Ruckus

by L.J. Shen

  “No need, no need,” Rosie muttered, picking up pace. She was still kind of asleep. For an exhausted girl, she did a stellar job of riding me. My balls tightened, and I felt the familiar rush from my spine. I was going to come. I was going to come, and Rosie wasn’t on the pill.

  Hey, asshole, you’re also an idiot, you know that?

  “Baby…” I groaned, but it was futile. I wasn’t going to stop her, even if the reality of what was going to happen afterwards was going to destroy me.

  “Dean,” she moaned. “Come.”

  And I came.

  I came inside her, twice at this point, without a condom.

  She collapsed onto my chest after the act, nuzzling into my neck, my cock still inside her. I felt my warm cum dripping between us, sticking to my stomach, and felt the weight of my actions. It was a million times heavier than the woman on top of me.

  “I came inside,” I whispered, to me more than to her.

  Pressing her lips to my throat, she said, “I can’t have kids.”

  And fell back asleep on top of me.

  Fuck.

  What makes you feel alive?

  Love. When it is fierce and deprived. Raw and delicious. But it also reminds me that one day—soon—it will all end for me.

  WE SPENT THE FLIGHT BACK home holding hands and making out.

  Waking up next to him felt like a dream. The irony didn’t escape me, but then everything about our relationship was dunked in satire. Dean was so careless, sneaking into my room and fingering me while I slept, but I was quick to reciprocate. I remembered riding him, lazy and slow, my clit rubbing against his tight abs. I took what I needed, then dozed off back to sleep. I was so dog-tired—my legs were sore, my lungs needed a break from life, and my head was still pounding with the music and general noise—I was twirling on the line between unconsciousness and awareness of my surroundings.

  On the plane, I told Dean about my conversation with Millie, casually skipping the part where he’d asked me to move in with him over text messages yesterday. Not that I didn’t want that. Because I did. But for now, I just wanted to enjoy him. I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes I did with Darren. I wasn’t going to rush into commitments, and even though I knew that Darren and Dean were nothing alike (for one thing, my feelings for Dean drove me straight into the arms of insanity, and that bitch knows how to clutch you tight to her chest), this time, I wasn’t going to screw this up.

  It wasn’t going to be beautiful. In fact, life with me was going to be ugly, and I wasn’t even sure he’d be up for staying the whole ride. Also, I still had to tell him about my condition. About my inability to have children. About the reality that was waiting for me—a reality that was only going to deteriorate—and what it entailed. The medications. The vests. The massages. The hefty bags I dragged everywhere. The inevitable disabilities as my systems would come crashing down one by one. Everything.

  And Dean had secrets of his own. I knew that, too.

  Who was waiting for him in Alabama, and who was the girl he spoke on the phone with the day he barged into my apartment to convince me to go to Todos Santos? There was no point poking at the subject. He had to come to me willingly and tell me everything, just like I had to muster up the courage to open the subject of my health and issues.

  Right now, I didn’t want it to be complicated.

  Right now, I wanted to live.

  “Millie is pregnant, by the way.” I pressed my lips to his throat and sucked lightly as the same flight attendant, who served us on the way into San Diego a week ago, passed us by and shot me an odd look. Last time, we looked like we were about to kill each other. Now, I was three seconds away from joining the mile high club in front of a dozen or so sleepy first-class flyers.

  Dean jerked his head and scanned my face. He looked slightly tortured by the news, and I frowned.

  “God, Dean, don’t tell me you don’t like children,” I teased. He picked up my hand, pressing my knuckles to his lips. His expression was so tight, I thought the wrinkles between his eyebrows would split his face in two.

  “How do you feel about it?” He ignored my statement. Wait, does he actually not like children? I had a feeling it was a sore spot for him as much as it was for me.

  I looked down, smiling.

  “I’m happier than anyone.” I munched on my lower lip. “I’m going to spend every penny I have on buying this baby all the toys in New York, and I’m going to learn how to knit.”

  “Oh, fuck. Continue.” He snaked a hand between my thighs and leaned forward to nibble on my earlobe. “Tell me more about you knitting. Your dirty talk game is strong today.”

  I swatted his chest, still in awe of the fact that I was sleeping with this gorgeous man. I always dated nice-looking men, but Dean was in a league of his own.

  “I’m serious. I can’t wait to be an aunt. Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”

  Again with those sad, brooding eyes that came out of nowhere. Was he hiding something from me? Was it the same thing I was hiding from him?

  “A boy,” he said, kissing my neck. “You?”

  “A girl.” I rubbed my nose against his in an Eskimo kiss.

  When we got back to our apartment building, he escorted me to my door, wheeling both our suitcases, and when I was about to turn around and close the door to my apartment—because there was absolutely no way we were sleeping together, I was too tired to take a shower after the wedding, and it had been twenty-four hours since my body and soap shared a hot date—he shoved his hand and stopped it from closing shut.

  “I think we need to make a few rules.” His voice was businesslike.

  I opened the door a crack, peeking through it sheepishly.

  “You do?” I grinned.

