Mine don’t.
I stand naked at the foot of the bed having just dumped my condom in the bathroom trash.
Babe is a vision of caramel delight on the rumpled white confection of the hotel sheets.
I couldn’t care less.
She runs her hands across her breasts, massaging them briefly before sliding her manicured fingers down her taut stomach and between her slick thighs, stroking herself invitingly. She locks eyes with me, hers half-hooded with naked desire for more. “Mmmmm, Connor. Do you have any idea how yummy you are?”
Yes. Some other chick called me yummy last week. Yummy turned into a chick cliché four years ago. I hear it all the time.
“Your cock is twitching. Does that mean you want to go again?” she purrs.
I’m always up for fuckin. Working out seven days a week makes me horny as fuck all the time. And I have to admit, Babe is fuckin hot. But hasn’t she had enough of me? I’ve had enough of her. As hot as she is, she just didn’t do it for me. They never do. I sigh, “I don’t mean to be a dick, but I have an interview here in the room in a few minutes. I need to clean up before they get here.”
“Interview? For what?”
“It’s nothing. Some, uhhh, fitness thing,” I lie. “Some guy’s YouTube workout channel.”
“That sounds exciting.”
I always tell girls I’m a fitness model, but I never go into more detail than that. I hate talking about myself. “It’s pretty boring. Kind of technical. Blood sugar levels, triglycerides, recovery intervals. Boring shit like that.” Usually the technical talk turns them off.
“I don’t mind,” Babe purrs. “I’m sure I’ll learn something.”
Maybe this chick has potential…
She does that stripper thing where she sticks out the tip of her tongue and runs it across her top teeth. When that doesn’t work, she tweaks one of her nipples with her fingers, lifts her tit to her mouth, and licks the nip.
…Then again, maybe not.
Why’d she have to go and ruin it?
“Trust me,” I chuckle, “You’ll be snoring inside of two minutes. And the guy is a nobody. I think his biggest video has like 700 views. I’m doing it as a favor for a friend.” I’m making all of this up as I go along. Babe will never know.
“It’s no big deal, Connor. I really don’t mind.”
This always happens. A girl like her has guys throwing themselves at her 24/7. I saw it at the club last night. Five hundred different guys talked to her, but she went back to the hotel with me. What should’ve been a one-nighter is suddenly turning into a pain in my ass. I don’t know how to break it to her that I’m not interested. After fuckin them, I never am.
So, how to get rid of her?
Usually, I like the direct approach.
“You need to go,” I grunt.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
ELECTRA
Romeo leans his ear against the door, “I don’t hear anyone inside. Do you have a drinking glass?”
“Why?”
“So I can hear better. Don’t you watch spy movies?” he hisses.
“Not really.”
“Which celebrity do you think he looks like?” Romeo muses gleefully, his ear still glued to the door.
“I have no idea.” Nor do I care. My kind of man has a career path. Soft porn modeling is not a career path. Nothing gets me going like a suit and tie. Not that I’ve had anything going on in the boyfriend or the bedroom department since forever. I’m focused on being a journalist, not meaningless flings.
“Whatever he looks like,” Romeo swoons, “I bet he’s gorgeous. I’m picturing chiseled cheek bones, a brooding brow, smoldering eyes, and a rugged stubbled jaw.”
I smirk, “That sounds like a caveman or a neanderthal. Does he wear a leopard skin for a loincloth and carry a club too?”
“I hope so,” Romeo grins, his eyes dreamy. “Then he can pound me with his club, take me back to his cave, and pound me with his human club from behi—”
“Stop!” I bark.
“Never mind me,” he giggles. “A serious woman like you is only interested in serious information, right?”
“What makes you think I’m serious?” I ask defensively.
His eyes sweep up and down my outfit. One of his eyebrows arches dramatically and his face says, Have you looked in a mirror lately? But his mouth says, “Please, girlfriend. Your outfit was on the cover of the latest issue of Business Matron’s Monthly.”
