by S. E. Hall
Finally safe inside my door, I toss down my stuff, not caring where it lands, and kick off my shoes. Wine first! I take the first sip of some crisp Arbor Mist and sigh. Yes, I'm a wine slummer, no fancy-ass smells like Easter egg dye stuff for this girl. My phone alerts me to a text, which I'm tempted to ignore, but my conscience kicks in—they may need help closing the clinic with my mad dash outta there, so I drag myself to retrieve it.
Brady: just checking on ya.
Not about to answer, "I'm horny and on edge," I toss the phone back down. Why even bother with pointless lies?
Anxiety riddling my nerves, I sludge across the apartment. Searching for any sort of relief available, I step in my bedroom, setting the wine on my nightstand and flipping on the ceiling fan. Despite the swirl of coolness in the air, it does nothing to chill my searing body heat.
In a huff of fury, irritated that my mind is fluttering with images of Dr. Reynolds between my legs and hindering my chances of cooling off, I begin to peel off my clothes piece by piece, teasing myself with a slow strip, imagining him whispering "show me," in my ear. All the way down to lingerie, I'm fine, but when my bra hits the floor and my nipples familiarly pebble from the breeze, I'm instantly back there. Uncovered, exposed, nervous but tingling, his large, muscular hands exploring me.
"I have to uncover your breasts."
His rich tone plays in my head as my own hands creep up to my heavy, aching peaks, mimicking his movements. Scenario in my head, I add what I wish he'd done and tug on my nipples, the force pulling all the way to my core. I fall back on my bed with a deep sigh, picturing him giving me the sensations I feel, begging me with his eyes for more.
"I will never repeat what happens in here.
It's almost real, him sliding down my panties now, slowly, kissing along their path, a low hum in approval of what he sees. Then—
Then the damn phone's screeching ring shatters my musing. I lay still, panting and naked, waiting for voice mail to pick up. Ah, silence. I squeeze my eyes shut and let my hand sneak down my stomach, one finger finding my weeping center, the other hand caressing my breast.
"This will be my fingers in you, Addison."
"God, yes," I moan, pressing my head back into the pillow, stroking my finger in and out of myself seductively slow. My tongue darts out, moistening my lips, lips that crave to taste his, to travel over his neck, down his hard chest. I run my nose through his dark brown happy trail, light hairs smelling of man tickling as my lips kiss their way down to give him a special exam.
"Little wider for me."
I bend my legs up, feet flat against the sheets and let my knees fall wantonly open to the side…as wide and willing for him as I can be.
Surely this is some joke. The fucking phone trills out again. I try to ignore it, speeding up the finger inside me, slick and seeking explosion. Someone's overly persistent and calling AGAIN, and my erotic mood's officially stolen away. Even more frustrated now, which I wouldn't have thought possible, I stomp, naked and soaking wet, to grab the damn phone.
"Hello?" I bark without even checking the ID.
"Moe? You okay?"
I release an exasperated stream of air. "Yes, Brady, I'm fine. I would've texted you later, jeez. Ever think I might be busy?" A deaf person would pick up the aggravation in my voice right now.
"I only wanted to check on you but you didn't answer my text or call," he says, sweet concern lacing his voice. "I got worried, that's all."
Well shit. I sigh heavily, feeling bad. "I know, I'm sorry. Helluva day. I'm dying for a long shower and an early night with a good book. I'll talk to you later, okay?"
There's a pause, and then he softly replies. "Okay. Call if you need me. Anything and I'm there." With that he hangs up and I slump back into my sofa.
The "mood" vanished, I take an extended cold shower, slip on some light pajamas, and fall asleep by the third chapter of the new action-thriller topping the charts. Normally, I prefer a steamy romance, but opted not to torture myself further.
When I wake in the morning, I'm even crankier and exceptionally aware of my lack of release. Thanks to the vivid, vocal dreams, I tossed and turned through the night; so much for the book theory.
At least it's Thursday. Close to the end of the work week, Tiko night, and a morning I have time to head to the gym. That's always a way of boosting endorphins, as though I need more.
