by Kat T. Masen
The tight grip on my arm startles me, and on first instinct, I wrestle my arm out of his grip.
“Hey. Jesus, Malone, would you just stop for a second?”
I turn to face him, and surprisingly, he looks concerned.
“What, Haden? You want to point out how funny that picture is? Or how I mustn’t be any good at sex which is why he strayed?”
“Calm down, will you?”
“I’m sorry. Someone sent me a photo of my fiancé practically fucking another woman a week after we broke up. Excuse me for thinking that the word calm does not belong in my vocabulary right now.”
“Ex, Presley. Ex-fiancé. Plus, he wasn’t fucking her. Woman, you need a reality check. Men don’t huddle with their pals eating bowls of ice cream as they watch The Notebook. They go find some new pussy and fuck it like a jackrabbit.”
He said what?
A thousand shades of red are flashing before me, and for a split second, I wonder what it’s like to do time in jail for murdering someone with your bare hands. The nerve of the guy. The worst part is, I’m scared there is some truth to it, and the ass is me, living in a world of denial. Stop telling yourself Jason is, was, the perfect guy.
“Wouldn’t hurt you to follow in his footsteps,” the Jerk chides.
I lift my hand to strike him, but he catches me just in time, strengthening his grip on my wrist. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I tell you what, you leave me the fuck alone, and I promise I won’t smash that pretty-boy face of yours,” I fire back.
“Pretty? C’mon, Pres, you can do better than that.”
“I’m not your friend, so cut the nickname bullshit. Honestly, Haden, let me go. Despite what Jason’s done, I need to go home.”
He lets me go, and defeated, I straighten my arm.
“I’m not surprised he strayed. You need to pull that stick out of your ass and put something else in there instead, Ice Queen.”
What did he just call me? I’d heard a rumor that someone in the office had dubbed me Ice Queen, but it never occurred to me it was him. I let out a fake laugh as I watch his cocky grin quickly disappear.
“It will be a cold day in hell before you’re attached to the end of any stick coming near me.”
He closes the gap between our bodies. I never paid attention to how tall he is until he stands head to head, facing me. Running his finger along my chin, he leans in and whispers in the softest voice, “Frigid little Presley couldn’t please her man. Small Dick probably got fed up with you.”
And with that, there is no holding back. I step away to gain some distance and swing my fist in his face to connect with his jaw.
Bam.
Game over.
Four
I run so fast from him, still reeling from the fact I had punched him in the mouth. The adrenaline is coursing through my veins at a rapid rate, and when I make it home, I slam the door hard, terrified yet somehow exhilarated from the excitement of it all. Collapsing onto my bed, my knuckles begin to throb in pain. Seeking comfort in an ice pack and a bottle of red will do the trick.
What was I thinking?
Somehow, I allowed the anger and uncertainty to build up, so it was only a matter of time before I flew off the handle. How stupid was I to think Jason would sit around and not look for another woman? The hurt and jealousy are so much more painful than I anticipated, to the point that I was driven to punch Haden after his tactless comment.
Does he have a point, though? No, the Jerk is clutching straws and has no sense of decency. He has it in for me, God knows why, and the bottom line is I have to watch my back. The cunning bastard is probably used to getting his way no matter who he steps on. I bet he is vying for a promotion, trying to take me out of the running. Well, take that, asshole! I doubt he’ll be able to get laid with a face like that, especially when he admits a woman hit him.
Nothing sounds more appealing than a quiet night in, but Vicky rushes over the second I call her to tell her what happened. Before I know it, the bottle of wine is empty, and Vicky will be my savior tonight.
“Pres, what were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t, that’s the big problem. I don’t think about consequences anymore.” I shake my head at myself, staring at the wall, trying to figure out where the Presley Malone I’ve known my whole life has disappeared to. “When I was with Jason, everything was so easy. I didn’t have to think. We had a routine, and life was simple.”
“How boring. Be honest for a split second. Wasn’t this a tad bit exciting?”