I hide my scowl as I look down my nose at him through my stylish eyeglasses. “That’s not even a real magazine.” My long auburn hair may be pinned up in a conservative bun, but I look good in my pumps, pencil skirt, and blouse. I always dress my best so people take me seriously.
“We’ll work on tomorrow’s look later,” he smiles. “But we can do something about that uptight hair of yours.” He reaches for my bun like he’s going to fiddle with it, or worse, let it down completely. “Your hair bun is so tight it’s giving you a facelift.”
“Hands off!” I growl, pulling back defensively. He thinks he can give me fashion advice? He looks like a cartoon character. I resist the urge to kick his shins with my pointed pumps.
He drops his arm to his side, “Loosen up, girl. I’m just trying to help.”
“What do you know about women’s fashion? Look at your outfit! I didn’t realize sci-fi emo was still a thing,” I spit. “And what’s with that stupid monocle?”
With practiced flair, he flips the monocle up with a flick of his wrist and squinches it in his cheek. He stares at me through it, the monocled eye comically magnified. “Perhaps you need a personality makeover, darling,” he mutters before letting the monocle tumble free.
I’m about to give him a tongue lashing when I stop myself. I admit it. I’m very sensitive about my looks, my personality, everything. Let’s face it. I’m just plain sensitive. I blame four years of high school torment from Connor Hughes. That asshole left me scarred.
That’s when the hotel room door suddenly whips open and my chest locks down tight, stopping my breath.
It’s him.
Connor Hughes.
No. Fucking. Way.
Chapter 2
CONNOR
Fuck me.
It’s her.
Electra Warmoth.
Standing on my fuckin hotel doorstep, rockin the sexy librarian look with the hair bun and sexy glasses. And those fuckin legs? They go on for miles.
My dick is instantly hard.
Forget about Babe.
Electra Warmoth is in the fuckin house.
Damn.
When did she learn to dress like such a fox? All I remember is her funky thrift-store overalls and plaid shirts.
Where the hell has she been hiding for the last seven years? Electra was the girl who got away.
Memories blast up outta my past.
In high school, Electra had the sharpest tongue out of anyone, guy or girl. She had a goddamned mouth on her that could peel paint. When it came to me, Electra Warmoth spit venom on a daily basis.
Weird thing was, her mouth was also the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Her clunky braces never fooled me. To this day, she still has the best pair of lips on the planet. Now she has the braces off, they might be the best pair in the universe.
Not that I ever found out how those lips tasted.
Nobody in high school found out. Electra hated everybody.
I wanted to find out. I was dying to find out. I would’ve given my left nut to feel those sweet lips on mine, braces or not. But I never got to. Everybody said she’d die a virginal spinster. Believe me, I tried to save her from a lifetime of solitude, but nothing worked.
Electra never let down the brick wall she built around herself.
The harder I tried to get close to her, the harder I got thinking about her. I couldn’t sleep because of her. Every night in my dreams, she gave it up like a porn star. You know a girl with a hot mouth like that is crazy as fuck in the sack.
&nbs
p; During the day, Electra gave me nothing but grief. Dirty looks, harsh comments, insult after insult. She literally flipped me off every time she saw me. The chick hated me. She dubbed me The Con Man, Connor Rude, Connor the Stooge, Connor Brews, Connor Pukes, and countless others. Yeah, I drank way too much in high school. What can I say? I was a drunken fuck up back then. Arguably, I still am.
But I’m no idiot.
They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Believe me, I tried every angle I could with Electra. Early on, I realized pursuing her was pointless. When someone says no to you all the time, you realize you need to find someone else who’ll say yes.
Plenty of girls were happy to say yes.
Let’s face it.
In high school, I was Connor Huge.
Every girl who put out wanted to find out if the rumors were true.
They were.
I got more pussy than any high school kid deserved. I banged my way through every hottie in town. What do you expect? I’m a guy. The only downside was I got in plenty of fights for screwing other dudes’ girls. I didn’t care. I was always up for a fight.