I skim through a shower, since there's another one coming up after my workout anyway, and pull my long, dark brown hair in a high ponytail. Bag in hand, dressed to work it hard today, I'm out the door fifteen minutes later.
The drive to the gym is a short one and the lot is close to empty at this time of the morning. I swipe my card and head to the ladies' locker room to put away my bag before I head to the floor. Turning the corner, hurrying to snag my favorite treadmill in front of the TV, I smack into the hard chest of Percy, my favorite To the Max employee.
"Sorry, Addison," he tries for an apologetic grin, "are you alright?"
"Fine," I toss a hand in dismissal and snicker, "since I ran in to you. How are you?"
Percy's always been nothing but a cheerful, helpful gentleman to me, despite Brady's blatant hatred toward him, but this morning something is off. He sighs heavily and glances away, then back to me timidly, as though having to talk to me is killing him. "Crap," he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Not sure what to do here. It's my business, job and all, but maybe not in the way where I should tell you, but you seem like such a nice person, and—"
"Percy," I place a hand on his arm, hoping to ease whatever's so obviously bothering him to the point of distraught rambling, "what is it?"
"Your boyfriend," he growls.
A relieved chuckle pops out. "I wasn't aware I had one of those."
"Brady? Your boyfriend?"
I shake my head and offer him a reassuring grin. "Not even close, just a good friend. So quit worrying." But… "Why, what'd he do?"
"Oh thank God," his whole body goes lax, "well sorta. I could have sworn you two were an item and I had no clue how I was gonna tell you he's occupied with the new blonde, uh, female member in the men's locker room. Some sounds are unmistakable, you know?" He blushes fiercely, such a gentleman. "But I still have to decide whether or not I should revoke their memberships."
As disgusted as I am, years of friendship won't allow me not to protect Brady, even when he's not looking.
"Percy," I bat my eyelashes shamefully, "how about I make you a big batch of my signature chocolate peanut butter cup cookies next week, and promise to make sure Brady doesn't do this again, and we forget this ever happened?"
His brow cocks. "A batch? How many cookies we talkin'? I'm a growing boy, ya know." He teases jovially, turning to walk away, motioning with his head for me to follow.
"Hey, Grumpy, feeling better today?" Brady teases, his twinkling green eyes matching his playful tone as he strolls out of the locker room.
He's standing in front of me but all I can see are his grey tennis shoes since I'm bent in half stretching to my toes. Slowly I raise up, eyes widening as I take him in.
"What," I point, biting down on a giggle, "the hell are you wearing? Those shorts could be seen from Mars."
It seems like I was miffed at him for something, but I'll be damned if I can remember now amidst the hilarity before me. Brady is prancing around the gym in neon green shorts at least one size too small. I was there when he bought them; I even tried to warn him they were nothing but an eyesore he'd never wear, but as always, he was more concerned with the perky salesgirl holding them right up against his crotch explaining they were made for him. At that point, I'd retreated to the opposite side of the store, unable to stomach their interaction. That was five years ago and not only have the shorts been collecting dust in his drawer since then, the "oh so sweet girl" turned out to be a raving stalker that enjoyed slashing tires.
The fact that he'd resort to this public display before doing an actual load of laundry is unbelieva
ble…almost as much as the fact he got someone to screw him on the same day as this fashion statement. Oh yeah, that's why I'm mad at him!
"Uh huh, you have no idea why I might be wearing these?" He cocks one brow in question.
"Why, whatever do you mean?" I lay on a southern drawl and my best innocent eyes.
"Kathy disappeared this week, no call, won't answer mine. Doesn't sound like her, does it?" He's gauging me intently, waiting for a slip, but I stand firm, nonchalant in my composure.
"I'm sure she'll be back. Probably just needed a break. Anyway," I jab a finger in his chest, "you need to get laid in private! If you get us kicked out of the only gym in town, I'll kill you. You're welcome, by the way; you may repay me by buying all the ingredients needed for two batches of my cookies."