Vicky is my best friend. I can’t lie to her face. “Even if it was, I can’t go around punching every man in the city. I’ll end up in jail and fed to the lesbians.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Vicky winks.
That catches my attention, but I’m not going to delve into Vicky’s wild sexual history—not tonight anyway. Plus, I will probably need more than a night.
“I’m going to end up an old lady surrounded by cats.” I nestle my head against her arm. “Promise me you’ll stop me when there are too many cats?”
Vicky chuckles. “Honey, the only pussy you have is the one currently filling up with cobwebs. I’m glad you decided to go out tonight, although you may need to sober up a little, or we won’t be able to get in anywhere.”
“I’m fineee,” I slur.
“I’ll whip up something to eat. Go have a shower, and by then, you will be fineee,” Vicky mimics.
Two hours later, I am fed and dressed, and we are standing at the bar ordering shots. Vicky’s omelet had some magic ingredient to sober me up enough I was able to put on a tight red dress and apply some makeup without looking like a circus freak. Vicky looks gorgeous dressed in a short white number enhancing her olive skin. Being tall, she doesn’t need pumps, and when she wears them, she is a goddess on legs with curves in all the right places. Men are naturally drawn to her which makes me feel like the third wheel.
“Slippery nipples?” she asks.
“What the hell, Vicky?”
She laughs, placing her arm around me. “It’s a drink.”
“Oh.”
The bartender, cute as he may be, serves us drinks but does not stick around to chat. A little bummed, I swivel my chair to be faced by a tall man dressed in a fitted white shirt and black denim jeans. He is very broad, and with a sly grin, he flashes his pearly whites. Wow, they are white! I mean, it’s dark in here, and those bad boys are glowing enough that you can make out the footprints on the floor.
Remember what your mother once told you—it’s rude to stare.
He introduces himself as Ian, a gym junkie from California. As Vicky turns to face us, she almost falls off her chair whispering in my ear, “He’d make your beaver glow with the amount of bleach he’s sporting.”
I look at her, confused. Then the penny drops. Vicky apologizes to Ian, then drags me to the dance floor to save me.
“You’re welcome,” she yells over the music.
“What was wrong with him?”
“Oh, honey, you got to up the ante now. Jason was great and a real looker, but hey, you could have done better.”
Offended, I stop dancing and stare at my friend. “What do you mean I could have done better?”
Vicky continues to sway her body, oblivious that her comment struck a nerve.
“Jason is everything you wanted on paper, but he wasn’t the guy for you. You need someone who will challenge you, and most importantly, make your toes curl in the bedroom.”
“Jason was great. Maybe I’m the problem, I’m the one who didn’t challenge him, and maybe I’m the dud in the bedroom.”
Vicky stops dancing mid-song, and her green eyes appear agitated. Her long golden-brown locks stop swaying and rest nicely against her chest. With no warning, she latches onto my arm and drags me back to the bar. She motions for the bartender ordering two rounds of shots. Without saying a word just yet, she waits until the glasses are placed before us, then turns to face me with a stern
look on her face.
“Now, you listen to me, Presley Malone. I never, ever, want you to say you’re the problem. Any fucking guy in this club would be lucky to have you. And don’t you dare let that stupid photo of Jason make you feel any less. You understand?”
I nod like a child being scolded, then Vicky gives me a tight embrace, reassuring me that we are going to have the greatest night. She slides the shots closer to me, and I down them in one go each.
We giggle uncontrollably as the alcohol sets in until Vicky abandons me to use the restroom, claiming she has some tampon emergency that has dampened her chances of hooking up.
I sway to the music, the band playing a recent pop song, and all the while, I am forgetting that Jason ever existed, and I’m feeling as free as a bird. Vicky’s right, Jason was great on paper. He was your typical six-foot, blond hair, blue-eyed hottie. He had a great job, great family, and loved his sports. In the bedroom, he was great. Well, great compared to what I had experienced in the past. He knew how to make me come, but even then, it was routine. Kind of like playing a piano—once you know the notes, you can play with your eyes closed.
