Play Boy

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  "Good morning to you, too, Nova." I yawn and run my hand down my bare chest. And a part of me wishes she'd at least take a little look but her eyes stay focused on my face. "Didn't I tell you not to walk on my lawn?" I glare down at her. Or at least I try to because I just can't manage to wipe that damn goofy expression off my face.

  I love messing with her. When I know she’s getting herself all worked up about something, I love ribbing with her just to entertain myself.

  She shoves the plate of leftovers at me as she rolls her eyes and walks straight past me in her purple spandex workout gear. She's fresh out of the gym this morning. There's a sheen to her coppery skin. I catch a whiff of her. Strawberries and cocoa butter with subtle undertones of sweat.

  I enjoy running water as much as the next man but if there were ever a water crisis in this town, I’d gladly lick her clean.

  "Sheesh! You and that damn lawn,” she groans. “You’re like one of those annoying rent-a-cops at the Botanic Garden." She snickers as she hunches over to pull off her shoes on the front mat. I nearly drop the plate at the sight of that ass bent over in front of me.

  Heavenly hell!

  She looks up too fast and catches me with my eyes peeled to her curves. She stumbles back a half step. Reaching out, I steady her with my free hand. I can't tell if that shiver came from her or from me.

  Shit.

  Quick to distract her from what just happened, I turn and lead the way toward the kitchen of my bachelor pad. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning?" I drop onto a high stool at the granite-topped island.

  As Nova opens the cutlery drawer behind me, I take the time to adjust my erection. She spins around with two forks and hands one my way. She slides onto the stool next to me and peels back the foil covering the plate.

  "Still stealing food from work, I see." I grab a marinated olive with my fingers and pop it into my mouth.

  Biting back a smile, she flips me off and then shovels a forkful of salami into her face. "So, are you gonna fix my car or what?" In a rudimentary show of civility, she hides her stuffed mouth behind her hand as she speaks.

  Such a lady!

  "I'm not a mechanic, Nova." I extend my arms above my head and stretch. Her eyes still don't peek at my muscles.

  Why the hell does it bother me so much that this chick doesn't want me?

  I've got women pursuing me every single day. Calling me, texting me, begging me for a little bit of attention. They find my charm irresistible. My smile melts the lace-trimmed satin right off of their behinds. One smoldering glance and they’re down on their knees, ready to follow my instructions.

  But Nova? She treats me like a comfy armchair. Yes, she’ll cuddle against me to watch a movie on a laid-back Saturday night, but I’m pretty much just a piece of furniture. Well-loved but ultimately, benign.

  We’re strictly friends and that's probably for the best since I’ve known her forever. She’s virtually a part of the family. Growing up, she was always in my sister’s room, wearing those creepy homemade facial masks, reading teen magazines full of bad dating advice and peer-pressuring Reese into dyeing her hair all ungodly colors.

  Still, it bugs me that she isn't even a little attracted to me. What can I say? My male ego is a fragile petal.

  Nova doesn’t come pounding down my door when she’s looking for a toe-curling good time. She only calls me, shows up at my house or tracks me down when she's bored or in trouble.

  And I can live with that, I guess. I have so much drama in my life, battling the ghosts of fuck friends past. It really makes me appreciate the simplicity of hanging out with Nova.

  But it certainly doesn’t mean that I can’t admire the way her tits fill out the scrap of spandex banded across her chest.

  She continues to whine. "But you know how to fix cars..."

  "I told you the last time—what I did for you was a temporary fix. You need to bring that piece of junk to the repair shop and get it checked out. You're gonna end up running yourself off the road."

  "So, you're not gonna help me?"

  "I can't."

  She sighs, looking completely out of options. Her shoulders slump and she does that pouty thing that makes my cock ache. "You're not just saying that, are you?"

  I frown. She knows me better than that. I’d help her if I could. "I honestly can't fix the car, Nova."

  “Fuck…” She mutters the word under her breath and I know exactly what she’s thinking.

  Nova’s a creative type. She excels in all things artistic. She sketches, she plays the guitar, she’s got a Nikon slung around her neck half the time. If you leave her in a dark alley with a few cans of spray paint for long enough, you’ll come back to a mural that will take your breath away.

  But she’s broke. She’s stuck at a dead-end job, a waitress at a local Italian restaurant. I know she hates it but she hangs on to it because she’s scared to let go and take a step toward her dreams. I keep telling her to take the plunge, to quit the restaurant and give herself a few months to just go for it. She doesn’t listen. Instead, she stays in a job that keeps her broke and unhappy and suffocates her creativity.

  I lean my elbows on the counter and watch her shove a little tomato into her mouth. “Had any gigs lately?” I ask.

  She snorts a little. “Sang at this wedding last weekend. Some rich woman married her housekeeper’s husband as soon as the ink dried on the divorce papers. Let me tell you, there was dra-ma! Flying cupcakes. Barefooted toddlers running around screaming, ‘That’s my daddy!’ I got hit in the head with a flying cheese wedge.”

