“Like what?”
“Refusing their demands? Not following directions? Being argumentative?”
“He had no right to ask me to do anything,” he explained. “Contrary to common belief, police officers often lure unsuspecting civilians into incriminating themselves. They hide behind their shields and use deceit to lure those foolish enough to trust them into believing the lies they tell.”
“You don’t trust cops?”
“I did. I don’t now.”
My fear of being shot was replaced by a fascination with Tyson’s bold attitude regarding law enforcement officials. “So, you did at one point, but you don’t anymore?”
“That’s right.” He gave me a serious look. “I learned the hard way.”
“The hard way?” My eyes narrowed. “Were you wrongfully accused, or something?”
“Something,” he snapped back.
The tone of his response let me know I was headed down the wrong path. I promptly changed directions.
“Why do you carry a gun?”
“Because, in this state almost everyone carries a gun. The few who don’t are at a clear disadvantage when faced by those who do. Personally, I prefer to have the upper hand.”
“You’ve got a permit to carry it, though? Right?”
“I do.”
He was a handsome older man armed with a big dick, a pistol, and a vast understanding of law. One he learned the hard way. Tyson was becoming sexier by the minute.
I wanted to know more but knew better than to inundate him with questions. Small talk in the restaurant would be better received. I relaxed in the comfort of the car’s plush leather interior, thinking of what I might ask during dinner. If I talked more than I ate, I might make it through the meal without spewing chunks of fish out my nostrils.
The car came to a stop, jolting me from my dreamlike state. I looked up. A hand-written sign – one that appeared to have been crafted with crayons by a mildly artistic child – was taped to the restaurant’s window. It announced the night’s special.
All-you-can-eat crayfish $13.99
“Oh, wow.” He shut off the car. “They’ve got all you can eat crayfish tonight.”
The taste of bile crept up the back of my tongue. I swallowed heavily. “They sure do.”
Giddy with excitement, he looked right at me. “Are you ready to do this?”
I wasn’t, nor would I ever be.
Nonetheless, I nodded. “I can’t wait.”
I reached for my door handle. My future with Tyson would be determined in the restaurant. Inside Rockfish we’d tell stories of our careers, somehow manage to introduce sex into the conversation, and eventually leave with the promise of bumping uglies as soon as we reached his bachelor pad.
I sharpened my blank stare. Seated just inside the restaurant, a man was elbow-deep into what appeared to be a bottomless bowl of bright red sea-spiders. Methodically, he plucked the creatures from the bowl, broke them in half, and shoved their mutilated bodies into his mouth.
Mesmerized, I stared at the repulsive sight.
After witnessing him gobble down two fistfuls of the vile creatures in a split-second, I barfed into my mouth just a little bit.
Excited to talk to Tyson, but not-so-excited to be amongst crayfish starved Texans, I stepped out of the car and paused. Eager to get started on the all-you-can-eat shellfish-fest, Tyson peered over the top of the car and grinned. I tried to smile in return, but the mouthful of pre-vomit substance I was trying to swallow prevented it.
Having him realize the state of my digestive system would undoubtedly put an end to our night together. I shifted my eyes toward the restaurant. The sign’s cartoon crayfish figures taunted me to come inside. Beside the sign, mister elbows-deep ate crustaceans at a record-setting pace.
I barfed in my mouth again.
The day, in its entirety, proved to be too much. Having Tyson pick me up. Angry police officers. A date with a handsome stranger. The anticipation of sex. Speeding down a major roadway at breakneck speeds. A hidden gun. The glass of wine I drank to calm my nerves. A police roadblock. The second glass of wine I drank in hope of gaining courage. The sight of an all-you-can-eat crayfish lover eating all he could eat.
Everything began to spin.
I closed my eyes.
You can do this. He’s handsome, older, and has a big dick. You can do this. He’s handsome, older, and has a big dick. You can do this…
I opened my eyes.
“Are you okay?” Tyson asked.
I wasn’t.
I shook my head.
Tyson’s face washed with worry. “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t tell him. I showed him. By vomiting. This time, however, it wasn’t into the back of my mouth.
4
Tyson
Everyone knows someone who keeps their car so impeccably clean that there’s never so much as a fingerprint on it. They’ll often carry a lint-free rag inside the car, using it to wipe off a smudge left by a person simply touching the car’s surface with their hands.
I was that someone.
I was an anal retentive neat freak. At least when it came to my car.
