by Bijou Hunter
“So you’re really just adorable and family-orientated and not a bitch at all.”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Actually, it is. After all, your twin friends left for a fun adventure and invited you to join them. Your reaction was to freak out as if they’d stabbed you in the back with shit-covered blades.”
“They decided one day out of the blue to leave. It was ridiculous.”
“Do you lack coping skills?”
“No.”
“Then why can’t you open that place without them?”
“I’m not a loner. I need a posse to make me feel awesome. Besides, I knew the place would fail, but it would have been fun if the twins helped me.”
“No. That’s not it.”
“Then what is it, you genius fucking giant?”
Taping her nose with my index finger, I sigh again. “I don’t know, but you’re obviously upset for another reason.”
“Save the shrink shit.”
“Are you planning to eat your sandwich?”
Audrey studies the food, and the answer is written all over her beautiful face. Will she eat the sandwich to spite me or submit to what we both know?
AUDREY
Pop is so pissed after I text him explaining why I left that he can’t even spell his threats correctly. I send him a heart emoticon and ignore the rest of his angry messages.
I can’t believe I let Cap mock me into ordering a muffuletta. His opinion shouldn’t mean shit to me. I know who I am. I am who I want to be. Fucking-A.
Except I do want his approval. I want this giant handsome man to think I’m beautiful and smart and cool. If he thinks roast beef and French dip—either of them preferable to this weird sandwich before me—are lame, well, then I need to be edgy enough to try his fancy fucking sandwich.
“Do you always ride your Harley?” he asks before taking a massive bite out of his sandwich.
I’m slightly horrified by Cap’s lack of manners. Sure, my pop is a loud-mouthed, burping, farting, violent madman when around the club guys. With Mom, though, he tones down his gross manly inclinations. I always assumed men would at least fake good manners for women they want to impress.
So how come this lust-inducing leviathan isn’t eating more carefully in my presence? Where’s the effort to woo me?
“I normally drive my 1970 El Camino,” I say while nibbling at a chip since the sandwich grosses me out.
“Why?”
“It’s a nice fucking car, that’s why.”
“I thought your dad made decent money. I just figured he could afford a better car for his kid.”
“We fixed it up together, shit stain.”
“Are you into cars?”
“No. I’m into my pop,” I say, regretting my choice of words immediately. “You know what I mean.”
Chewing his sandwich, Cap nods and mumbles, “He’s a good-looking guy. You could do worse.”
“Turd muncher.”
“Your dad got you a dump of a car and had you help fix it up, huh? That’s a pretty sweet bonding experience. Normally though isn’t that a daddy-son thing? I guess you do have a little tomboy vibe going on.”
“I’m not a tomboy.”
“Sure.”
Picking at the sandwich, I shrug. “Pop bought the car for my brother. They were fixing it up until Colton decided he preferred chasing girls to playing mechanic with Pop. I knew that hurt Pop’s feelings, so I offered to help. It ended up being fun. Pop has a lot of great stories about when he was younger and how he met Mom.”
“And when you drive that El Camino, you think of your dad’s stories.”
“Yeah,” I say, liking how he doesn’t make fun of my affection for Pop. “The car feels like a piece of my family’s history. Besides, it’s pretty cool too. I get compliments from guys all the time.”
“They’re just saying shit to get you to notice them. It’s a con.”
“Is that how you get girls to notice you?”
“No, Audrey Johansson, if I want a girl to notice me, I just enter the room, and wham, bam, thank you, ma’am,” Cap says and gives me an arrogant wink.
“You’re so awful,” I say without much effort. “I bet women hate you around here. No doubt you use them and lose them, huh?”
“I’m picky about where I stick my dick.”
“Bullshit.”
Cap doesn’t act offended or hurry to prove his manliness. He just shrugs and finishes chewing before explaining, “I was homeschooled, and Mom provided me with a very detailed sex education. No way am I getting dick rot.”