  I reach for the last cracker on the plate as I laugh. She snatches it from my fingers and I harrumph. “Hey!” She grins and pops it victoriously into her mouth.

  Her mane of wild, golden ringlets frames her beautiful face. I reach out and grab a lock of it. I give it a soft tug. For one moment, I fall into her enchanting green irises and I can’t seem to look away.

  She swats my hand away. “Stop it, Charlie.”

  “What?” My lips dance at the corners.

  She stretches out across the counter and rests her head in the crook of her arm. “So you really can’t fix my car?” She looks up at me from under her lashes. All sweetness and innocence.

  “Can’t help ya.”

  A groan bursts out of her chest. "You're dead to me," she announces conclusively as she drops down her fork and pushes away from the table.

  "Just like that?"

  She nods. "Just like that." She seals the foil over the plate and swipes it off of the table.

  "Hell no, you're not taking the food." I step into her path, blocking the way.

  Her hand comes up protectively in front of her and she slaps my chest softly. Fuck fuck fuck. There's no way she didn't feel that bolt of electricity.

  She's standing so close that she has to tip her head back to look at me. "You smell like sex." Her nose twitches.

  I run my hand over my short hair. "Just got in," I say with a sheepish grin.

  Her jaw goes tight. Her voice drips with repulsion. "Your dick is gonna fall off one of these days."

  Not in the mood to hear it. She likes to preach about my sexual proclivities from high up on her holier than thou pulpit. She’s like a damn Sunday School teacher. In micro-shorts and a bra top.

  That spandex on her curves is killing me, though.

  "I'm always safe," I tell her. Condoms are my constant sidekick. I may fuck a lot of chicks but I'm no fool. I won't let some random girl end up pregnant with my baby or, worse yet, give me an awful communicable disease.

  Nova's still mad. She lifts the foil again and grabs three cheese cubes before shoving the plate into my hand and heading for the door.

  She doesn’t understand.

  I’m restless. I can’t sit still. I can’t settle down. My demons come for me whenever I slow my pace for a minute.

  And besides, I'm young, I'm attractive, I'm successful in my trade. What’s the point in depriving myself?

/>   My hungry gaze rolls from the little butterfly tattoo on her shoulder down her slender back to the curve of her ass as she bends to tie the laces on her sneakers. The things I'd do if I got my hands on that ass...

  Again, she catches me staring. She throws me a venomous look before swinging the door open and marching across the lawn. “Goodbye, Charlie.”

  “Goodbye, Nova.”

  I can’t rip my eyes away from that sultry stride. I want to haul her back in here, flip her over the back of my couch and lose my tongue in that beautiful ass.

  But Nova Chester is my little sister's best friend and her ass, just like the rest of that spectacular body, is off-limits.

  Chapter 3

  Nova

  When I step into the changing room, Tiffany and Giselle don’t even notice. They’re huddled together over an iPhone, oohing and aahing at a picture of some naked male torso.

  “God, that man looks like he’s so good in bed,” Tiffany moans wistfully, clutching her hands over her heart.

  Giselle puffs up her chest and grins wide. “Oh, you’d better believe that he is!” she assures her friend in a bragging tone. “He has a cock the size of a French baguette and there’s this thing he did with his kneecaps and his pinkie toe…I’m gonna need to do a vlog about it because my YouTube subscribers need to know this stuff. It’s addictive.”

  The two of them giggle hysterically, bumping shoulders and carrying on. Tiffany gives Giselle a congratulatory high-five and a playful slap on the thigh.

  Sadly, getting boned good and proper is the kind of thing that calls for a celebration in this town. The bachelors of Copper Heights are woefully unstimulating.

  Actually, there aren’t many single guys around here to begin with. Our little neck of the woods is basically a commuter community. The daddies jump on the I-90 South at the crack of dawn to go to work 14-hour days at Chicago-area hedge funds and consulting firms while the mommies stick around town day-drinking while scheduling play dates, carpooling and shopping for organic zucchini. This isn’t typically the kind of place where hot, single twenty-something males come to play.

  Anyway, I’m really in no mood to hear about my coworker’s good fortune in the bedroom. I’m still pretty cranky from the disappointing fuck I had last night.

  I should have known better than to waste my time on a guy named Roy. But he was a nice person. Polite. Mild-mannered. Generous with the compliments. Plus, he had a nicely-groomed beard and pulled off the whole brooding urban farmer look pretty well. So I figured it couldn’t hurt to go on a few dates with him. In a town like this, he was actually a very reasonable dating option.

  Except that all he ever seemed to want to talk about was his composting practices and his knack for finding great deals on almond milk and probiotics. I figured that sex would be a good idea—y’know, as a strategy to shut him the fuck up.

