by Mika Jolie
Cori, drunk, has always been cute. Tonight is no exception. Her body is relaxed. When she smiles, it’s at its widest and brightens the room.
“Good,” I say to my sister. “I don’t want to know.”
“I date,” Kate slurs. “Tell him, Cori.” She pokes Lucas in the ribs. He grimaces, feigning pain. Gotta love a guy who’s willing to get beat up by my drunk sister.
“Umm, I’m Lucas.” He leans back and casually drapes one arm along the back of Kate’s chair. “Cori is sitting next to your brother.”
Kate giggles, and hiccups, making a little wet sound. “Ooh, your body is hard.”
“One hundred percent male, baby,” Lucas beams.
Kate bats her lashes, and then murmurs, “I like it.”
Everyone, this is where I vomit.
Lucas shifts his weight, so that they are facing each other. The fucker smiles, as if Kate’s words are fucking golden, and then says, in a voice rippling with a seductive, Spanish accent, “I like yours too, gorgeous.”
Whoa!
Slow. The. Fuck. Down.
“Dude,” I warn. That’s all I had to say. The underlying message is clear—save the charms for another woman. This is my sister.
“We should stop flirting.” The asshole, who up until now was also known as my best friend, chuckles. “Your brother is getting into his overly-protective mode.”
Well, at least he got the message that I’m itching to swing out and put a dent in his pretty face.
“Oops,” Kate says then giggles.
Lucas pulls her into one of those side hugs. Just when I’m ready to leap over the table and kick some serious ass, he releases Kate and focuses his attention on Cori. “So, you haven’t met Mr. Right?”
“Let’s see.” Cori’s voice wheels me back in. I glance over at her. Her left index finger is ready for a countdown. “So far, I’ve met Mr. Asshole, Mr. Douchebag, and Mr. Liar.”
Lucas laughs then repeats the name. “Mr. Asshole.”
Cori nods. “That’s Trevor.”
I sit back and glug down another mouthful of my beer, while Lucas continues with his grilling. “As in Bendover?”
Cori pops a nacho into her mouth, chews then answers. “Mr. Bendover himself.”
Lucas shoots me a ‘How could you let her make that mistake’ look. I shrug. The type that silently says, I tried, but my warning fell on deaf ears. For as long as I’ve known Cori, she’s always been too positive to be doubtful, and too optimistic not to give someone a chance.
“Bendover is scum,” Lucas says, echoing my sentiments.
The corners of Cori’s mouth quirk up slightly. “Hence, the appropriate name, Mr. Asshole. I think he’ll screw anything.”
Sadly, many of us on this planet—myself included—would jam their idiot-stick into anything, as long as it doesn’t electrocute them. Although, I’m not sure if that’s entirely true. If you put a DYSON upright vacuum cleaner in a pair of black fishnets, I’m sure some man would screw it. Not to brag, but I only fuck women and my right hand.
“Mr. Douchebag?” Lucas asks.
“He’s an actor with an over-inflated sense of self-worth.”
“Compounded by a low level of intelligence,” Kate adds.
“How do you know this?” Lucas asks, his gaze shifting to Kate’s face.
“I was there.” Kate takes another swig of her drink and lets out a satisfactory ahh, before finishing her sentence. “We double date.”
“Say no more.” Lucas puts up a hand, his attention back on Cori. “And Mr. Liar?”
“The tan around his ring finger gave him away. As it turns out, he’s married, expecting his second child.”
Lucas winces. “Ouch.”
And this is why women view men as dirtbags. Hell, I’m one of those dirtbags, except I don’t mislead my women. I give no declaration of undying love, or any promises of forever or faithfulness. No pretense.
Guys, I don’t care if your appearance is a ten. If your personality is a three, guess what? You’re a three. Don’t lie to women.
“Oh, well.” Cori straightens her shoulders. “I’ve decided I’m going to whoogle my next date.”
“Whoogle,” I say, arching a brow, then glance over at drunk and disorderly, also known as Cori and Kate.
Cori gives me a playful nudge. “Look them up online.”
