by Lacey Black
“Yeah, you said that. So tell me something else.”
“We kinda work together.”
“Wait, you don’t have a male employee so it has to be someone…” She leaves the sentence hanging wide open like a door for me to walk through.
Another deep breath. “Dean McIntire from Corbin and Denton.” The words practically fly from my lips like a fighter jet taking off an aircraft carrier. My eyes widen at the confession, surprised that I’ve finally spoken his name aloud in a manner other than pertaining to my taxes.
“Why does that name sound familiar? Wait! Isn’t he —”
“Yes!” I exclaim, cutting her off. “Now you see, right? You see why we can’t have a relationship.” And while I do feel that we should keep it professional, that’s completely Dean’s hang up, not mine. Mine is more personal. Very personal. Something else I’ve never spoken to another soul alive. Well, besides Cole.
“That’s not working together; not really. You can totally diddle on the side with someone who does your taxes, Pay. I say if it’s World Series sex, then diddle away!”
“Anyway, he has a rule, and he’s right. It won’t happen again. What’s going on with you?” I ask, searching desperately for a redirect. Anything to turn the spotlight away from me and towards one of my sisters. It’s actually one of my specialties as the oldest sibling. “How come you haven’t been having World Series sex?”
She chugs a bit of water and shakes her head. “I went out with the drummer from Levi’s band last weekend.”
Levi is my littlest sister, Abby’s, best friend. They have a thing for each other. We all see it and know it, while they, apparently, choose to ignore it. He’s in a local band as a guitarist and backup vocalist, and therefore has no shortage of women eager to keep him company afterwards. It kills me to see the sadness in Abby’s eyes when she sees him with other women, but she’s too afraid to do something about her mega crush. I’m sure she’s terrified of wrecking their friendship. So instead, she chooses to be miserable.
Go figure.
Pot, meet kettle.
“Why didn’t we know you were going out with him?” I ask, interested in why she kept this from all of us.
“I didn’t want it to be weird for Levi or Abby if things didn’t go well,” she states.
“And things didn’t go well?”
“I fell asleep.”
I give her a look, confused as to where she’s going with this. “On the date?”
“Afterwards. In bed.” I blink several times before she continues. “You’d think a drummer in a band would have excellent stamina in bed, right? I mean, it’s so clichéd and practically a rule. Well, this wasn’t even close to World Series sex, Pay. I. Fell. Asleep. It was elevator sex, but with a sprint for the finish line. I don’t even know if he realized I was there or not. When I realized he was pounding the hell out of me in a frenzy to get himself off, I totally faked it.”
“You faked an orgasm?”
“Hell yes I faked an orgasm! Then I grabbed my clothes, told him I was coming down with something contagious, and got the fuck out of there!”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. “Laugh it up. It was horrible. He was a two-pump chump. I bet, start to finish, it was a total of four minutes. His idea of foreplay was to shake his ass at me when he stripped off his skinny jeans. It was like I was expected to stick a dollar bill down his tighty whities”
Laughter. Oh God, I can’t breathe. I’m laughing so hard tears are rolling down my face. “That’s horrible,” I finally choke out through fits of giggles.
“It was. So my point is, not everyone gets to experience World Series sex. If you find a slugger who hits a grand slam, then you should definitely round the bases as much as humanly possible.”
“What’s with the baseball analogies?”
“You started it. I don’t even like baseball.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching whatever dramedy is playing on the Hallmark Channel. I don’t even really notice she’s still there until her stomach growls, drawing my attention from the television. The clock on the wall says nine-thirty, which completely surprised me, considering I’m usually in bed around now.
“Do you want to order food?”
“No, I better get home,” she says, standing up and stretching. “I’ve still got papers to grade for tomorrow.”
I follow as she walks the short distance to my front door and slips on her coat. “Thanks for stopping by,” I tell her, reaching for the knob. “Oh, and what I told you about you know who? Can we keep that between us?”
