by S. E. Hall
“Attacks our dog?” I succumb to my laughter, shoulders shaking and eyes watering in my ridiculous amusement. This woman… I will never tire of trying to guess what the hell she’ll do or say next. “I’m gonna need you to remind me at exactly what point Castello was attacked, ‘cause I musta missed it.”
She snaps to, her glare burning the side of my face. “Are you serious right now? That shriveled bitch and her two mongrels; ringing any bells?”
“Mongrels?” I wheeze, rubbing my eyes with the back of my arms. “Do you mean, yorkies?”
“Shitheads, shitheads,” she enunciates the feigned difference, “call them whatever the hell you want, they still sucked. Just like their owner! First of all, there were two of them, and only one of Castello, so that right there was ganging up on him. And ‘yip, yip, yip,’” I catch her puppet-like hand gestures in my peripheral, “they never shut up. Fuckin’ antagonistic lil’ shits; they bought a ball over, so Castello tried to play with them… what the fuck was he supposed to do? He did nothing wrong; no way was I gonna stand there and listen to that crotchety bitch throw a fit, saying he was aggressive!”
“Yeah, no, I’m pretty sure you showed her the difference; what aggressive really looks like,” I chuckle. “You had it more than handled, no need for me to say a word; not that I’d ever hand a woman her ass. Over some dogs and a ball. You get too worked up, babe.”
“Whatever,” she grumbles, scooping up Castello to hold him close and pepper him with kisses. “I’m sorry your daddy’s a pussy, but don’t worry, Mommy’s got your back.”
She’s too hellbent on giving me shit to realize what she’s saying, but I catch every damn word… and adjust my hard-on accordingly as I slam the truck into park. “Awful mouthy, Hot Shot.”
“God gave me a mouth for a reason— to use it.”
“He sure did.” Her widened eyes fly to mine, filled with recognition; she knows exactly what my tone now means.
I’ve got to get a new job. I like working at The K, don’t get me wrong, but now that I have a girlfriend, leaving her all night, every weekend night, just doesn’t feel right. In fact, I think it’s one of “the rules,” or at the very least, one of the “key benefits,” to being in a serious relationship — you’ve got indefinite plans with your “someone” on the weekends.
Not that Presley was ever big on going out and hitting the town, but I damn sure don’t want her to notice that being with me means sitting home alone on the two biggest “couple nights”… every weekend.
Or maybe, if I’m being totally honest with myself, it bugs me too. More. The most. Working in a club, surrounded by couples getting cozy… maybe it’s me who wishes I was doing the same with her.
And blondie here is not helping things.
“That’s nice of ya, really, but I can’t drink while I’m working. Thank you anyway,” I yell to be heard over the music, declining the beer, and everything else, the relentless blonde in front of me is offering. “You go on and have fun, find your friends.”
She puts on a fake pout, then slowly glides her tongue along her puffed-out bottom lip, and slides up closer. “Okay then, what about after work?”
I take a step back, offering the nicest smile I can. “After work, I’m going home to my girlfriend. But again, thanks anyway.”
“Well, poo,” she turns the pouting up a notch. “My loss. If it doesn’t work out, you know where to find me, sexy,” she purrs, skimming a fingernail down my arm before flouncing away.
Um, no, no I don’t know where to find her, and did she just say ‘poo?’ Really? Is that the kind of thing I used to go for, actually taking women up on such offers? Surely not, and thank God it’s no longer an option… Presley would’ve come up with a more clever, enticing way of playing that while asleep. I laugh, picturing my Hot Shot, and pull out my phone to text her.
Me: Whatcha doing?
It takes a couple of minutes for her to respond.
Hot Shot: Oh, not much, just being TORTURED.
Me: Really, tortured you say? By anyone I know?
Hot Shot: Skylar and Brynn. They’re over here blubbering on my couch, making me watch some Sci-Fi romance movie. Well, they’re trying to make me. I was clipping my toenails before you saved me.
I laugh out loud, shaking my head. Only Presley. I just had a girl in my face, trying her damndest to be sexy, yet here I am, utterly captivated by one I can’t see… who’s talking about her toenails.
Me: What movie is it?