When I think back to the last year of having sex, it was dull—same old positions, me on top, and once in a while, he would take me from behind. Foreplay was ancient history. The reality was we were both busy, knew how to get each other off, and did it within five minutes.
I was equally to blame.
The question now weighing heavily on my mind is, is it possible to have a relationship with someone and still keep those butterflies and foreplay alive? I need someone who can crawl under my skin and plant that seed of lust where all I care about is our bodies banging together in perfect harmony.
You’re horny and need to get laid.
Oh, and tequila, please stop talking now.
The night was not meant to be spent thinking about Jason, so I divert my eyes to a group of people in their mid to late twenties huddled in the corner. The guy with the jet-black hair is smoking hot, and even in my intoxicated state, I am not immune to getting down and dirty.
He is wearing only a khaki wife-beater, and every inch of his arms are covered in tattoos and boy, oh boy, does he have a set of arms. The way he is standing against the wall shows off his tall muscular build. C’mon, would I really screw a guy I didn’t know? Probably not. God only knows where he has been. For all I know, he could be part of some underground drug ring willing to kidnap me and hold me ransom.
I am happily sipping away at my drink when Vicky returns, and I’m quick to point out Mr. Smokin’ Hot. Of course, she agrees he is one fine specimen, but her enthusiasm is short-lived when she abandons me for some dude wearing a bowtie. Way to go, Vicky, you sure know how to pick them. She promises to return in a few minutes. Yeah, whatever. She’s totally broken the girl code.
Keeping myself entertained, I continue to watch Mr. Smokin’ Hot and happen to catch a glimpse of the female beside him. She is wearing the tackiest gold dress that drops low, exposing her very fake, ample bosom. On closer inspection, the lady beside her looks strikingly similar, and as I focus in, I realize they are twins, and one of them is Dee Simmons from work. Totally explains the skankiness I was smelling in here. Honestly, her sister looks no better. Why, oh why, are the hot men attracted to such tramps? He just lost five points on my scale of one to ten—ten being the kind of man I could see myself bending my five-month rule for.
Just when I am about to turn away, bored by the sleaziness, a very dark and mysterious guy beside him catches my attention. Perhaps all is not lost. So I prepare my flirtatious smile only for my stomach to do a backflip as I realize it’s none other than the Jerk himself.
Oh shit.
I swivel back around, almost causing myself whiplash, and pretend to be waiting for the bartender, praying to the Lord he didn’t notice me. Vicky is standing at the opposite side of the bar. Amid the heavy noise, I attempt to gain her attention, so she can ditch bowtie dude, and we can blow this pop stand before the angry wolf hunts me down.
No such luck, of course. I pull my hair forward to remain inconspicuous and strategically cover my eyes. The bartender is looking at me like I’m some crazed weirdo, so I slip him a twenty and order another drink. He appears again moments later with some hard liquor, and I down it in one go, much to his amusement.
The room is spinning, flashing colors and lights blurring as they speed past me. Everyone at the bar looks distorted which only adds to the hilarity, and so I find myself laughing at absolutely nothing. I am definitely not in the mood for another confrontation, but given that minutes have passed, I assume he has the sense to stay away from me. An unfamiliar cold hand is placed on my shoulder, and I jump and turn to be met by Haden.
Oh fuck. Here we go. No good can come of this.
Looking supremely pissed off, his lip is swollen from the smack in the face, and there is a slight cut on his cheek from the costume ring I was wearing at the time. Behind his glasses, his eyes have narrowed, and beneath his lips I see a puff of air followed by a grunt. He looks different from his usual self, and I figure it’s because he’s wearing tight black jeans and a denim, collared shirt rather than his corporate attire.
Gee, he smells nice, and look at the way his forearms flex when he is angry.
My shoulders begin to move up and down, and I start to laugh again, unable to control myself.