Sad thing was, four years of fuckin and fighting didn’t make any difference. I was still dying to taste Electra’s sweet lips.
Both pairs.
If I want something bad enough, I’m gonna get it eventually. I’m fuckin persistent when I wanna be.
The night we graduated senior year, I gave it one last shot.
We were both at our school’s on-campus grad night. Unlike some high schools, North Valley is huge and has plenty of money. So our grad night was off the hook. They closed off all the fields behind the school and turned it into a fuckin carnival. Literally. All kinds of cool roller coaster and gyro rides, a ferris wheel, a big ass bounce house, carnival games, cotton candy, caramel apples, popcorn, photo booths, fortune tellers, all that shit. People loved it. It was the perfect setup for me to make one last pass at Electra Warmoth.
How did it go?
Let’s just say that after the shit that went down at four in the morning, I knew my chances with Electra were burnt fuckin toast. Down in flames. When she ran off that night, I thought she was outta my life forever.
Or so I thought.
Cause here she is.
Will wonders never fuckin cease?
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
ELECTRA
“There’s no way I’m doing this interview,” I snarl, glaring into Connor’s arrogant blue eyes. They glimmer at me from beneath his thick lashes. A smarmy smirk spreads across his face.
I’m instantly furious. Think nuclear.
It doesn’t help my mood that the boy I hated more than any man in the history of men is all grown up and excruciatingly handsome. With nothing but a white bed sheet wrapped around his narrow waist, he may as well be naked. Nothing is left to my imagination. He is picture perfect, taller and better looking than I remember. Tan hard muscles, tattoos criss-crossing his broad shoulders and biceps, perfect abs that I hate more than I hate his azure eyes, the bulge beneath the bed sheet—no. What am I thinking? I’m not sure, but I’m not thinking about that. Because:
I.
HATE.
CONNOR.
HUGE.
I mean, HUGHES.
I always have, and I always will.
“Power Pole?” he chuckles in his oh so maddeningly familiar baritone drawl. “Is that you?”
Like a whipped dog, I cringe at the old high school nickname.
A younger version of Connor’s voice echoes up from memory: Check it out! It’s Power Pole! She’s a toothpick no matter which way you look at her! And what’s with those throw-back clothes? Did you get them from a dumpster? Followed by laughter from Connor and his fratty friends. Despite Connor’s “Rebel May Care” persona, his chain-smoking, and his tattered leather jacket, he was friends with the jocks. They all loved to loathe me. For them, mocking me was a team sport, and Connor was their quarterback.
Power Pole.
One of Connor’s many electrically themed insults. When my hippie parents named me Electra, I think they thought it would make me cool. Somehow, these things never work out the way they’re supposed to. I was completely flat-chested in high school and naturally gangly. Believe me, being skinny is not necessarily a blessing. On me, it looked all wrong. Picture sticks and strings. Add to that the goofy glasses I used to wear, the braces, the second-hand clothes, my dorkish nervous energy, and you can see how Power Pole became the obvious insult of choice.
Other favorites included: High Tension (an accurate description of my usual mood caused by daily insults from Team Connor), Lightning Dolt (which I grew out of when people realized I made Honor Roll every semester), High Vulvage (because of my long legs), Benjamin Skanklin (I think one of the cheerleaders suggested it—it was eventually shortened to just Skanklin), and Brown Out (which somehow implied I pooped my pants when I got angry, and you better believe being called Brown Out all the time made me plenty angry, but I never pooped myself, not once).
I push away all the old memories and smash them down into my subconscious and slam the lid on it like the over-stuffed suitcase of past pain that it is.
Ignoring Connor’s half-nakedness, I glare at my old nemesis. “Well, well, well,” I snark, “if it isn’t Connor Douche. In the flesh.” Why did I have to say flesh? Maybe because that’s all he’s wearing.
Completely unaffected by my harsh words, Connor rubs his large palm across his rippled abs.
