. “He looks like he’s simulating sex with that bull. I hope he pops a testicle and can’t have kids.”
“There he goes,” I remarked as the dude got tossed off like a rag doll.
“Yeeet.” She hooted. “Spoke too soon.”
“So, your decision is made?” I looked at her expectantly. “The bull it is, then?”
“Yah, but I want to dance, too.” Her voice teetered toward a whine. “We never got to dirty-dance at Bianca’s wedding.”
“We can do both.”
“Deal.”
“You wanna ride the bull first?” I asked. “Or hit the dance floor?”
“I’m gonna tackle the bull first,” she said with deadly calm. “And show ’em how it’s done.”
Then she pivoted around and stalked purposefully toward the mechanical bull like a sheriff strutting toward a showdown at high noon.
Somewhere in the cranial creases of my head, I heard the familiar whistling tune from the old spaghetti westerns—the one that was played when a shootout took place in a dry and dusty desert in some old Midwestern town.
Nah nah nah naaaaaaaaaah. NEOW, NEOW, NEOW.
I stood watching raptly as Lucy mounted the bull and sat forward in the leather saddle, gripping the sides with her thighs.
Within seconds, the plastic beast jerked to life and Lucy held her left hand in the air, high above her head, like a true rodeo rider while her right hand gripped the padded strap tied around the torso of the machine.
With laser focus, she kept her eyes fixed on the bull’s head.
When the bull’s head moved down, she leaned back, squeezing the beast with her thighs. And when the bull’s head moved up, she leaned all the way forward.
Back and forth she went, in a see-saw motion.
As the machine gradually sped up, Lucy held on tight, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the strap as the bull jerked her back and forth.
I swallowed with a dry throat as that tiny space of skin between her snug shirt and tight jeans played peek-a-boo with me.
Shifting my gaze, I sucked in a breath, staring at those long breasts swaying back and forth, lifting and dipping with each rise and fall of the bull, her long silky hair whipping around, snapping in the air as the beast tried to toss
her.
The bull was spinning violently now and Lucy had that determined look on her face. Fire in her eyes. God, she looked fierce and sexy. Dangerous and wild.
There was no way in hell that beast was pitching her off tonight.
I kept my eyes trained on her, raking over every inch of her jerking body, her swaying tits.
In time, everything around me became white noise and all I heard, all I saw was her...
Radiant and buck naked, riding the bucking beast.
Fuck. I swallowed back a groan, intoxicated by the raw erotic sight of her gloriously nude, thighs gripping, tits jouncing, hair billowing in the wind.
Thar she blows.
My cock stirred at the thought of her riding me like she rode that bull.
Her face flushed with arousal, her eyes dilated with lust as she rode me like a rodeo champion, gripping me with those thick thighs, clenching her inner muscles around my cock as she slid up and down my shaft.
Blood rushed to my groin. I clenched my jaw—hard.
By the time the mechanical beast slowed to a halt, my body was strung tight and I was sure my cock had a permanent imprint from my zipper.
Shaking my head as if I could somehow shake off that erotic image of Lucy, I took several long strides toward her.
“Yeehaw,” she whooped like a cowgirl as I lifted her off the bull. “I killed it back there. I fuckin’ dominated.” Her eyes were shining. “Did you see that?”
“I saw.”
“Your move, tiger,” she drawled sassily as her boots touched the ground. “Time for you to take the bull by the horns and get in a rasslin’ mood.”
“Changed my mind,” I said, taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor, all while struggling to walk with my massive hard-on.
“Edric.” There was a thread of amusement in her voice. “You’re walking like you’ve been on horseback for five days—in concrete underwear. Why are you walking all bow-legged?”
A muscle worked in my jaw. “Don’t ask.”
“Hoo, boy.” She stared at the thick bulge tenting my jeans. “Put away your pistol, cowboy.”
I released a ragged breath, trying hard to extinguish the heat in my groin.
“Who knew?” she blabbed on. “Bull riding is all sweet and innocent until someone gets a boner. You gotta learn how to train your dragon, Edric. Do you have it under control now?”
The Good Mistake (Hemsworth Brothers #3) Page 19