"ChocoPeanaCups?" he says excitedly, his eyes lighting up. "You making those for me?"
"No, Percy. That's how I saved your membership. The locker room? Seriously, Brady?"
"Fucking punk, running to tattle to you. I knew I hated him."
"He didn't want to tell me! And so not the point."
His mouth takes on a sinister snark as he leans in, inches from my face. "Oh, he wanted to tell you, believe me… 'Brady's getting in some panties, so please, Addison, finally let me get in yours,'" he mimics. "Limp dick," he mutters with a head shake. "Pathetic."
"Whatever, just keep it in your pants," I glance over him with a smirk, "or groovy shorts, at the gym. Promise?"
"Yeah, yeah," he blows me off, so I do the same.
"Run along now," I shoo him with my hand. "I've got a workout to get to."
To my delight, my favorite treadmill is still empty. I pop in my headphones and start at a steady pace. Blah. CNN's on the TV in front of me, so I turn to the second best form of entertainment—people watching. The key to good creeping is subtlety. Never let them catch you looking. I've mastered it, which is why Brady has no clue that I'm currently rolling my eyes and fighting back a sudden case of heartburn as I spy on him now shamelessly flirting with a redhead with airbags for breasts. He literally just finished getting laid; the man never quits.
Not surprised, though, Ginger's totally his type…she appears to be breathing and has huge tits. Despite myself, an intruding thought crosses my mind. I wonder if Dr. Reynolds is her gyno? He'd have a field day with her breast exam.
I glance down to my own set, not bad, big C's, still high and proud. And real. So real in fact, I wince and slow down my speed as they bounce up to tell me I forgot to grab the good sports bra this morning.
Brady's now caught my gaze from across the room and is walking toward me. Geez, did I not shoo him away only minutes ago? Miss Thing's mouth is still moving, probably offering 69 different positions to coerce him to stay, but he ignores her, dead set on his path to me.
Bitch gives me a dirty look, please, if I had a dollar for every one of Brady's thwarted toys that saw me as a threat, I could open my own private gym.
He gently tugs out my earbuds. "Your ass and legs are fine. Wanna work on arms? I'll spot ya?" he asks, his voice chipper.
"Did you just compliment my ass and legs or insult my arms? I can't decide. And it looked like you were kinda busy not working out." I huff all that, never breaking my stride. "Then again, I guess you did already get a workout this morning with a different girl."
"Yeah, but not with my favorite girl, though, so here I am." He climbs on behind me, keeping pace, very close to my back.
"Brady! There can't be two people on here. Stop," I complain, pouting, "before you really do get us kicked out. And back up off me, did you even shower after initiating the new member?" I gag.
"Of course I did! I'm the cleanest son of a bitch you know, despite my current lack off such dishes or underwear. Now admit you're behind Kathy's disappearance and I'll get down," he whispers, gusts of exerted air on my neck.
Of all the things that transpired already this morning, this is what he's focused on. More than sure he'll seek revenge at some point, perhaps a simple confession will lesson his retaliation later. It's worth a try, at least. "Promise you won't make any more appointments for me and I'll think about it."
His fingers trail delicately down my back and settle on my hip, eliciting a shudder that I struggle to hide. I'm too on edge to deal with any male contact, even Brady's.
"Hands off! Just because the redhead got you all worked up, doesn't mean you get to cop a feel on me!" I chastise a little meaner than necessary, scooting up, away from his grip.
His tone is unaffected by my reprimand. "I promise, for at least a year anyway, to not make any more appointments for you. I only did it because I care about you, Moe. It's my job to protect you, especially when you won't do it yourself. It's what people in my profession do. I guarantee you the first thing a fireman does is replace the smoke detectors in his loved ones' homes."
Two strong hands brace around my waist, saving me from a face plant as the roll of the treadmill stops suddenly, Brady having pushed the button with no warning or permission. "Come on," he grabs my hand, "let's do arms."