“Thanks for the clarification.” I take another swig of my beer. Before Cori explained whoogle, I never heard of the term or the meaning of it.
“I think it’s a brilliant idea, Cori,” Kate encourages her partner in crime. “We need to make sure they aren’t married.”
“Or serial killers,” I point out.
“I just want to be elusive,” Cori says while drumming her fingers on the table.
I guess the possibility of meeting serial killers doesn’t bother her much. Hey, if I were a woman dating online, my number one fear would be if I were going to be murdered. “Do you mean exclusive?”
Cori glances at me, brows creased together. “That’s what I said.” Flipping her hair, she looks at Kate for confirmation, to which my sister nods. “In any case, I’ll find my lobster.”
“Your lobster?” Lucas asks quietly.
“It’s a known fact lobsters mate for life,” Cori points out.
“According to what theory?” I ask, amused.
“Monica and Chandler,” Kate says with one hundred percent Moreno stubbornness.
“Ross and Rachel,” Cori adds.
“Contrary to . . . what’s her name?” I glance over at Lucas for help.
“Phoebe,” Lucas answers.
I lift my beer in a silent toast. “Thanks, bro.”
“Anytime.”
“As I was saying, Phoebe was wrong,” I continue, my eyes never leaving Cori’s face. “These arthropods mate once, then never see each other again. As a matter of fact, when a female lobster is ready to become a mother, she seeks out the region’s reigning male lobster and pays a call to his burrow for some lobster lovin’.”
“Also, the female wafts urine into the male lobster’s home,” Lucas adds, smiling.
“The golden shower.” Lucas and I laugh and high-five each other across the table.
Cori rolls her eyes. “You’re a buzz kill.”
“I aim to please, gorgeous.” I mime a dagger to the heart.
Cori laughs good-naturedly. “It doesn’t matter what you say, I’m going to find my lobster.”
Lucas and I swallow another long mouthful of our beers.
“I got it,” Kate announces, her face bright with excitement. “Why don’t you date my brother?”
The question throws me off, causing me to almost choke on my beer. Kate’s words hang over the table for a beat. A thrill of anticipation skitters down my spine. I tell myself, whatever she says doesn’t matter, will not affect me. We have a long-term connection. She gets along with my family and friends. I can bring her around my parents without worrying about them painting my spare bedroom yellow or blue. Dating has never been an option.
Yet, my curiosity is piqued.
Her body shifts toward mine, close enough that our knees touch. Close enough that I can see every single gold spec in her whiskey eyes. Slowly, her gaze rakes over my face, like she’s buying a new car, and I’m the model.
“How would you treat me if we were dating, Dean?” she asks in a low voice laced with wine.
For some strange reason, the idea of Cori and I together causes countless butterflies to fly wild in my stomach. This is where my moral compass usually kicks in full force and wheels me back in into Friendtopia. I can feel my sister and Lucas watching us with interest, but right now, I don’t care. Every inch of me is, instead, conscious of the bare length of Cori’s thigh brushing against my jean-clad legs.
I stare into her face for a long, speculative moment, contemplating the depth of her curiosity, then say, “If we were dating, I’d woo you the right way.”
She smiles, clearly amused. “How?”
After taking another swallow of my beer, I say, “I’d hold the door open for you.” Whether it’s the building door, elevator door, car door, or even the revolving door, I’d hold it. “I’d put my strong, firm, man hands on that door, back up my cute, toned ass, and instruct you to enter, by saying, ‘after you,’ or, ‘you may enter, sexy sugar mama.’”
Cori laughs. “You already do that.”
I nod. “True, but it’d be more intimate.”
Cori tilts her head. Her gaze still on me. “Do explain.”
With pleasure. I’m enjoying this exchange. “I’d stand there, look at you, and smile like I wouldn’t rather be doing anything else but standing there, looking at you, and smiling while holding that door open for you.” I lean into her, and lower my voice. “At that moment, I’d make you feel as if you’re the most sublime creature on earth.”
Cori swallows hard and shakes her head. “I’d feel all of that just by you holding the door for me.”