AJ gives me a direct look, her matching green eyes full of compassion and understanding. “Of course. As long as you don’t say anything about the drummer.”
“Mum’s the word,” I say, opening the door. She steps out onto my little porch before I remember part of my conversation earlier with Grandma. “Oh, wait. I’m going away for a few days next week to some big florist convention. Rachel is going to work full-time, but my only other option for help is Grandma. I was going to ask Jaime because she used to work there, but she’s so busy sucking face, and other things, with Ryan. Do you think you can pop in and just check on things for me?”
I know AJ understands what I’m asking. It’s not that I don’t trust my grandma, but I’ve spent my entire adult life building up this business and I want to make sure it goes smoothly in my absence.
“Of course. I’ll stop in on my lunch break each day and after work. I don’t think she’ll be too suspicious if I bring her chocolate,” she says with a wink and a smile. Grandma’s sweet tooth is legendary, and using that to our advantage is something my sisters and I learned a long time ago.
“Thanks, A.”
“You’re welcome, Pay. Get inside and dream about baseball,” she hollers before slipping into her car. Even in the darkness, I can see her smile reflecting in the moonlight.
Making my way back into the house, I lock up and head for the kitchen. Even though it’s late, my eating schedule isn’t exactly what you’d call normal. Not when you put in crazy hours to maintain a small business. I grab the bread and peanut butter out of the cabinet and the jelly from the fridge. This was my favorite sandwich growing up, and surprisingly, I’ve never gotten tired of it. Even in college, I could eat a PB&J every day and still want more.
I wouldn’t mind taking a bath and relaxing a little, but it’s already getting late for a weeknight. No, ten o’clock isn’t exactly late, but for me, it is. I opt for a quick shower instead. As I strip in my room, I zero in on the red burn on my neck that AJ noticed. Memories of being laid out on his desk while he slid inside of me assault my mind, a tingle of something more than awareness slips down my spine.
The warm water does nothing to ebb the ache in my body, especially after I replay the entire scene over and over again in my head, and by the time I’m washed up, I find myself spending extra time washing a certain area. How can a woman go from completely sated to crawling out of her skin in need only a few hours later?
It’s him.
Being single most of my adult life, I’m not ashamed to admit I have to take matters into my own hands every now and again. And by hands, I mean my fingers or my vibrator. Since I’m without Waterproof Waylon, that’s my seven-inch vibrating, swirling, and pulsating vibrator that leaves me in a quivering pile of hormonal goo where I stand, I have to resort to the old fashioned way.
Closing my eyes, I picture a big hand skimming down my belly, angling towards the place I ache. I slide my fingers between my legs, letting the water cascade over my body. I recall the way his breath tickled my neck right before his mouth skimmed from my collarbone to my jaw. I slide two fingers inside my body, while my other hand concentrates on my clit. A groan slips from my lips and my body starts to shake as I remember his words. “Being inside you is fucking heaven.”
I explode around my fingers, tightening and pulsing as the orgasm sweeps violently through me. Not worrying about anyone hearing me, I v
ocalize my release, Dean’s name slipping from my lips. It’s always his name, or at least it has been since I met him in his office last spring. It’s his body I picture, his dick I pretend to ride, or his mouth I feel between my legs.
Washing up a second time, I shut off the water and wrap a big fluffy towel around my body. I’m still weak in the knees and my legs are shaky, but I manage to make my way into my bedroom. I don’t even bother with pajamas; instead I go for the one shirt I sleep in more than I probably should. I fasten a few of the white buttons before bringing the material up to my nose and inhaling. It doesn’t carry his scent anymore, but I can picture it in my mind so vividly, it’s as if he wore the garment just yesterday. Of course, being in his arms a few short hours ago helps trigger that particular sense.
I set my alarm before climbing into bed. I’m a belly sleeper usually, but with him, I reveled in the feel of his body against mine as he spooned me from behind. Of course, it didn’t hurt that it was the perfect position for a midnight romp when all he had to do was basically surge forward and into my wet, waiting body.
