Instead of waiting for my bill, I tossed an ample amount of cash on the table and jumped from my seat.
“Love you, George,” I shouted openly.
“Love you, too, Abby,” he responded. “See you in a few hours.”
“I won’t be in for lunch.” I lengthened my stride, all but scurrying toward the door. “I’ve got some things to do.”
“Bringing him in?” he asked.
He knew me all too well. With my eyes fixed on the exit, I raised my hand in the air and gave a playful wave. “Bye, George.”
“Bringing him in?!” he shouted from behind me.
I pushed the door open and paused. “Love you, George.”
“Fucking biker,” he muttered.
8
Ghost
The waitress set a slender plate of rice-wrapped raw fish in front of me. I’d seen sushi before, but I’d never planned on eating it. Now that I didn’t have a choice, I wasn’t sure how in the fuck I was going to pick it up.
I nonchalantly searched the table for utensils and found none. In unrolling my napkin, two ornately painted white sticks fell onto the table and bounced a few times before they came to a rest between Abby and me. I stared at them as if they were the cause of a ten-car collision on the five.
Unless I planned to use them as miniature spears, I was going to go hungry. My chopstick skills were equal to my ability to walk a tightrope.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Abby asked as I fumbled to pick up the sticks. “I’m famished.”
I grinned in acknowledgement and then shifted my eyes to my food. I had my doubts I’d be able to pick up anything, short of a few stares and a laugh or two. I searched the restaurant. Two dozen adults and half a dozen children used their chopsticks as an extension of their fingers, eating their food with ease. For them, it seemed like a simple task.
In my attempt to hold the slippery sticks, I looked like a drunken carnival clown trying to juggle pencils. If I continued, I was going to make an utter fool of myself. Aggravated, I scanned the table one last time for a useable utensil. A fucking butter knife would have been better than what I had.
“I never use those things,” Abby said. “Eat it with your hands, it’s more fun. That’s how they do it in Japan.”
Relieved, I slid the cherry blossom adorned sticks to the side and looked up. Abby held a piece of sushi between her fingers, no differently than if she were eating a French fry.
“You can eat this stuff with your hands?” I asked. “I thought it’d be an etiquette thing. I’m not looking to have some pissed off Japanese guy over here yelling at me.”
“A good rule of thumb is if it has rice attached to it you can eat it with your fingers,” she explained. “If it’s sashimi – raw fish – it needs to be eaten with chopsticks.”
I glanced at my food. “What if it’s both?”
She chuckled and nodded toward my plate. “It’s surrounded by rice, so it’s finger food.”
“That’s a good thing,” I said. “If I would have had to use those chopsticks, there would have been more of this stuff on the floor than in my mouth.”
“How do you normally eat it?”
“This is my first time,” I confessed.
Her face contorted. “I asked you if you liked sushi. You said yes.”
“You said how does sushi sound. I said it sounded great.” I studied the piece I held. “I’ve never tried it, though.”
“I hope you like it.” She brushed her hair away from her face, eventually draping it over her ear. After rubbing the bottom of her nose with her index finger, she grinned. “Try it and see what you think.”
I poked the piece into my mouth. Surprisingly, it tasted good. Excited by the complexity of flavors, I looked at Abby with wide eyes. “I ordered the spicy tuna roll because I like tuna and I like spicy things. Looks like I made a good choice. This is pretty tasty.”
“I love sushi,” she said. “I could eat it every day. It’s not fun to eat it alone, though.”
I ate everything alone and didn’t see the complication. “What’s a good alone food?”
She brushed her hair behind her ear again and cocked her head to the side. After some consideration, her gaze met mine. “Salads. Scrambled eggs. Soup. Sandwiches. Those types of things.”
I reached for another piece of sushi. “Things that start with an ‘S’?”
She laughed. “No. Things that are boring. Boring things are okay to eat alone. Things that are fun should be shared with someone.”