I can tell when Cori is thrown off her axis a bit. The idea that my words have affected her, surprisingly, makes me want to give in to the cocktail of lust burning a fiery path through my veins.
I reach and stroke a few strands of long, silky, brown hair, before letting my finger skim down to the throbbing pulse at the base of her neck. “There’s more. Want to find out?”
Her rich golden eyes darken and wrap around me like a blanket, engulfing me in their warmth, and making me feel at home. The air is taut with sexual tension. My gaze drops to her lips. They part and then the tip of her tongue touches her lower lip.
My brain stutters and twitches. My dick twitches too.
And then Cori crinkles her nose and laughs. Talk about boner killer . . . not that I have one but . . . Never mind. She grabs my biceps, leans into it in that affectionate way friends do with each other. A silent reminder of our status.
“Dean loves playing the field,” Cori finally says, the heat of her breath fanning over my face.
I nod, confirming my status. Mr. Player. That’s me. One hundred percent.
“Just like you and Cam,” Kate adds, her attention on Lucas. “By the way, where is Cam tonight?”
“He has a date,” Lucas answers.
“You mean, he’s screwing a woman as we speak.” Cori rolls her eyes. “See what I mean? Men are rats.”
“Worse than that, they’re fleas on rats,” Kate adds.
Here we go again. “Hey.” I immediately go in defensive mode, because us men must stick together. “We always make it clear we’re not the marrying type, right brother?”
Lucas raises his beer in my direction in a toast. “Here. Here. Been there. Done that. Never again.”
“Well, enough of that pity party for me tonight.” Cori stands up and extends one hand to me. “Wanna karaoke?”
Moonchild loves to karaoke, and she always drags me with her. The truth is, I enjoy getting silly with her. Karaoke is our thing. I drink the last quarter of my beer, rise to my feet, and take her hand in mine. “Let’s do this.”
Lucas coughs and mutters sucker under his breath. Kate scoffs and elbows him. Ignoring the bastard, I place a hand at the small of Cori’s back as we head to the stage.
“How about “Summer Nights”?” she asks while flipping through the playlist.
Leaning over her, I scan through the playlist from Grease and point my index finger to “You’re the One That I Want.”
She turns to me, smiles, and says, “Tell me about it, stud,” in such a husky voice that, for a split second, I am speechless.
These momentary lapses really must stop. I puff out my chest and say, “Let’s do it.”
A few minutes later, the catchy tune fills the room. And I swear, it’s as if it’s every woman’s favorite song just came on. No, not their fave song at the moment, or the one they like to wax poetic about once they’ve had too many glasses of their favorite wine. This is the song that reminds every woman who has seen the movie about the expression on Danny’s face when Sandy appears in those black, skin-tight, leather pants. That’s how every woman wants a guy or a woman to look at them someday.
I am singing about having chills, and how they are multiplying, in my best Danny Zuko voice. When Cori joins me, a hush falls over the room. Her voice is smooth, clear and quiet, yet powerful. Lost in the moment, I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her against me. As I continue belting out the lyrics, the bar comes to life. Before I know it, every woman is passionately singing the lyrics along with us. We play to the crowd, encouraging them.
The scene is swimming through my cerebral cortex like a wakeful dream. I’m transformed, losing all sense, except the music. I’m Danny Zuko, on my knees in front of Sandy—AKA Cori—singing about how I better shape up, because she needs a man.
The crowd goes wild. When we’re done, a cacophony of applause bursts forth, praising and raising the roof a few inches. In a state of blissful euphoria, I pull Cori in my arms and place a kiss on her forehead.
CORI SHIVERS NEXT TO ME the minute we step out of the bar. Lucas and Kate left about half hour ago, in order for him to relieve Emma’s sitter.
“You’re okay?” I ask Cori.