I wait, knowing full-well that she won’t know, and needs to ask them.
Hot Shot: Time Traveler’s Wife
Me: Don’t know that one.
Hot Shot: And you never will, not because of me anyway.
Me: Then I never will.
Hot Shot: Wah wah (insert eye roll) you’re as sappy as they are.
Me: I try. (Insert wink) Sorry, forgot I was texting with Queen Hardass.
Hot Shot: Hey! I’ve been working on it!
And she has, “coming around” more, and faster, than I expected. The whole past week, we did things together, besides have sex… and she didn’t even try to hide the fact that she enjoyed herself. And bonus — by spending time with her, clothed and during daylight hours, I also picked up on a handy new trick to eliciting tons of information out of her without her realizing it — if I pose questions as a contest, or… a listing of ranks, categories, anything that calls for her to consider and prioritize, and she’ll accidentally give me a glimpse past her surface.
Which she just gave me the perfect set-up to use on her now. And Roman’s waving me over to help with a rowdy bunch, so…
Me: You have, Sugar, and I love it. So work on this - give me your list of BEST romance movies that aren’t sappy and you do enjoy.
I shove my phone in my back pocket and hustle toward Roman, grinning as I go, the image of her “tackling” the monumental assignment I just gave her tickling my mind. I can all but see it, her tongue stiff and poking out in concentration, eyes wild and wandering with the bloodthirst for competition — because in her mind, that’s precisely what’s happening — the movies are literally competing for their spot on her list. Fucking adorable.
“The fuck you smilin’ about? Grab somebody!” Roman shouts over the music and mayhem, holding two guys apart. “Where the fuck is Kai?”
“Dunno, but we got it.” I lock the obvious aggressor, too cocky for his own good, in a barrel hold. “You,” I yell at the “good guy, always DD” of the bunch, easy to spot in his plaid button-up and khakis, standing in the shadows of the huddle, “how many of these women came with ya?”
“Well, uh, those three,” he sputters, shakily pointing with the same finger he used to push his bifocals back up his nose. “I mean, not with me, but our, our group, I guess.”
Jesus, Junior, sometime today please. “Close enough.” I bend Pretty Boy’s arm behind his back to stop his squirming, and the protest he opened his mouth to give. “You mind escorting them outta here for me, get ‘em home safe?” I ask Poindexter and he readily nods, doing his best to puff out what chest he has and commandeering the too drunk to be sexy, too clueless to say no, girls toward the exit.
“Hey, where the hell you running off to with my woman, Bradley?” the shitsack I’ve got a hold on screams after them, his bark turning to a squeak as I cinch his arm up higher and tighter.
“He’s seeing them home, safe, and you’re either gonna settle the fuck down and I’ll walk ya outside to an Uber, or keep up your bullshit and I’ll beat your ass then toss ya in an Uber. What’s it gonna be?”
“Fine, dude, whatever. Can I get my boys first?”
Roman drags the two schmucks he’s detained over. “These your boys?” Pretty Boy nods, none of them saying shit else, and like prisoners of war, they keep perfect, seemingly sobered, time as we march them to the door. “One month, better not see none of y’all’s asses in here,” Roman snarls, tossing his two on the sidewalk. “Stick their dumb asses in an Uber,” he says to
Terry, tonight’s doorman, our work here now done.
“What was all that about?” I ask Roman as we head back inside.
He shrugs. “Fuck if I care. Not long ‘til last call, hoping we make it ‘til then without any more such bullshit.”
“I hear that. Alright then, I’m heading back to my section; try to stay outta trouble.” Weaving through the jumble of bodies, most of which are drunkenly attached to another body, I post up against my usual beam and dig out my phone. It’s been vibrating in rapid succession since I put it away, and I can hardly wait to read the no doubt agonized over, OCD chronicles of Presley Picks A Movie. Yep, this oughta be fun. She’s a lil’ insane, somewhat quirky… but totally fascinating. That “bored jar” I made her and only for her — I could never grow bored with Presley in my life.
Because of things just like this I laugh through the thought, scrolling way, way back on her messages to find where the ramble started.
Hot Shot: A list of how many? We talking Top 10 or…?