I ate the piece of sushi and then wiped my mouth with my napkin. “What’s fun?”
She shrugged. “Pizza. Sushi. Spaghetti. Any Italian food, really. Tacos. Ice cream. Pie. Those are all fun, and they shouldn’t be eaten alone.”
I looked her up and down. Her arms were the size of my wrists. I couldn’t see her legs, but I didn’t need to. I’d seen them plenty when we were in the desert. They were lean and muscular, like that of a conditioned runner. By my guess, pie wasn’t a staple in her diet.
“You don’t look like you eat much pie,” I said.
“I can eat an entire pie.” She leaned forward and raised her brows. “All by myself.”
I spat disbelief on the table between us. “Bullshit.”
“I’m dead serious,” she said, beaming with pride. “I love pie.”
“What’s your favorite?”
She smiled. “Pecan.”
“A pecan pie has five thousand calories in it.” I argued. “There’s no way on earth you could eat one of those.”
“I have the metabolism of a cheetah.”
I chuckled at the thought of her attempting to eat an entire pie. “I’d pay money to see you eat a whole pecan pie.”
Her eyes widened a little. “How much?”
I shrugged. “Fifty bucks.”
She looked me over. “Make it a hundred.”
If Tito’s claim was correct, she made ten million dollars a year. She sure didn’t act like it. I decided he was misinformed and challenged her on her pie eating abilities.
“I’m not talking about a six-inch pie or some dumb shit like that,” I said. “A standard sized pie.”
“I’ll eat a nine-incher for a hundred,” she said with a smile.
I choked on a laugh. “If I offered to pay you a hundred to eat a nine-incher, wouldn’t that make you a prostitute?”
“If you offered to pay me a hundred to eat a nine-incher, you better have a nine-incher for me to eat. If not, it’d make you a liar. I don’t like liars.” she said, straight-faced.
Upon hearing the remark, half my blood shot to my face and the other half rushed to my cock. Now sporting a full-fledged hard on and sure I was blushing, I slid to the edge of the booth and tried to act suave.
With my manhood available for view, I looked right at her and raised both eyebrows. “I don’t lie.”
She peered over the edge of the table. Upon seeing my denim-encased wonder, her eyes went wide. “I’d uhhm. Wow,” she stammered. “An honest man is an attractive man.”
Her eyes remained glued to my crotch.
“So, what’s it going to be?” I asked. “Pie, or that?”
She lifted her gaze to meet mine and then shook her head, as if to clear it of impure thoughts. “I think I’m going to have to stick with the pie.”
“What?” I snapped back.
She flashed a guiltless smile. “My mouth gets me into trouble sometimes.”
“I want your mouth to get you in trouble,” I said. “Nine inches of trouble.”
“Men’s minds always go to sex.” She giggled. “I was offering to eat a pie.”
I slid into the booth. “You started this with your little sexual innuendo.”
“Like I said. It’s my mouth,” she said, feigning innocence with a half-assed shrug. “It often says what I don’t want it to.”
“My guess is that it says what you’re thinking,” I said with a flick of my hand. “And you’re too embarrassed to admit it.”
“Are you going to tell me that you don’t think about sex?” I asked. “Ever?”
“Never.” She tried not to laugh but did anyway. After recovering from the laugh, she continued. “The thought of sex never crosses my mind.”
I laughed. “You don’t fart, either, do you?”
“I’ve never farted,” she said, stone-faced. “I have no idea what it feels like to pass gas.”
“Well, I do fart, and I often think about sex,” I said with a laugh. “Not at the same time, though.”
She tilted her head to the side and gave me a curious look. “Have you ever thought about sex with me?”
“Are we being truthful?” I asked.
She grinned. “Let’s try it for a while.”
“The day we met?” I locked eyes with her and leaned forward. “I thought about bending you over the couch and hiking that little dress of yours over your waist.”