She nods, and pulls her coat more tightly around her, in an attempt to stop the freezing air from slithering up and down her body. Around us, the snow is falling like white confetti. We are moving slowly down the sidewalk to the crosswalk. I remove my peacoat and wrap it over her shaking shoulders.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“A gentleman always puts the needs of the woman in his arms ahead of his.” I slide my hand into hers, linking our fingers. With a gentle tug, I guide her to the right, away from the small group of college students leaving the bar. We continue in perfect harmony, fingers laced tightly.
“Not because she’s helpless or unable,” she says as we reach the corner.
“Definitely not.” I release her hand and focus my attention on the entertainment flyers papering the light pole, while we wait for the green light to switch to red.
“Why, then?” Cori rummages through her purse and produces a lip balm, which she swipes across her lips.
A taxicab slows in front of us, honks its horn. I wave it away, then turn to Cori. Her eyes are still a bit glassy from alcohol. “Because,” I start, my voice an octave lower than before. “A gentleman always wants to show a woman that she’s valuable and worthy of respect.”
“Thanks for tonight.”
I brush a snowflake off her cheek. “Anything for you, Moonchild.”
She tips her head, looks up at me, and flashes a smile that suddenly makes my heart feel way too big to fit in my ribcage. Before I realize what is happening, Cori wraps her hands around my neck, tiptoes, and presses her lips to mine.
“Friends don’t kiss friends.”
THE FEEL OF CORI’S LIPS sends my mind into a sensual state of intoxication. My eyes immediately drift shut. Every nerve in my body is vibrating, and my heart . . . Well, it’s going bonkers.
Cori is kissing me.
On the streets of New York.
I am completely unprepared.
Common sense tells me to stop. Don’t engage. Pull away. But I can’t seem to find the strength.
I can’t think straight.
My head is spinning.
Holy shit.
The kiss. It’s wrecking my equilibrium, transporting me somewhere heavenly.
Her lips are soft, succulent, and fine as they linger against mine. The warmth of her mouth sends a current running through my body. Chills run over my skin, and fire burns inside me.
I feel dizzy.
Drunk.
High.
My senses have been seduced by the rapid beat of my heart, the sweetness of the raspberry lip balm she swiped on a few minutes ago, the snow falling on our faces to where our lips meet, each one of us tasting the cold drops.
I’m brought to new heights. I need to suppress my shock, what’s going through my head. Act normal. Relax. Th
ink: lead actor in a black-and white film.
When Cori makes one of those soft mewling sounds from the back of her throat, I wind my hand into the softness of her slightly damp hair. Placing my other hand on the small of her back, I pull her against the wall of my chest.
Control shifts. I take over and kiss her with all the pent-up longing buried deep inside me. She moves with me, meeting me toe to toe, our tongues battling in an erotic collision. Our lips are eager, testing, exploring, until we finally break for air, breathless.
There’s a delicious moment, where her face is washed blank with confusion, as if her brain cogs couldn’t turn fast enough to take in that we’ve just kissed.
“Wow.” She’s the first one to speak. Her voice comes out hoarse, barely audible. “That was . . . amazing.”
“Out of this world,” I agree, and clear my throat. Her lips are swollen strawberry pink. My heart is still hammering in my chest as if I just climbed the Eiffel Tower.
“Your lips . . .” Her voice trails.
There’s a pregnant pause. Words seeming to have failed her. No judgment here. My mind is still in a fog. Her gaze drops to my mouth. Mine lowers to hers for a moment, before our eyes meet again.
“They’re so soft,” she whispers, her voice fills with such longing that it makes my skin heats up, completely oblivious to the frigid winter air.
“So are yours, Moonchild.”
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to kiss you.”
This admission surprises me. In a good way. I don’t need my ego stroked, but this is Cori—the hottest woman on earth—confessing to being curious about the two of us kissing. “And?”
“It was magic.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. She can’t say shit like that and not expect me to want more. We’re still standing inches apart with one of my arms roped around her waist. I run the pad of my thumb where a snowflake has kissed her cheek and melted. “Are you drunk?”
She shakes her head and lets out a low laugh. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m going to kiss you again, and I want to make sure you’re not three sheets to the wind.” I search her gaze. Her eyes are no longer glassy, instead they are dazed with desire.