  “You fucking bet. Rule number one: I’m allowed to use my key for your place and vice versa.” He dug his hand inside his pocket and produced a key, which he put in my palm, curling my fingers over it. “Rule number two: your dating days are over. You’re mine now.”

  “Are you mine, too?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “Always have been, Baby LeBlanc. This cock was just a rental that’s now being used by its legitimate owner.” He continued. “Rule number three: no secrets. If something bothers us,” his tone turned a shade darker, “we talk about it. We fucking address it. And we don’t shy away from the bad shit, because I know there is going to be some bad shit down the road, and I’m still all in. Understood?”

  “Sounds fair.” I nodded, about to close the door again. I really was tired. And even though I was happy, I also needed a shower and to clear my airways after the flight.

  “And, sweetheart?” He looked over his shoulder, pressing the elevator button.

  “Yes, Mr. Bossy Pants?”

  “Congratulations, you have a new boyfriend.”

  “You’re not my boyfriend.”

  “Your Facebook status claims differently.”

  “What?!”

  Ping. He walked into the elevator, a cunning smile on his face as the door slid shut.

  “Like the fucking post, Rosie. Goodbye.”

  I had a tech guy with a lot of free time (and probably wasted sperm) on his hands who made things happen. That was how Dean Cole and Rose LeBlanc became in a relationship on Facebook, even though they weren’t even friends two days ago. I wanted to make sure Rosie knew that this wasn’t another drawn-out fling, and that the next time someone out of our group was going to go down the aisle, it would be us, and it would be us in every sense of the word. She was going to wear flip-flops, and I was going to wear her out until they had to surgically remove my dick from her body.

  How did it feel to find out my ex-girlfriend was having a baby? It felt like a thousand knives to my stomach, but not because she was knocked up by the guy I grew up with.

  “I can’t have kids.”

  Every time I thought about the way she whispered it into my ear, I felt like polishing off a whole bottle of whiskey. It was unfair. Unfair that fucki
ng Nina could have a baby but Rosie couldn’t. Rosie was the definition of mother material. She had enough compassion to last for five people. How could she even volunteer at a children’s hospital? Fuck if I had a clue, but I did understand why Millie didn’t want to tell Rosie about it until the time was right.

  “Mr. Cole.” Sue breezed into my office, offering me a nod. It was a Tuesday, but Sue looked like a Monday morning. Her attire black, head-to-toe and she wore a frozen smile of a cheap porcelain doll. “How are you today? How was Mr. Spencer’s wedding?”

  “I’m great, the wedding was eventful, and I am not in the mood for small talk, so let’s cut to the chase.” I rolled a tennis ball in my hand and watched her from my executive chair. Out of all the shit that had happened, the best part was that Rosie finally realized that Millie didn’t give a damn about us. Relief washed over me when Baby LeBlanc told me her sister was okay with us. Not because I cared about what Millie thought. But because she did.

  I thought Millie was going to warn her about my manwhoring ways. Not that I was a manwhore. I was just…a man. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for Rosie to realize it was always us?

  “I need you to call all the florists on this block and send every single rose they have, no matter the color, to The Black Hole on Broadway. Addressed to Rose LeBlanc,” I told Sue. Her eyes darted up from her iPad for the first time since she got into my office, and they zeroed in on me like a target.

  The thought of doing it myself crossed my mind for exactly one second. Giving a call to those florists, or asking our temp receptionist to do it, was not exactly rocket science. But then I realized that there was a fine line between being considerate and a pussy, and hell if I was gonna hop over to the unfortunate side just to please my PA. Sue still worked for me. I had three deals waiting on my desk, a hundred unanswered emails and four business calls I needed to set up. I was not going to spare her feelings and drown in more work. At the same time, this had to be done.

  “Oh?” she asked, tucking the iPad under her arm on a pout. “Any message to go with it?” And if eyes could speak, I would be showered with a message full of profanity and physical damage threats.

  I told Sue what the cards should say—plural, one for each bouquet—and even though I didn’t mention my name, I had no doubt Rosie would know who was behind this gesture. She fucking better. I made a mental note to ask her if Dr. Dickface still kept in touch with her. If so, I needed to pay him a visit, make sure he understood that I was taking over from here.

  Sue slid her forefinger over her iPad, finally making the necessary arrangements as I’d asked her, before lifting her gaze back to me.

  “Every rose on the block?”

  “Every rose in Manhattan,” I amended.

  “That could cost you a pretty penny.”

  “I have a beautiful bank account, Sue,” I flashed her a cocky smile. “I can fucking afford it. Anything else?”

  “Yes, actually. Can I ask you something, Mr. Cole?”

  Again with the Mr. Cole. This chick wasn’t going to let this one go. I rubbed my palm over my chin and sat back. “Go for it.”

  “What does Miss LeBlanc have that the rest of the human population doesn’t?” she inquired, meaning I’d never sent anyone flowers, let alone an amount that could potentially fill a whole forest. I smirked, because the answer was so fucking simple, yet so fucking complicated at the same time.

  “My heart, Sue,” I said. “She has my heart.”

  What makes you feel alive?

  Verbal foreplay.

  The chase.

  The hunt.

  But most of all…the part where I surrender.

  Rosie

  Let me guess, you slept with Sue.