I burst into laughter despite the serious expression on his roughly handsome face. Too bad my brother doesn’t worry half as much about his dick rotting off.
“Antibiotic-resistant STDs are a real problem,” he says when I continue laughing.
“Wouldn’t know. I’m a stone-cold virgin.”
Cap doesn’t react AT ALL to my confession. Men usually salivate upon hearing they could be the first to tap my sweet ass. Instead, he only takes another bite of his sandwich and watches me with the dark eyes of a man with the world in his behemoth hand.
“No comment about that?” I ask when he says nothing.
“If you’re not going to eat your sandwich, can I have it? I only ate one lunch today and no afternoon snack.”
I look at the muffuletta monstrosity with layer after layer of shit I don’t recognize on it. “What’s in this anyway?”
“Shouldn’t you have asked that before ordering?”
“I’m sorry if I assumed it wouldn’t look like dog shit. Clearly, I overestimated your taste level.”
“Calm your sweet tits. The muffuletta is a Sicilian sandwich with ciabatta bread, Genoa salami, capocollo, prosciutto, mortadella, mozzarella, and provolone. Oh, and olive salad.”
“What the hell does olive salad taste like?”
“You took a bite.”
“I nibbled the edges. I didn’t taste any salad.”
Cap’s size allows him to stand, lean over, and plant his lips on mine in one smooth motion. I only get a taste of his tongue before his ass returns to his seat.
“Or you could take a bite and find out,” he says.
I’m not savvy enough to respond coolly after a tempting titan kisses me. How many guys were lucky enough to know my lips? I could likely count them on one hand. I’m not a prude, but boys in Ellsberg are gross or related to me or seem kinda related to me. The only one I ever had a crush on was my much older, sorta cousin, River who never so much as noticed my awful flirting. The few boys I let kiss me were drunks at parties where I was drunker and only a more sober friend or sister prevented me from making a mistake of moving past kissing. The one guy that kissed me despite my saying no now swims with the fishes. Or maybe he’s taking a dirt nap. My pop never tells me what he does with the bodies.
Finally, I’ve been kissed by a worthy someone. Cap is a jerk, and I still have the urge to punch him. Despite all that, I really wish the kiss hadn’t ended so quickly. I barely knew it was beginning when his lips were already leaving. I’m floored by how amazing his lips felt, and I hope he’s as wowed as I am.
Except instead of trying to use the kiss as a pathway into my panties, the towering twit just wants to know about the fucking sandwich.
CAP
With her pretty pout and big brown eyes, Audrey certainly jazzes up my hangout spot. I study every breath she takes, savoring these quiet moments. Soon, she’ll return to Ellsberg, and I’ll lure her back here. I’m already making plans for our future when she nibbles at her sandwich and sighs dramatically.
“This is too much.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty fucking great.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Zoink,” I say, stealing away her sandwich. “What do you want instead?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Lying is really not your strong suit, Pipsqueak. Please stop. It’s making me want to point and laugh at you.”
Audrey opens her mouth to call me a shit stain or fart bag or some damn thing. I take a bite of her sandwich and wait for the onslaught, but she only smiles.
“Would you really point and laugh?”
“Sure. I’m a happy fucking person. I laugh often.”
Her big brown eyes study me, and I struggle not to react to her inspection. “Can I have roast beef?”
“Yes, you may.”
“Go get it,” she says when I don’t move.
“I know your mama taught you how to say the magic word.”
“Please, go get it.”
“That’s the Johansson touch.”
Audrey smiles at my compliment, and I sense she’s finally shaking off her earlier crankiness. I can’t even begin to guess what set off her bitch-meter. She didn’t look pissed when she first arrived at the office. Is she really just obsessed with the Twat Twins’ betrayal? Or—and I’m leaning heavily in this direction—did seeing a man of my quality send her hormones into overdrive? Women get stupid when horny. Cricket proves that every time her hubby, Poet, takes off his shirt.