“You think this is funny?”
I don’t, but it is. God knows my sense of humor was swept away with my will to live the past couple of days. Is it so wrong that I am getting off on his pure hatred for me right now? The way his brows furrow and the death stare that follows makes it all the funnier.
“You got punched in the face by a girl.” I chuckle. “It’s kinda funny.”
The bartender overhears me, and with a grin, he pours me another drink.
What a swell fella.
I give him my best wink.
“Shouldn’t you stop drinking now?” Haden growls, holding back the glass from my lips.
“What are you, my dad? I’m thirty fucking two. I can do whatever the hell I want. Presley Malone is wearing her big-girl panties,” I slur, followed by more laughter.
I could swear, even in my intoxicated state, that he is smirking, and his eyes have wandered down my body. Maybe I need to stop drinking. My imagination is off with the fairies. It was only minutes ago you thought he was mysteriously handsome.
“Jesus, would you stop? You’ll end up taking some idiot home at the rate you’re going.”
“Wait a minute. Weren’t you the one who told me that I needed to pull the stick out of my ass and replace it with something else?”
He remains silent, and I laugh in his face, ending our argument. Grabbing his arm, I hop off the stool and push him aside to head to the dance floor. Sober, there would be no chance in hell I would dance by myself, but what won’t kill me will make me stronger. That, and I want to escape him.
The dance floor is stifling hot, and bodies are squished together forcing me to bump butts with a cougar beside me. She has to be at least fifty, dressed in the tightest leather pants I have ever seen, trying to tongue-wrestle a guy young enough to be her son. God help me, I don’t want to be single at fifty. What if I have to wear tight leather pants. This image is depressing, and all of a sudden, my self-esteem has sailed away until Mr. Smokin’ Hot is dancing in front of me. I am pulled out of my mini-funk so fast, my confidence returning. Just for a split second, the idea of having this gorgeous man inside me is sending signals to all the right places.
I move in a little closer, and he leans in to whisper. “You’re gorgeous. What’s your name?”
“Presley,” I respond in my seductive, yet intoxicated voice.
The heat is radiating off his body, and the closer I move in, the more excited I feel. He wraps his arms around my waist, and just before our bodies connect, I am pulled into a different direction, and the distance between us grows. Moments later, I am in the alleyway, and Haden i
s standing in front of me, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.
“What the hell just happened?”
“I don’t get you,” he yells.
“What?” I am still looking at the door, confused and trying to understand what the hell just happened.
“You act all Miss Perfect, and then you’re on the dance floor like a tramp.”
“What did you just call me?”
He almost looks apologetic, but verbal diarrhea is hard to control, I should know. The bubbles of anger are simmering at the surface, and I clench my fists, controlling my behavior as much as I possibly can. I’m not going to rule out the idea of smacking that pretty face of his again.
“God, you think it’s okay to punch people in the face?”
“You think it’s okay to bring someone down when they are already on the ground barely able to walk? The shit you said hurt, okay? I’ve been single for two minutes, and I see my ex-fiancé with another woman. This is the guy I was going to spend the rest of my life with. I love him. I didn’t just forget what love is even if I called it quits.”
“Why did you call it quits?” he demands, yelling.
“Because I wanted more, okay? I don’t know what the hell that is, and maybe I’m stupid for thinking that life isn’t about being comfortable. I want excitement, kinda like punching you in the face.” The laughter escapes me again, and my fists relax, moving toward my stomach to control the stitch forming from the uncontrollable giggles.
“And you still think that’s funny?”
I bet it hurt. The swollen lip looks terrible on him, and all I want to do is make it worse.
I have my devil suit on, pitchfork standing proud, and I play nasty.
I move my body forward and smash my lips onto his.
Oh shit.
Now it’s officially game over.
Five
Sometimes, in our wildest dreams, something extraordinary happens. A moment where you pinch yourself because you’re certain it’s just a dream, only to find out it is, in fact, reality.