by Max Monroe
I closed my eyes, tipped up my head to the ceiling, and pressed my hands desperately into my face. “Fuck me. Seriously, Kline?”
“Definitely.” He gestured to Georgia. “We’re happy, and you know, sane, so we don’t do any of this shit on our own—”
“Thanks so much,” I muttered.
“But you guys are still really finding your way, and quite frankly, it spices things up for us.”
“My psychosis is your goddamn kink?”
Georgia laughed outright, clasped her hands together, and nearly jumped up and down.
“Don’t worry,” Kline said as he ushered Georgia toward the door. “It’ll be over before you know it, and then we’ll use Wes and Winnie for our entertainment. It’s brewing. I can feel it.”
I wanted to scream and yell and carry on, but at the same time, I couldn’t deny my fucking palpable desire to be on their side of things. To watch Wes and Winnie suffer through torment and torture as I laughed maniacally on the sidelines.
God-fucking-dammit.
Kline winked just before the door closed behind him.
“Perfect, Quinn. Just a few more like this, and I think we can move on to the workout photos.”
My camera shuttered in quick succession as I continued to take photos of the Mavericks’ quarterback posing in nothing but his football pants. We had scouted out a really cool location in Phoenix for the pictorial Georgia’s marketing team had hired me to shoot. And I had a moment of silent satisfaction when the urban landscape of red-brick buildings and darkened alleys managed to highlight the strong and lean lines of the rookie quarterback the exact way I had visualized when searching for this setting.
“Front cover material, Cass?” Quinn asked with a cocky grin.
I laughed. “Now you know I can’t play favorites, Q. It will make all the other boys jealous.”
He grinned and flashed a wink in my direction, but it failed to hold the power of Thatch’s signature move.
God, I missed that man. Normally, I’d be half sated from late-night Skype sex with my favorite penis, but our nightly ritual whenever I was out of town hadn’t happened before I fell asleep.
Something was up with Thatcher.
I didn’t know what, but I knew when he texted me and said the Wi-Fi in our apartment was fucked up, he was definitely hiding something. Call me Crazy, but I knew the Supercock wouldn’t have let anything stand in the way of screen time with my tits.
“I think we’re all set here,” I said as I stood up from my kneeling position. “Quinn, go on ahead into the makeup tent and get changed for the team workout photos. We need to head over to the next location in about fifteen minutes to stay on schedule.”
My phone buzzed in my back pocket, and I looked at the screen to find a text from T.
Thatch: I’m seeing a lot of charges on my credit card from last night…
Me: Maybe you should learn to never cancel Skype sex.
Thatch: How on Earth did you spend $2000 on Amazon?
Me: Books.
Thatch: Books? You planning on opening your own library?
Me: I’m planning on replacing sex with reading.
Thatch: Take it back. Your tits would never speak such blasphemy.
Me: They’re mad at you.
Thatch: I’ll make it up to them. Tell them I love them and I miss them and I’ll suck on their perfect pink nipples for hours when you get home.
Me: Not interested.
Obviously, I was. Hell, my nipples were already hard at the thought. But Thatch needed to grovel for a good while before I’d admit to that.
Thatch: Don’t be mad, honey. I’m sorry I canceled Skype sex. I swear I’ll never do it again.
Me: Peddle your bullshit promises to someone who cares.
I watched the text bubbles move as he typed out a response.
Thatch: My hand is a piss-poor substitute for your perfect pussy.
Before I could even think of responding, he quick-fired two more.
Thatch: I didn’t even jerk off last night. I couldn’t. Nothing feels as good as you do, honey. I’m so fucking hard for you. God, Cass, I miss you so much.
Thatch: You still there?
Me: Keep going…
Thatch: I love you, Crazy. I love you and that most likely crazy but beautiful baby girl growing inside your belly. Come home, honey. I miss my family.
Thatch: Phil misses you too. He’s been moping around since you left.
Poor Phil. The mere thought of him sad and mopey had me two seconds away from bursting into tears. Stupid pregnancy hormones.
Me: Even though you were an asshole last night, I miss you too, T. So much. Call me so I can talk to Phil.
Thatch: I’m actually not at home right now, baby. I’m getting ready to meet a client for a late lunch at Alberto’s.
My brow furrowed as I read through the message. Thatch going into the tattoo shop on a Saturday seemed legit, but a client meeting? On the weekend? It would’ve been more likely to see Phil grow wings and fly around our apartment.
Me: On a Saturday?
Thatch: Unfortunately, yes.
Like I said, something was up.
Me: But you never do meetings on Saturday.
Thatch: What’s the point of being at home on a Saturday when you’re not there?
Thatch: Answer: There is no point.
Evasive response laced with charm. Thatch was undoubtedly up to something, and I was undoubtedly going to figure it the fu-fluff out.
Me: Gotta go. Getting ready to start shooting again.
Thatch: Love you, Crazy.
Me: I know ;)
I searched Alberto’s NYC and found their number quickly thanks to Google. The line rang three times before someone picked up. “Alberto’s. How may I help you?” a man with a strong Italian accent greeted.