Hot Shot: Hello? I’m not even gonna start until I know how many. I mean, if it’s 3, I don’t need a pen and paper, I’ll whittle down in my head. But Top 10 or more will take some doing.
Hot Shot: Okay, I’m guessing you got busy, busting up fights like a big ol’ badass, so I’m making the call – Top 5 it is. Please stand by.
Hot Shot: OMG, this is hard! You try it!
Another wave of laughter hits me… I couldn’t name five romantic movies if I tried. Unless Band of Brothers counts; there’s at least five in that box set, and they loved each other, their country.
Hot Shot: Your dog just stole my paper, now I’m winging it. I want a new assignment, this one sucks.
Except it doesn’t suck at all. She’s loving it, adrenaline pumping through her, mind reeling with serious deliberation. And Castello probably got ahold of one of her “rough drafts” wadded up and tossed aside, but the moment’s long gone to ask, so I keep reading.
Hot Shot: Okay, here you go. 1. Sommersby. 2. Lady and the Tramp. 3. Love and Basketball. 4. The Princess Bride. 5. Just Like Heaven.
I’ve only ever heard of number two — which, pretty surprised that of all the movies to choose from, that made the list — so of course, I tap out my follow-up question/reply.
Me: Sorry, babe, had to toss a couple jackasses. I’m caught up on our dissertation now, and have some bonus questions for you. Ready?
Three little dots appear, so I glance up and around, making sure the club I’m paid to watch isn’t on fire while she types. Suddenly, a new, better idea hits me, so I start hoping her response takes a while, and conjuring up a different angle/reply in interest of my grand new plan. Better yet, I’ll go ahead and cut her off at this pass.
Me: Sorry babe, gotta go, more shit to squash. I’ll be over as soon as I get off. Can’t wait to see you.
Little white lie never hurt anybody, and I have every intention of making it up to her.
I smell a rat.
Sutton is up to something — and I’m not real big for surprises — probably why my stomach’s queasy with skeptical anticipation. He’s been spending every night, and free moment for that matter, at my place, but for some reason, he went to his own apartment earlier, and insists on picking me up from mine tonight.
Oh yeah… the stench of a scheme reeks in my nostrils.
I’m just about to send him a text, asking what I should wear, the hunt for a hint guised as a legitimate question, when’s there’s a knock at the door. Castello’s tail’s wagging and he’s using his excited, friendly bark rather than his “burglar/deranged serial killer/unsub” one. I’ve been teaching him, so I know it’s Sutton.
And out of nowhere, brilliance strikes; a lil’ surprise of my own. “Just a second,” I call through the door, stripping off my shoes and every stitch of clothing, running to hide the pile in the laundry room. “Sorry, sorry,” I say, somewhat out of breath, as I open the door… and cast him innocent eyes, as if unaware I’m buck naked.
“Fuck,” he exhales a heated growl, rubbing the back of his neck. “You look good enough to eat, baby, a whole damn meal,” he glances left, right, behind him, then back to me, “but why are you so determined to show your neighbors what’s mine?” There’s a primal note in his grumble, as he pushes his way inside, and the door shut. Castello, excited to see him, yips and paws at his legs, so Sutton bends down to pet him, but his eyes stayed glued on me. “Remember the part about spending time together doing other things? You’re makin’ that real hard to stick to right about now.”
“Making other things hard too, I see.” I stare demonstratively at his crotch. “So, what is it we’re doing tonight?” I purr.
“Not fuckin’… yet,” he groans, taking me by the shoulders and spinning me around. “Well shit, that backfired. Do love that ass of yours. No, no, not gonna work. Go get dressed, temptress; I got something special planned.” He gives me a gentle nudge forward.
I glare back over my shoulder, grinning. “Psshh, I wasn’t offering, just seeing how you liked surprises.”
“Sugar, I’m constantly surprised by you.”
“Good.” I give him a show, a sexy little shimmy of my ass. “Keeps ya on your toes.”
“We’re at your apartment,” I state, but confusion makes it sound more like a question.
“Man,” he snaps his fingers, “can’t fool you. Come on, boy.” He opens his door and gets out, instructing Castello to do the same before walking around to open mine. “Don’t look so disappointed,” he laughs, “you’ll like it. I promise.”