She covered her face with her hands and slumped into the booth until she all but disappeared. “What else?”
I grinned at the sight of her. My honesty was either embarrassing her or torturing her. It was exactly what she deserved. “You sure you want to hear it?”
She spread her fingers apart and peeked at me through the space between them. “Uh huh.”
I grinned a sly smirk. “Poking my dick in your pretty little mouth.”
“Oh God,” she moaned. “It’s the lips, isn’t it?”
“It’s everything about you, really.” I lifted my chin slightly. “Hell, I’m thinking about fucking you right now.
She swallowed heavily and then lowered her hands. Her face was glowing red from embarrassment. “Are you like this with every girl you meet?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“What. What uhhm. What…” she stammered. “What makes me different?”
“Everything,” I said flatly.
“Like what?”
“At first, I liked your outfits. The sneakers with a dress look pretty sexy in my book. You were eager enough to come sit with me. I liked that. I thought you were bold. The to-do list let me know you were goal-oriented A driven woman is attractive as fuck. Then, the entire rattlesnake thing? Yeah, you’re different. And, you’re pretty as fuck.”
In what I was sure was a subconscious gesture, she swept her hair behind her ear and scratched the bottom of her nose with her index finger.
“You do that thing with your hair quite a bit,” I said. “I like it. It’s cute.”
“It’s a habit.” She said, still glowing red. “I do it all the time when I’m nervous. Or when I’m in deep thought about something. I don’t even realize it.”
I rested my chin in my hand and looked at her admiringly. “What were you thinking about when you did it at the meeting?”
“I do it and I don’t even realize it, so I don’t really know when you’re talking about. It’s funny. George can tell when I’m thinking about something because of it. He always says, ‘what’s on your mind, Abby?’”
A tinge of jealousy washed over me. I’d never felt jealous in my life, and it took me by complete surprise.
“Who’s George?” I asked, my tone slightly bitter.
“He’s a retired Marine who owns a deli. He’s like my second dad,” she replied. “I eat there all the time.”
A rush of relief came from hearing her response, and it troubled me. I hadn’t had a girlfriend since I was in high school, and I had no desire to change – or at least that’s what I thought. For whatever reason, I felt attracted to Abby beyond simply admiring her looks. It seemed my swollen brain was changing my manner of thinking. I wasn’t sure I liked it. Nonetheless, I forged on.
“You were sitting across from me. You did that thing with your hair, and then you pointed to the seat beside me.” I pointed to the empty booth space beside her. “So, what were you thinking? When you pointed?”
One side of her mouth curled up. “I thought you were handsome.”
I wasn’t a bad looking guy, but I was far from handsome. I cocked an eyebrow. “Handsome?”
Clearly embarrassed, her gaze fell to the table. “Uh huh.”
She did the hair thing again, and then scratched her nose with her finger.
“What’s on your mind, Abby?” I asked, citing the question she said George asked, word for word.
She looked up. A guilty grin was plastered on her face. “Nothing.”
“You were doing that hair thing,” I said. “So, you were thinking about something.”
“Are we being truthful?” she asked mockingly.
I shrugged. “Let’s try it for a while.”
Her mouth twisted into a smirk. “I was thinking about what you said earlier.”
I raised my brows in interest. “Which part?”
“About the pie,” she deadpanned. “I think I’m ready to give it a try.”
It wasn’t what I was hoping for. Seeing her devour a pie would be entertaining. Watching her writhe in sexual bliss while I shoved her full of cock would be better. I reached for my wallet, hoping the blood would drain from my stiff dick before I stood.
“Fine,” I whined. “Pie it is.”
She gave a coy smile and turned to the side. “I was thinking about the sex, silly.”
Now, instead of me torturing her, she was tormenting me. “What about it?” I asked, shoving the heel of my palm against my stiff dick.
“It’s been a long time for me,” she admitted. “Thinking about it is nice.”