I follow along, no point in arguing. The benches are on a different floor, one filled with hard-bodied men in tight, or missing, shirts, sweat dripping down their six times pick a big number packs as they lift impressive weights. "Get pumped up" music plays overhead...and I appear to be the only female in the vicinity.
"Let's start on this one." He points with one hand, the other on my back, guiding me to an empty bench.
"What's it do? Or what do I do? Never used it before." I stare in nervous wonder, thinking back to a certain medieval contraption.
"Sit straddled on it, facing away, then lie back for me."
Lie back for me.
My body the betrayer. My heartbeat slowly picks up its pace and my face begins to heat as I suppress a moan. The sexy throb of music isn't helping. I do as he says then look up with a small gasp—he's standing above me, his legs straddled on either side of my body.
I can see up the leg of his 80's disco shorts. He really is out of underwear.
"Think you can do sixty pounds?" He eyes the weights deliberately.
"I have no idea, Brady," I admit. "Again, never done it before. But I know I don't want to get hurt or have my chest crushed."
He bends down, his face not a full centimeter from mine, and pushes the sweaty bangs off my forehead. "That's what I'm here for, silly girl. I won't let you get hurt. We'll do fifty."
I watch as he rearranges discs and such onto the bar, the muscles in his nicely toned arms— I'd never tell him that—flexing with every movement. After that appointment yesterday, the reminders today, Brady's decent physique and my drought of…well, anyway, I appear to be having strange, alarming reactions to a man I've known most my life. A man I've seen, while hiding in Dylan's closet, stuff folded socks in his pants before his eighth grade dance.
Of their own, mischievous accord, my eyes drift there, scrutinizing. Definitely no socks these days, no room for em'. My stomach tightens, a throb of desire pooling from deep within me as I train my focus anywhere but on him. With all the half-naked men crowding the room, I'm left at the mercy of my ever growing arousal, back with a vengeance at the worst possible time.
Brady lowers the bar and all I can see is his hard, chiseled chest, causing my nipples to pebble and harden. This can't be happening. Not with Brady. I need some relief, something to stop me before I fly up and take my sexual frustration out on him. I quake at the thought, my legs trembling, but it does nothing to settle my arousal.
"Moe?" He snares my attention, hint of a tamed laugh in his tone. "You look a little flushed. Distracted? You need a water break?"
"Yes! Water sounds great." I shoot up, ducking the bar, sliding off the bench and around him. "Getting a drink," I yell awkwardly, dashing for the ladies' locker room...and passing two fountains on the way.
Until I figure out my whacked-out emotions and reactions, which I suddenly seem to have no control over, I've gotta get out of here. It
seems a beast has been awoken in me and until I find a way to feed it, it'll have to be kept caged, away from the public.
"Mocifus?" Brady calls, rounding the row of lockers to find me gathering up my stuff.
"Did you read the membership rules before you signed them?" I chuckle, more nervous than amused. "No guys in the women's locker room, or vice versa." I cock an insinuating brow.
"Don't give a shit; worried about you. Wanna tell me what's going on in that head of yours?" He moves into my space, our chests so close they nearly brush together as we both breath heavier than usual. It's the workouts, I tell myself. "Was it your appointment yesterday? You need to tell me if something bothered you." He's frowning at me and I can't stand it. I never could bear to see him truly upset.
"No, it's not that, everything was fine. I don't feel great is all. I'll eat before work. That should help." I throw my bag over my shoulder, avoiding his eyes, and make to leave.
His hand on my arm stops me. "Let me carry that. I'll walk you out. You think you feel too bad for Tiko's tonight? Nothing a 'rita and cheese dip can't cure." He winks, almost all signs of concern wiped away as we head out of the locker room.
Brady, Dylan and I have had a long standing Thursday night date at Tiko's since I was old enough to drink. We prep for the upcoming weekend—Fridays rock on their own, so we steal an extra day— with margaritas, Mexican food and gripes about work. Sometimes we throw in some karaoke, depending on how generous they're making the margaritas.
"Not sure." I shrug noncommittally. "We'll see how I feel after work. You two will manage fine without me if not."