Funny thing is, these days… I believe him. Have absolutely no doubt. I still think he’s setting himself up for real disappointment, dare I be so arrogant to think maybe even heartache, but if he’s good with it, I am too. Very good, actually. New to this whole “relationship” thing, I’m not sure if it’s because of the novelty, and anticipation — I suspect it’s neither, and wholly because it’s with Sutton — but I’ve never been happier in my life. Every single day, whether we go out and do something fun, or simply hang out at home, he always has me smiling, laughing and/or moaning the entire time. And when it’s over, I’m already looking forward to what the next day holds.
“Have a seat, babe.” He motions me toward the couch once we’re inside then disappears into the kitchen. “What do you want to drink?”
“What are my choices?”
“Beer, sweet tea, water… oh, or your favorite raspberry wine coolers.”
“Then you know my answer.” I kinda laugh, more so sigh, basking in just another one of his thoughtful questions. And he’s hot. And phenomenal in bed. Yeah, life doesn’t work this well; the other shoe’s gotta be about to drop.
“What’s the face for?” he asks, handing me my drink and taking a seat beside me.
“Nothing,” I mumble, fiddling with the label on the bottle in avoidance.
“Presley,” he pries.
“I was just thinking…” I now look at him, “I’ve gotta be about to crash head first into a brick wall, or something. This is, we’re too… never mind.”
“We’re what?” The microwave dings, so he stands, once again heading to the kitchen, but not letting me off the hook. “We’re what, Presley?”
“Nothing. Forget it; let’s enjoy ourselves and not worry ‘til we have to.” I offer him a big optimistic smile when he returns, serving me a plate full of Chinese food — another one of my favorites.
“Sounds good to me; no unnecessary worrying. And no forecasting the ‘‘til we have to’ either, okay? ‘Cause it’s never gonna come. I’ll make sure of it, babe. I love you, and I always will, so there’s no ‘‘til’ coming; ever.” He leans in and kisses me, slow and deliberate, then pulls back and winks. “Now get to eatin’ while I get our entertainment rolling.”
It’s only when he goes to the TV, down on his haunches and sorting out the mess there that I notice it and ask on a laugh, “Whatcha’ got going on there, techy? It looks like somebody went a little crazy in Best
Buy.”
“Well, dear,” he chuckles, then gently scolds the dog for trying to help, “your list took some doing. Not one modern miracle offered all of them in one place, but between Netflix, DVD, and, wait for it, a VCR, which was damn near impossible to find, I managed to swing it. And now, working our way from bottom to top, I give you… Just Like Heaven.” He turns off the lights and retakes his seat beside me, picking up his plate of food and digging in as though everything’s humdrum normal.
Which it is so not. Far, far from it.
I turn to face him, locking down the wobble I know’s gonna try and inject itself in my voice. “My movie list? You tracked them all, and the necessary devices to watch them, down? This is movie night? My movie night, with my favorite food and drinks?”
“Yep, you like?”
My plate’s now back on the table, and maybe broken, my drink maybe spilled , and he follows suit just in time as I go flying into his lap. “I love it,” I gush breathily, littering his face with kisses, only coming up for air to say the rest of what I must. “Sutton, this is one of the nicest, most thoughtful things anyone’s ever done for me. And I absolutely love it. I can’t believe you came up with all this… for me.”
“Told ya before, there’s not a whole lot I wouldn’t do for you, babe. And all this lovin’, that smile on your face? Gonna be doing a whole lot more of it.”
“Is this the kind of stuff you put in the jar?”
“Maybe.” He smirks, oh, so sexy.
I fist pump the air and he laughs. “Can I just tell you how glad I now am that I put so much deliberation into making my list?” And he laughs again, much harder this time.
“So, what’d ya think?” I ask once the movie’s over.
“I thought…” he stands and stretches, then walks over and turns the lights back on, “I think I need to take our dog out to go potty. Come on, boy.” Castello darts out the door — because Sutton never puts a leash on him first, like I’ve suggested more times than I can count — and Sutton goes rushing after him.