And there I go with the memories again.
Closing my eyes, I try to think about things other than Dean. Mrs. Simmons was so surprised when I delivered a beautiful bouquet from her husband in celebration of their twenty-ninth anniversary. The nursing home residents loved the winter holly and berry mix I arranged for their dining room tables. And I picture the delight written on the face of a high school senior whose boyfriend sent her three roses for her birthday. All smiles that are part of my day, but it’s Dean’s that I can’t get out of my head right now.
And it’s his that will likely fill my dreams again tonight.
Chapter Eight
Dean
“Remember to brush your teeth before bed, and make sure you listen and are a good girl for Mimi, okay?”
Bri rolls her eyes at me, something she’s recently picked up from one of the older kids at the sitter’s. I give her a stern look, letting her know I’m not a fan of her eye roll. “Sorry,” she says sweetly with a shy smile. “I’m always a good girl for Mimi.”
“I know,” I say, kissing the top of her forehead. “I just have to remind you every once in a while.”
“You’re gonna be gone three whole nights?” she asks while pouring water into her Hello Kitty watering can.
“Three whole nights, sweetheart. I’ll be here Friday when you get home from school. My sessions are supposed to end at noon, so I’ll drive back as soon as I’m done and pick you up from Miss Nancy’s, okay?”
“Otay! Mimi is gonna sleep in your bed, Daddy. She said I can have Frosted Flakes for breakfast, too. And pancakes! She’ll make me pancakes or maybe waffles. Do you think she’ll bring her waffle eye-ron?”
“It’s an iron, and I’m sure she can grab it if you want.” I pour clean water over the top of her head, rinsing the remainder of the suds clean.
“Can you text her tonight? This way she doesn’t forget to bring it tomorrow?”
“I’ll call her when I get you in bed, okay?”
“And tell her that I have Home Alone that we can watch on Blue Ray.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her ability to bounce from subject to subject so quickly. If only I were able to do the same; maybe I wouldn’t have spent the last week thinking about the noises Payton made while she came on my cock.
“I’ll tell her,” I tell my daughter.
“Oh! And tell her that I’m going to have Edward sleep in bed with her so she doesn’t get scared ‘cause she’s in a new place.”
Laughing, I say, “I’m sure she’ll be grateful to have your stuffed cat sleeping in bed with her.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m tucking her into bed after drying her hair and reading her a bedtime story. If you would have asked me ten, twelve, hell, even six years ago, I would have thought you’d be full of shit at the idea of being a single dad, doing this twenty-four seven. Sure, I’ve always wanted kids, but I never thought this was how I’d do it.
I shake my head, gazing down at Brielle, and mentally chastise Brooke and curse her for what she’s missing. She’ll never know how amazing her daughter is. She’ll never know that her favorite cereal is Frosted Flakes or that her favorite color is orange, and it’s even better with pink polka dots. She missed her first words, the first time she rolled over, her first steps. Not to mention her first Christmas, first birthday, and every one in between.
Bri seems content, though. She rarely asks about her mom. I wouldn’t say that I’ve lied to her, per se, but I don’t tell her the complete truth. She knows Brooke wasn’t part of her life, so God gave her a dad who would move mountains for her. All she needs to know is that I was there for her, always.
The truth is Brooke wasn’t cut out to be a mother. I realized it about halfway through her pregnancy. The rounder she got with our daughter, the more miserable she was, and the more excited I became. We had dated for six months before the condom mishap that resulted in Brielle. I vowed the moment we saw the plus sign on the pregnancy test that I would do everything I could to protect her.
Unfortunately, Brooke didn’t see the pregnancy as anything but a nuisance. I know she tried, she really did, in the beginning, but she just wasn’t cut out for the road we were heading down. She was always larger than life, with big dreams and a big checking account. And being saddled to a baby and a boyfriend that she tolerated wasn’t what she pictured for herself.