Once I order Audrey a roast beef sandwich, she settles down enough to eat. I finish her muffuletta and check my phone. Dad messages me to say Cooper is super fucking pissed and it’s really fucking funny and I ought to return the crazy fucking biker’s fucking daughter before the fucker has an aneurysm.
In my message to Dad, I declare Audrey to be the first fucking diva I’ve ever felt the slightest bit of interest in since I stopped stalking my sister’s best friend, Bianca Bella. So for the sake of my fucking heart and dick, I have no intention of returning fucking Audrey until I have a second fucking date set up.
“About fucking time you manned the fuck up,” Dad messages back.
Audrey tries to see my phone, but her petite stature doesn’t allow her much reach. “Who are you texting?”
“My other girlfriend. She wants to fight you. I’m trying to talk her out of it since I’m a hundred percent sure you can take her.”
“Fucking-A, I can. Oh, and I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Yeah, you are. I kissed you and bought you food. Those acts count as a girlfriend deposit. I’m now leasing you with the option to buy.”
Audrey laughs despite my serious expression. She’s catching onto my shtick.
My phone chimes with a message from Mom who heard I like a girl. She sends a gif of Phoebe from “Friends” dancing excitedly. I roll my eyes and ignore her teasing.
“Our fathers plan to meet around two tomorrow and talk out business shit. Afterward, they want to eat dinner at my family’s restaurant. I thought you and I should ditch that double-date scenario and go be alone somewhere.”
“Alone?”
“For a meal.”
“We already ate.”
“A snack today, but I’m talking about tomorrow. I’d hit you up for dinner tonight, but I have to believe your father is shitting his pants with rage right now. I seriously doubt he’ll let me scoop you up for a late supper. With you leaving Sunday, tomorrow is our only chance for more alone time.”
“I’m not sure I want alone time with you.”
“So tell your father that I’ll pick you up at six.”
“Don’t ignore what I’m saying.”
“I’m only ignoring the words coming out of your pretty mouth. I’m totally listening to the signals your face is sending.”
“Leave my face out of this.”
“If only I could.”
Audrey glances at her phone and then around the restaurant. “I should call home and ask my mom what she thinks about your proposal. She’s got a good sense about bullshitters.”
“She’ll say yes. Moms like me. I have good manners and can get shit off top shelves. I’m a fucking catch, so I’ll pick you up at six.”
Audrey lowers her head on her arms and sighs. “What’s the point of getting to know each other? I’m out of here on Sunday.”
“You live a few hours away. I’ll visit you, and you’ll visit me. We’ll keep that up until I talk you into staying here permanently.
“Why should I give up my home while you keep yours?”
Squeezing my trash into a tight ball, I shrug. “Because I’m a man and that means my word is law.”
“I know you’re kidding, but I still want to punch you.”
I smile at her annoyed expression. “And I’d want to laugh at your attempt. Instead, let’s skip the violence and accept how you dig what I have, and I’m all over what you’re offering. We should see what happens next.”
Audrey frowns while sizing me up. She can’t really be this unaccustomed to men tripping over themselves to get her attention. Does she pull this shy, virgin con on all guys or am I special?
Our plans for dinner never get etched in stone before I walk her to the Harleys. She does manage to casual-as-fuck dodge my attempt to kiss as she slides on her bike. Rather than return to my office, I direct her to the Holiday Inn where he dad’s headed. We arrive minutes before him, and I use this opportunity to corner the squirrely brunette.
“You and me and dinner tomorrow, yes or no? I won’t beg, but I will stalk you. Don’t think your father can stop me either. In a game of keep away, I’ve got several inches on him. So what will it be, Audrey Johansson?”
“My pop could stop you,” she says, stubbornly defending her ideal man.
“I’m immune to his usual tactics. Do you think he’s agile enough to devise new ones?”