Thinking about it was nice. Doing it would be better. Much better. I wondered if she was as deep in thought as I was.
“Is your pussy wet?” I asked.
Her face blushed instantly. She choked on her attempt to respond. After taking a drink of water, she recovered enough to speak.
“What?” she asked.
“You heard me.” I gestured to her lap with a nod of my head. “Your pussy. Is. It. Wet?”
She swallowed heavily. Her head nodded ever so slightly.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I slid to the edge of the booth, so she could see my lap. With my eyes locked on her, I nodded toward my stiff dick. “I could hammer nails with this thing.”
Without argument or hesitation, she took a lingering look.
“So, I’ll ask again,” I said. “What’s it going to be? Pie or this?”
“That is tempting.” She shifted her eyes from my cock to my face. “But I’m going to have to stick with the pie. At least for now.”
I couldn’t believe it. I was trying to coerce a died-in-the-wool prick tease to give me some pussy. “We’re both adults,” I fumed. “You’ve got a wet pussy, and I’m rocking some serious wood. Explain to me why you want to eat fucking pie.”
“I just want to get to know you a little more before we take it to the next level,” she said. “So, for now, it’s going to have to be pie.”
“Fine,” I huffed. I pulled out my wallet and flipped through the bills. “You want to follow me to my place?”
“Do you have a pecan pie?”
Being turned down for sex would normally be my signal to pay the bill and leave. With Abby, however, I had no intention of walking away. My cock wanted to fuck her, but my brain wasn’t opposed to getting to know her better. I decided to merge the two and agree to watch her eat a pie, but only after she rode on the back of my bike. Nothing stimulated sexual desire more than a ride on a Harley.
“No, but you’re going to ride on the back of my bike to get the pie. You’ve got your rules, and I’ve got mine. You can leave your car at my place.”
“You can follow me to my place,” she said. “I’ll gladly park my car and get on that bike again.”
Her tone let me know I was headed in the right direction. I tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table and stood, hoping her pie-eating effor
ts fell within the getting to know me slot.
If not, the agony associated with my brain tumor wasn’t going to be limited to headaches.
9
Abby
I was in desperate need of some dick, and had been for a long, long time. I wanted Porter to be the guy to take me out of my sexless slump, but I needed to make sure I was stepping out of the single life for all the right reasons. Sexually frustrated to the point of a meltdown, I exercised restraint and settled for devouring a pecan pie.
It seemed like a responsible decision.
We decided to ride to Julian, California. My first ride with Porter was an awakening, of sorts. The ride to Julian Pie Company was different. After the sexual innuendos, blowjob banter, and the glimpse of Porter’s massive manhood, I was a horny mess.
When I got on the motorcycle, I was already soaking wet. One hour into the ride, the motorcycle’s vibration had me on the verge of an orgasm. I spent the next thirty minutes with my eyes cinched closed, my mind adrift, and my soaking wet pussy at the mercy of an eight-hundred-pound vibrator. During that half-hour ride, my sexual tension increased to an all-time high.
In my daydream, Porter’s face was buried between my legs. He ate me while I ate slice after slice of pie. I was truly in heaven – both in my dream, and in reality.
The last fifteen minutes of the trip were in stop and go traffic, during which time I couldn’t find my happy place. Frustrated, I opened my eyes and tried to regain my composure.
Much to my surprise, we’d arrived in the small town. I fidgeted in my seat. Nothing seemed to relieve the tension that had built within me. I was soaking wet and my pussy was begging for attention.
“What the fuck are you doing back there?” Porter snarled.
“Trying to get comfortable,” I whined.
“With you thrashing around like that, it’s not easy to keep this son-of-a-bitch on the road,” he growled. “We’ll be there in five minutes. Sit. Still.”
I lifted my weight from the seat, stuffed my dress under my thighs, and sat down. “Sorry,” I huffed.
GHOST (Devil's Disciples MC Book 3) Page 5