“Hi, I’m supposed to meet a man named Thatcher Kelly for a late lunch this afternoon, and I’m running a few minutes behind schedule. What time is his reservation?”
“I have no reservation for Mr. Kelly this afternoon, signorina.”
My lips pursed together in irritation. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I know Mr. Kelly very well, and he has no reservation for today. Has there been a mix-up?”
“Oh, you know what? Maybe I got the restaurant confused. I’ll just call him directly. Thanks for your help,” I said and ended the call.
That sneaky son of a butter knife had lied to me!
He lied. To me.
I stared at the cracks in the red-brick wall across from me as I searched my brain for answers. Why would he lie? What in the hell was he hiding from me? Nothing made sense, but there was one thing I was certain of—Thatcher Kelly was in big flipping trouble.
Before I read him the riot act, I knew there was one person who probably knew what was up, which meant my best friend, Georgia, who also happened to be a terrible liar, would know too.
First order of business, finish up the last part of this shoot.
Second, find Kleorgie and trick them into telling me what was going on.
Third, Google cruel and unusual punishments.
Then, it was game on, motherfluffer.
Standing in a darkened corner of a sports facility five miles outside of Phoenix, with eyes on the love of my life, I watched as she got down on the ground and took several pictures—from between the legs of the Mavericks’ star running back.
It was almost surreal, watching her lie between another man’s legs, knowing she was looking for the best lighting and angle to enhance the appearance of his dick in his uniform pants and not being upset about it.
But I wasn’t.
Pride surged through my veins as she worked, knowing she’d built this career and her reputation for herself. She’d put in the hours and the effort, just like I had with everything I did. And now that she was pregnant, society expected her to make a fucking choice—everything she’d worked toward or everything she’d always longed for personally. There
was an illusion that she could have both, but something would suffer. Something would have to give.
And she was working so hard now, traveling so much, not resting at all, so that the thing that took a back seat wouldn’t be me and our kid.
A little sacrifice now for a big reward later.
It really hadn’t hit me until now, but she awed me.
And I’d done what I had to do. But now I had to stop. I had to trust her to look out for herself and our baby because, really, she already was.
She was giving everything to it.
Resting my back on the wall, I pulled myself around the corner and took a breath—and saw a shadowy figure at the other un-well-lit end of my hiding spot.
Kline.
“Are you really following me right now?”
“Yes,” he answered shamelessly and began a slow walk in my direction with his phone held in front of him, pointed straight at me.
“Are you fucking recording me right now?”
He grinned. “I promised Benny I wouldn’t let her miss anything.”
“Where is Georgia girl?” I asked when she didn’t jump out of the shadows behind him and tackle me to the ground. “And seriously, stop fucking recording me.”
“Bathroom break,” he replied, completely unfazed by my irritation. Slow as molasses, he continued recording for what felt like an eternity until he finally flipped his camera off and slid his phone back into his pocket.
“Did you get enough evidence to seal my imprisonment should Cassie decide to press charges?”
He chuckled. “At least five minutes’ worth of footage that should be permissible in court.”
In Georgia’s absence, and without the Kleorgie version of paparazzi in my face, I took the opportunity to talk to him one-on-one.
“I’m surprised at you.”
“Why?” he asked calmly, his friendly face shining perfectly in the light. He was always so fucking calm. The only time I’d ever seen him truly lose his cool was when everything wasn’t perfect in Kleorgie land.
“It’s so far out of your normal,” I explained, “you know, mature, adult decisions.”
“This is adult,” he insisted, and I knew immediately—he wasn’t talking about himself. I thought about redirecting him, but in the end, it seemed pointless. This conversation was going to end up being about me one way or another, so I might as well get it over with.
“How the fuck do you figure that?”
“Because you’re thinking about someone other than yourself. Someone whom you happen to love and care about, but also respect enough not to belittle her independence.”
“Dude. I’m stalking her.”
He laughed, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Yeah, but not really.” I scoffed. “Sure, she doesn’t know you’re following her, but guaranteed, if it wasn’t an invasion of her independence or about keeping her quote-unquote ‘safe,’ she’d invite you along with her. You’re not stalking some random woman here. She wants your company.”
“Right. And that makes it healthy.”
“No,” he agreed with another laugh. His hands dove into the pockets of his jeans, and his head bent forward before his eyes raised back to mine. “It’s definitely not healthy. But the sentiment behind it is. You’re fucking outrageous, we both agree on that, but it’s also seriously sweet.”
“What? Does Georgia’s pussy have some sort of crazy Kool-Aid? You may need to take it easy on the eating her out if this is the result.”
He shook his head. “I know what you’re doing, trying to distract me by mentioning Georgia’s pussy so I’ll get riled up and forget all about talking about you, but it’s not going to happen.”
“Fuck.” Goddamn him for knowing me so well.
“You’re simultaneously putting her before yourself and doing what you have to do to find some level of comfort. It takes a lot of self-control not to put your issues on someone else, especially when it’s about something as important as the safety of your unborn child.”