“He’s plenty fucking agile.”
“Did your mom tell you that?” I ask while my fingers caress the seam of her flannel shirt.
Audrey refuses to smile. Her thick brows dip together, and her plump lips pout. She wants so badly to own a poker face, but that ship sailed back in the womb. Anyone who can’t read her just isn’t paying attention.
“Well?” I ask and lean down to nuzzle my lips in her soft, thick hair.
“Let’s see how pissed my pop is first.”
“Is he your daddy or your boss?” I whisper against her cheek.
Audrey’s breath catches as she turns her lips to meet mine. Does she hope to distract me with affection? If so, I applaud her move. I mean, shit if I couldn’t suck on her sexy lips for an eternity. Unfortunately, the distinct sounds of her father’s Harley interrupt a hot, playful kiss.
“Yes or no?” I ask, stepping back and watching her face go through several different expressions—lust, confusion, satisfaction, concern, fear, and lust again. Finally, she settles on stubborn uncertainty.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll let you pretend you’re a scared rabbit,” I say, handing her my phone. “Call your cell from mine so we’ll have each other’s numbers.”
Though Audrey might want to give me shit, she’s acutely aware of her father’s approach. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn the old man still grounds her. Audrey suffers from a pretty clear case of arrested development. I’ve been there too, having been severely babied by my loving family. Eventually, I shook off my diapers and grew up. Now that Audrey has a goal—the hunk she watches drive away even after her father gives her the riot act—I suspect she’ll be yanking on big girl panties soon.
2 – AUDREY
Pop isn’t happy with me. He says this phrase three times while we unpack our suitcases in the hotel room. I feel guilty enough that I forget to whine—again—about sharing a room with him. I mean, I’m an adult woman, and he’s my dad. Privacy makes sense under these circumstances.
“You live in my house and use my bathrooms. Suck it up, buttercup,” he says when I finally distract his aggravation at my ditching him early by focusing his aggravation on my wanting a separate room now.
“Normal men wouldn’t want to share a room with their daughter.”
“I’ve been considered superior all my life,” Pop says and stretches out on the bed near the window. “You really have no idea how much more superior either.”
I grin at his arrogance. Having known enough men his a
ge, I’m well aware Pop’s in the top one percent of cool. That doesn’t mean I should applaud his need for applause. He gets plenty of ass-kissing from the club guys who think his farts smell like a unicorn’s epiphanies.
“Get ready to eat,” he says while closing his eyes.
“I just ate with Cap.”
“That was your mistake, not mine. No way am I eating alone in this shithole.”
“White Horse seems like a nice enough town. You’ll be fine.”
Pop rolls up into a standing position. “Nope. You’re coming.”
“I have menstrual cramps.”
“So do I, kid,” he says, walking to the door. “We’re leaving in ten minutes. I’m running downstairs to ask the front desk about the pool hours. I might want to get in a few laps before bed.”
We both know Pop could save time by calling down to the front desk, but he figures I’ll throw a fit about dinner. His escape allows me time to freak out and get over it without him acting as a witness.
Pop’s way off base about where my mind is because I don’t get angry once he leaves the room. I grab my phone and call home.
Second-born sister, Miranda—aka Rando these days—answers Mom’s cell.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, instantly annoyed.
“In the shower.”
“Why are you answering her phone?”
“I’m guarding her while she takes a shower.”
“Why?”
“I had a dream she died in the shower because Pop wasn’t here to protect her.”
My sister swears some of her dreams came true in the past. Normal people call it déjà vu. Rando calls it “her gift of sight.” In the past, her premonitions were of minor incidents. Mom dying in the shower isn’t trivial. Though I doubt Rando’s “visions,” I’d rather play things safe when it comes to Mom.
“I’m glad you’re there for her.”
“What do you want?” Rando says, not buying my sincere comment.
“Well, obviously, I wanted to talk to Mom. That would be why I called her phone.”