  But after nearly a month of dating him, I gave up on the sex, too. The boy has absolutely no understanding of how female genitalia works. Last night after his latest failed attempt to deliver an orgasm, I snapped, informing him that the drooling animal between my legs is a pussy, not a guinea pig. My body is not a high school science project. I stormed out of his house and asked him to lose my number.

  So, that’s what today’s foul mood is all about.

  Still reliving my frustration, I yank my locker open and toss my dirty apron inside. That’s when Giselle and Tiffany notice me. Their chatting stops and they freeze with wide eyes. Then, they both burst into laughter.

  Apparently, we’re still in high school.

  I swear the only reason I keep this job is for the food. The tips are shitty, the customers are idiots and I'm no shrink, but I'm pretty sure my boss is a sociopath. Plus, the bitchy airheads I work with are intolerable.

  I may be forced to share airspace with this cast of characters during my shifts but as of five minutes ago, I am off the clock and I don’t want to spend another minute in proximity to them. My fingers move quickly to unfasten the buttons on my work shirt. Then I whip it off of my shoulders and stuff it into my cubby.

  “I hope you broke out your best moves,” Tiffany giggles.

  As I’m pulling my tank top over my head, I hear Giselle whisper loudly, “Duh! For a guy like Charlie Hartley, you’ve got to bring your A-game!”

  My movements stutter as the words land right in my gut.

  She continues. “He said I have the best gag reflex northeast of Chicago.” The pride and accomplishment in the girl’s voice is absolutely pathetic.

  And who holds the title in the northwest, genius?

  Kicking off my sneakers, I stomp into my combat boots and lace them up tight. Giselle keeps whispering in that obviously-too-loud tone, spilling all the bean sauce about her magnificent one-night stand with my friend.

  I’m not sure that she realizes it, but that’s all she’ll ever be to him. A one-night stand. The guy is a serial womanizer. I pity any woman who opens her legs to him with the expectation of anything more than a throat full of spermatozoa in return.

  Make no mistake—I love Charlie but he’s a playboy, a philanderer. And a notch in his bedpost I shall never be.

  Fine, I’ll admit it—he’s handsome, very handsome. And he has the type of body I wish I could just fold up and keep in the naughty box under my bed for those cold winter nights.

  But smart girls know not to fall for guys like Charlie.

  And I’m trying real hard to be a smart girl. For as long as I’ve known him, I’ve been trying to be a smart girl.

  It’s not easy, though because he has always been someone I could count on, someone who made me feel safe. But I never let myself interpret his kindness to mean anything deeper. He and I are friends. Strictly platonic.

  That’s all we’ll ever be.

  Keeping my gaze straight ahead, I make my way to the door. Giselle can’t resist the urge to call after me in a cloying, saccharine tone. “Have a good evening, Nova.”

  I throw her a withering glance. “Same to you. Have fun perfecting that gag reflex.” Her jaw drops as I stomp out the door.

  That was immature of me. I know it. I try not to engage in female pettiness but sometimes I can’t help it. I spent most of high school on the receiving end of taunts and bullying over everything from the untameable texture of my hair to the coppery tone of my skin. Being biracial in a small town like Copper Heights doesn’t go unnoticed and, when you’re ‘different’, kids can be cruel.

  But it made me tough. If you jab, I jab back. If you right-hook, I knock you the hell out.

  Charlie likes to say I have a chip the side of Rhode Island on my shoulder. He’s not wrong. Anyone who dares to challenge me, I’ll prove to them exactly what I’m made of. I may look like I’m all sugar and spice and everything that’s nice but I assure you that I’m a tough cookie.

  Aside from my sister and my two best friends, Reese and Sophia, nobody knows the real me under my armor of steel. Except for Charlie, I guess. I learned life's lessons the hard way—guys break your heart, girls stab you in the back. It’s best to keep people at a safe distance.

  As soon as I step into the hallway, I’m brainwashed by the heavenly scent of basil and garlic. The drama from the locker room is instantly forgotten as I round the corner, swaggering in the direction of the kitchen. The bruschetta, the pesto, the calzone, the linguine—they call out like a siren song, especially for a girl like me who considers boiling an egg an undue hardship.

  I creep past the line chefs, over to where Franco usually stashes my doggie bag. Grinning, I lift the top of the supersized foam container. Oh, mushroom risotto with sausages. Nice…And of course, there’s a mishmash of leftover spaghetti, Alfredo pasta and eggplant parmesan too, with a half-bottle of red wine on the side for good measure.

  Flashing him a conspiratorial wink, I shove my arms into the sleeves of my beat-up denim jacket. I slap him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Franco. Un uomo buono!”

  His chest rumbles with laughter as I
make my great escape down the hall. “Don’t forget our deal!” he calls after me. “I give you food, you take out the trash.”

  “Y’know, any of the busboys could do that,” I whine.

  “It’s our deal!”

  Grrr…“Okay, okay. Whatever.” I grab the heavy, stinky bags as requested.