“Yeah, that’s what I hear all the time. Stalking someone and self-control in the same breath,” I muttered, but he kept talking and did it with a smile.
“Sometimes, things appear one way from the outside looking in—and completely different from the inside out. In this case, it may seem like the most childish behavior you’ve ever displayed, but to me, someone who really knows you, it looks like you’re really and truly growing up.”
Fuck, this bastard could give one hell of a speech when he wanted to. It was all I could do to stop the tears from flooding my eyes.
“She’s lucky to have you. Psychotic behavior and all.”
“Kline?” Georgia questioned as she stepped out at the other end of the hall.
“Down here, baby,” he answered her immediately, holding out an arm to claim her before she even got within thirty feet of him.
My friend was the happiest he’d ever been in his whole goddamn life. So much so, he was getting his jollies from following me as I stalked Cassie.
Georgia got to us and peeked around the corner.
“Good God,” she breathed. “She’s lying right under one of the guys in a push-up position.”
I smirked, but I didn’t take the bait. I didn’t need to look anymore.
“I think I might want to make a career change,” she teased.
Kline smiled at her, his heart in his eyes, and then turned back to me with a wink and lowered his voice when he noticed the change on my face. He could sense the realization I’d just come to like an infrared sensor could sense a human being.
“My little boy is growing up.”
I scratched the side of my face with my middle finger.
“And thank God for that,” he went on. “Because I definitely can’t lift you any longer, and I’d rather do just about anything than help you in the bathroom.”
I shook my head and laughed. “Fuck off.”
Georgia turned back to us with her eyebrows in her hairline. “What’d I miss?”
Both of us answered at the same time.
“Nothing.”
It didn’t happen often, but this moment was just between us.
“Although I love being your source of entertainment, I’m going to head out,” I said and pushed off the wall. “Keep Cassie company for me.”
As I walked toward the exit door, Kline’s voice asked from behind me, “Where are you headed?”
“I’ve got some errands to run.”
“But Cassie’s still here,” Georgia said, probably out of displeasure that she couldn’t watch me act like a deranged lunatic more than anything else.
“I know,” I said over my shoulder as I pushed the door open. Sunlight filtered into the darkened hallway, and I turned to face them with my back holding the door open. “She’s good. Should anything happen, she’s surrounded by everyone I trust. And more than that, I trust her. She’s going to be the best mother to our baby—because she already is. She’s doing all this for us. It’s time I start realizing that.”
Georgia’s face turned down in disappointment. “Not gonna lie, Thatch, I was really enjoying the whole stalking bit.”
I grinned, and she returned my smile. This time, her voice was soft and one hundred percent serious.
“But I’m also enjoying this side of you, too.”
I winked and headed out into the parking lot, confident that my favorite woman on the planet was also the very best woman to watch out for our baby. There was something I needed to do before this outrageous weekend came to a close.
While everyone broke down the set and packed up our equipment, I made it a priority to find Georgia and Kline. I’d see them wandering around the shoot, hand in hand and with the biggest goddamn smiles on their faces. But it wasn’t just the smiles that’d had my Spidey-senses on high alert. It was the constant glances I’d noticed Georgia take as she walked around the set. Like she had been looking for something. Like she was up to something.
Yeah, something was def
initely the opposite of motherfuck-fluffing down.
I slid my camera bag over my shoulder and strode toward the hallway I’d last seen Big Dick and Wheorgie strolling. As I turned the corner, I found their backs to me, hunched over a phone, too riveted by whatever they were looking at to notice me coming up behind them.
“Boo!” I shouted when I was a mere two feet from them.
Georgia squeaked in surprise while Kline remained unfazed, slyly locking his phone screen and slipping it into his back pocket.
“Jesus, Cass!” she exclaimed with a hand to her chest. “You scared the crap out of me! I nearly peed myself.”
Kline just chuckled and wrapped his arm around her waist, tucking her into his side.
“What are you guys doing down here?”
Her eyes went wide for a beat before she schooled her face into neutrality. Georgia had been practicing her lying skills. “Uh… Just—”
Kline chimed in. “Georgie was looking over Leslie’s Instagram.”
“Oh, hel-ck yes!” I held out my hand. “Let me see! I want to see what Loose Leslie has been up to lately.”
Surprisingly, Kline obliged, pulling his phone out of his pocket and unlocking the screen before opening his Instagram app.
I snuck a glance at Georgia and noted her silent panic as he handed me his phone. I looked through his Instagram searches, and sure enough, there she was, @LaLaLeslieLaLa, the most recent search in his browser.
Kline might have been smart enough to cover their devious tracks, but my ears didn’t miss the sigh of relief escape from Georgia’s lips.
These two knew something I didn’t, and I was going to get to the bottom of it.
Right the fluffernutter now.
I pretended to scroll through Leslie’s pictures, even though I already followed her account religiously. This chick’s social media was better than the Kardashians hopped up on meth, posting Snapchat videos. I paused on one very ridiculous photo of Leslie with a shot glass nestled inside her cleavage. Her jet black locks had been dyed blonde, and her cliché comment of “Blonds have more fun. Winky face” sat below the picture.