So she left.
I was understandably upset, but only for a minute. I had a three-month-old baby to raise, so there was no time for wallowing in self-pity. My days consisted of poopy diapers, dirty, spit-up clothes, and falling asleep sitting up. I worked full-time from home and the office, and had my mom to help me in between. We made it work because that was our only option.
I dial the familiar number after making sure Bri is settled into bed for the night. She’ll be up once or twice to get a drink or use the bathroom, anything she can use as a stall tactic. I’m onto her game, but still let her get away with it for a bit before I pull the plug. A little girl can only go to the bathroom so many times in a thirty minute time period.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, I have an important message for you from your granddaughter.”
She chuckles as she says, “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.”
“First off, please bring your waffle iron.”
“Already have it sitting on the table by my bag,” she says, the sound of the television filtering through the phone.
“And you’re sleeping with Edward.”
“Of course I am. Every time she spends the night, Edward sleeps in my bed. She says he’ll keep me company if I wake up in the night to use the bathroom.”
“So what you’re saying is Edward gets around.”
“He does,” she says with a laugh. “Speaking of getting around, are you going to tell me why you came home last week smelling like perfume?”
My heart stops beating; like literally stops beating in my chest. I know exactly what she’s talking about. The last time I came home late from work was the night I christened my desk with Payton. It was hard to miss the knowing looks Mom gave me, but I didn’t think she’d bring it up now, a week later.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s a weak defense, but once you’ve committed to it, you have to stick with your story. And it’s either that or deny, deny, deny.
“Listen, Dean, I’m not asking for details or anything. I just like listening to you squirm.”
“That’s not nice,” I tell her as I start the dishwasher.
“Yeah, well, parents aren’t supposed to be nice. Really, I don’t care what you were doing or who you were doing it with, but I want you to know that you don’t have to hide anything from me. If you have a date or something, that’s okay. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’ve been on exactly three dates since Bri was born,” she says, the remorse evident in her voice.
“I don’t need to dat
e, Mom. I have Bri and she takes up all of my time.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to try to convince me of anything. I was a single parent too, remember?”
“How could I forget?”
“My point is that Bri is getting older. It would be perfectly acceptable to go out every now and again with a woman. Who knows, you might actually meet someone that you want to spend the rest of your life with.”
Is it bad that Payton flashes through my mind at her statement? It is when a relationship with her isn’t an option. But for some reason, images of Payton sitting beside me on the couch with her feet in my lap parades through my mind. It’s a cozy image until she moves and straddles me. Then the picture turns dirty. Very dirty.
“Thank you for the offer to watch my kid while I date, but I’m okay.”
“That’s subjective,” she says with a laugh. “All I’m saying is that I’m available to help so you can go out and live your life every once in a while. Your life can have a personal side to it too, Dean. It doesn’t have to be all about Brielle.”
I know she’s right, but for someone who’s spent the last five years of his life with his daughter as his sole focus, it’s hard to picture a point where I share myself with another woman. Even if that woman were Payton. As much as my body craves her, I just don’t know if I’m capable of splitting myself between my daughter and a woman. It’s a challenge I’m not really ready to undertake.
“Okay. How about this? I’ll agree that if I find someone I’m interested in going out with, I’ll get your help with Payton.”
There’s silence for a few seconds before she finally speaks again. “Payton? Who’s Payton?” I can hear the smile in her voice.
Shit. Did I say Payton? How in the hell am I going to backtrack out of this one? This is one of those times I should deny, deny, deny. “I didn’t say Payton.”
“No? I must have made it up. I’m sure you don’t even know anyone named Payton, do you?”
Shit. A. Brick. She’s going to make me lie to her face, or at least over the phone. But I can’t lie to her outright like that; I’ve never been able to do that. And let’s not forget the fact that she’ll know the instant I lie to begin with. She’s baiting me like always. She’s giving me just enough rope to hang myself with. So I’ll give her just enough info to appease her.