Why do guys with great bodies always have to touch their abs? Do they fear their abs don’t draw enough attention to themselves already? Or are they touching them to make sure they’re still there? Either way, it’s a sign of shallow insecurity. I learned that tidbit at UCLA in one of my electives: Psych 127A Abnormal Psychology.
Connor snickers, pleased with himself. “It is you, isn’t it, War Mouth?” He says it with his usual self-assured superiority. “Don’t tell me you’re here for my interview.”
“Uh, yeah,” I snort. “Why did you think I was here?” My skin crawls as his eyes slide across every inch of my body until they come to rest on my chest. “Don’t answer that.” I glare at him. “Can we get started already?” I want this over and done.
His eyes claw at my blouse.
It figures.
I turn up the disdain on my face. My expression says, If you say one more nasty thing, if you call me Power Pole or High Tension or Benjamin Skanklin, I will peel every inch of skin off your body with a rusty paring knife then roll your skinless body in salt. Picture what happens when you pour salt on a slug, because a slug is all that you are, Connor Pukes. The only sound I actually make is a short sharp snort.
Ignoring my ire, he rolls out a haphazard chuckle. “You grew breasts. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He leers with that same damn leer I learned to loathe in high school.
“I’m full of surprises,” I smirk. Before I realize I’m doing it, I fold my arms protectively over my blouse. It’s an old habit of mine. I’m an expert at defensive posturing, thanks to Connor. I thought I’d broken the habit. Despite Connor’s leering stare, I drop my arms to my side. Not that there’s much for him to see. Yes, there’s more than there was in high school, but I’m sure my boobs are nothing compared to the over-inflated Barbie balloons he goes for.
He leans casually against the door frame, grinning at me. “Damn, War Mouth. I can’t believe you went and got hot.”
Is he being serious?
Of course he isn’t.
I scowl a silent reply. I will not play into his usual games. I know he would love for me to take the bait and thank him and accept the compliment at face value. Knowing Connor, he has some witty retort lined up to make me look stupid. Something like “No, I meant hot, as in sweaty, as in, you have huge pit stains. Did you forget your anti-perspirant this morning?” or something worse. Connor was always a master at twisting my words so I looked like an idiot in front of everybody.
That’s why I resist the urge to glance at my armpits. I did put on anti-perspirant this morning, didn’t I? Wondering about it makes my body temperature spike thirty degrees.
Damn it, it took less than a minute for him to get me flustered.
Romeo nudges against my arm and whispers, “Why does he keep calling you War Mouth?”
“Because my last name is Warmoth,” I hiss.
“Luv it,” Romeo giggles.
I slap him with a hateful glare. My dirty looks are dangerous. I got really good at them in high school, again thanks to Connor. Sometimes a hateful look is easier than coming up with a witty retort on the fly.
Romeo winces nervously. “I mean, hate it. Worst nickname ev-er. So, ummm… may I presume you two know each other?”
“I went to high school with this limp dick stick,” I grumble.
Romeo’s eyes explode in awe. He gasps, “You know THE Connor?”
“Unfortunately,” I mumble.
Romeo titters, “Someone get me a fainting couch! I’m about to expire!”
Sudden chaos erupts from behind Connor.
A beautiful young caramel-skinned woman in a disheveled emerald cocktail dress and heels barges out of the room. When she sees me, she stops abruptly and her eyes headlight. “Who are you?” She hisses at me, “Are you the fitness interview?”
I’m too stunned to answer.
“I should’ve known,” she seethes. Then she turns to glare at Connor. “I faked all my orgasms, asshole!!!”
“Sure you did,” Connor chuckles.
Her face wrinkles with disgust. “Fuck you!” She grabs the bed sheet and yanks it from his waist before wadding it and throwing it in his face. “You piece of shit!”
The sheet tumbles to the ground as the woman saunters down the hotel hallway. It’s the most hateful Walk Of Shame I’ve ever seen.
Despite the drama, Connor still leans casually against the doorframe like nothing happened.
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