  Dean

  I think we’re going to have an easier time if I give you a list of the women I haven’t slept with in Manhattan than the other way around.

  Rosie

  Remind me why I’m having sex with you again?

  Dean

  Because no other man knows that in order to give you an earth-shattering orgasm, you want your nipple to be pulled at the exact same time I pinch your clit. Because you like me, maybe even love me, although I am willing to wait until you admit that to yourself. I can go on, shall I?

  Rosie

  God, Dean.

  Dean

  God and Dean are synonyms. Save battery power. Choose one next time you text me. What do you want to have for dinner?

  Rosie

  I made plans with Elle.

  Dean

  Not my favorite dish, but it’s not going to tamper with our plans. Elle can join us. I’ll book us a place at The Red Hill Tavern for eight.

  That was before he sent me flowers.

  Although, to be completely honest, calling what he did sending me flowers was like calling the Pacific Ocean a small puddle. There were a thousand—maybe more—roses in all colors arriving in chunks. Vans double-parked in front of the café, and honestly, I was starting to get a little irritated with the amount of tips I had to pay all the delivery guys.

  “If I swoon any harder over your boyfriend, I will give birth to a freaking ovary right here and now,” Elle threatened, plucking card after card from the dozens of reds, whites, and pinks that filled the café with the alluring scent of freshness and nature. They all had one word and said the same thing.

  Mine.

  Mine.

  Mine.

  Mine.

  Mine.

  A harem of customers vocally wondered what the occasion was, and when Elle answered them, they begged me for a picture of my boyfriend. After I showed them his Facebook profile picture—of him puffing on a cigar, his legs crossed over his office desk in a sharp suit in black and white, they proceeded to tell me that if I won’t marry him within the next year, I was a hopeless idiot, because the man is obviously perfect.

  I tended to agree.

  Millie and I spent last night talking on the phone for three hours. She was on her honeymoon in the Maldives sipping virgin cocktails in a swimsuit, but still found the time to humor me. Mama and Daddy made zero effort to patch things up with me, and I didn’t reach out to them either—not until they gave up the stupid idea of me moving back to Todos Santos—but I loved hearing all about Millie’s cravings and how her lower abdomen was hard and swollen. Or how she caught Vicious almost shedding a tear at their ultrasound appointment they had, even though he said that he had something in his eye.

  Big softy.

  I then told her just how much I liked Dean, confessing that my love for him was over a decade old. She cried when she heard how much heartache it had caused me to see them together, but I think it was the hormones because she also cried when I gave her a mini-spoiler about the next episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians. She told me that Vicious claimed Dean’s interest in me was genuine and sincere, and I didn’t want to tell her that I already knew, because her ex-boyfriend and I shared more than just small talk back when they were together. Things that didn’t include words. Or touching. Things that tortured and taunted us to the point we drove each other crazy.

  Then she mentioned that Dean had a fling with Sue, and I simply had to stick my nose into the subject.

  When Dean proclaimed me as his girlfriend on our Facebook pages—how the hell had he done that, I had yet to find out—he meant every word. He hadn’t gone through all this hassle to fool around with other people behind my back.

  I shook my head and landed back on planet Earth, grabbing a steamy mug from the dishwasher underneath the bar and wiping it dry.

  “Pushy Dean invited himself to our dinner tonight,” I told Elle, and her grin was so wide it was contagious. Or at least that was what I’d convinced myself of when my cheeks hurt from smiling.

  “You think his hot, vain ass is going to pig out on pizza with us?” she asked. Elle had given up on her skinny-bitching diet since the bakery down the street reopened. I shook my head.

  “He is booking us a reserv
ation at The Red Hill Tavern.”

  “That’s crazy expensive!”

  “I don’t think he expects us to pay.”

  “I think he expects you to pay in sexual favors.”

  I didn’t want to say anything, but deep down, I was already waiting for the check.

  The good news: the HotHole was charming Elle’s socks off.

  The bad news: he swept me off my feet in the process, too.

  I watched them wordlessly, twirling the prawns and pasta with my fork as Elle hooted loudly time after time when Dean said something funny or asked her a question, or was just generally his charismatic, engaging self.

  I’d never been to The Red Hill Tavern before, mainly because I couldn’t afford it, but even if I could, who had time to book a place three months in advance? Especially seeing as health complications constantly put a damper on my plans. I never knew when I had to shut the door and hide away from the world or sit on the bed with a giant vest for hours at a time, waiting for my lungs to play nice with the rest of my organs.

  The Red Hill Tavern was lovely. I was happy we went there. The food was great, but the company? That was the real treat.

  Yellow lights were spinning from teardrop chandeliers, old oak and classic red-and-white checked tablecloths and real, well-used candles shone everywhere.

  I thought about the happiness Dean held in the palm of his hand. The happiness that he had offered me so generously, but taking it was dangerous, because it was placing him behind the wheel of the vehicle that was called my life.

  He seemed like a reckless driver. Then again, ever since we started this, he had been nothing but strong and resilient. A rock I leaned on when things at home crumbled.

  Who would have thought? Dean ‘Ruckus’ Cole, Manwhore Galore.