Resembling the scene from The Exorcist, vomit shot from Jo’s mouth and splattered onto the top of my car. Shocked beyond belief, I stared beyond the pool of wine-colored substance and into Jo’s troubled brown eyes. A few troublesome seconds passed. I’d never seen anyone throw up, and I can’t say I cared to ever see it happen again. Especially in the violent manner that she’d done so.
Clearly embarrassed, she leaned against the car window and began fumbling through her purse. Confident that she was done spewing the vile substance, I rushed to her side.
“Are you okay?”
Still conducting a frantic search of her purse, she looked up. The color of her skin had vanished completely, leaving her complexion stark white.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
I tilted my head toward the restaurant’s entrance. “We can use the restroom inside to clean up.”
“I fine right here,” she blurted. “I just need to find something to wipe my mouth off with.”
I felt terrible for her. After mentally fumbling with what to do, I removed a clean rag from the car’s glovebox and offered it to her. “This is brand new. It’s all I’ve got.”
She chuckled as she took it from my grasp. “You probably keep clean ones in your car to wipe off fingerprints, don’t you?”
I hated to admit it, so I shrugged instead of responding.
“My brother’s the same way,” she said, seeming to shake off a little of the embarrassment that she was feeling. “He wipes off the door handles after I get out of the car.”
I looked at my vomit splattered car, and then at her. “So, what happened?”
“I get really nervous around guys. I’m sorry. I’m just a dork.”
“That was nerves?” I asked, trying to make light of the situation.
“Pretty much, yeah. Well, nerves and being grossed out. I’m sorry, but I’m not a big seafood person. I should have said something, but I didn’t want to disappoint you. Then, we got here, and…” She gestured toward the restaurant. “I saw a guy in there munching on lobster-ettes and it was just too much. You can take me home now. Sorry about your car.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“Not if you don’t want me to,” she responded. “I’d prefer a toothbrush from CVS and some Lockhart’s barbeque.”
Given an opportunity to eat without repercussion, a man’s choice will be meat. Eating barbequed meat allowed that same man to enjoy a delicate smoky tenderness that couldn’t be obtained at home, regardless of the hours of time spent slaving over the grille. Barbequing meat was a skill understood by a select few and envied by all others.
Women, on the other hand, preferred salads and seafood. Or, so I thought.
“You like Lockhart’s?” I asked, my tone filled with doubt.
“I love it. Their brisket is the be
st.”
“It’s right up West Park Boulevard,” I said. “There’s a CVS on the way. We can stop and get a toothbrush.”
“Only after you wash your car.”
As the acid from her vomit etched its way through the clearcoat and into the paint of my beloved Cobra, I responded in a manner that was contrary to my beliefs.
“I don’t need to wash my car.”
Spending Saturday morning buffing the imperfections from my paint was far better than having our night together end before it ever started. I needed to make measurable progress toward fucking her into oblivion.
Taking her home was counterproductive.
“Your car is just like my brother’s car. Spotless.” She waved her hand toward the vomit-covered windshield. “Or, at least it was. I’ll agree to Lockhart’s, but only if you promise to wash your car on the way there.”
I wouldn’t have guessed she could become any more attractive to me, but with that demand, she certainly did.
“Fine.” I huffed as if I’d been coerced to do something I didn’t want to. “We’ll wash the car first.”
Twenty minutes later, we were both standing in Lockhart’s with clean teeth and a plate filled with barbeque. We found our way to a remote table in the rear of the restaurant and sat down across from one another.
After the embarrassing events in Rockfish’s parking lot, I wanted to make her feel as comfortable as I could. I picked up a rib and paused before biting into it.
“So, what exactly is a steamy romance novel?” I asked.
Her face lit up. “They’re romance novels for adults. Not like what your mother used to read, that’s for sure. They’re descriptive, sexy, and fun.”
“Descriptive and sexy romance novels for adults? Like that Fifty Shades book?”
“That wasn’t contemporary romance.” She peered over the top of her glasses. “It was erotica.”
“What’s the difference?”
“If the story drives the sex, it’s contemporary romance. If sex drives the story, it’s erotica.”
I took a bite of my rib. Her line of work allowed me to introduce sex into the conversation without seeming like a pervert. I took advantage of the situation and lobbed her an underhanded pitch.
“Give me an example of each,” I said. “Can you?”
Her eyes narrowed. After a moment’s thought, she set her fork aside and clasped her hands together.
“I’ll use your example, Fifty Shades of Grey, by E.L. James, and another, Cocky Bastard, by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward. In Fifty Shades, Christian, the hero, is a Dom who encounters a naturally submissive woman, Anna. Their relationship quickly turns to sex. That sex is instrumental in telling their story. In fact, without it, there’s not much left. The story’s development can be measured by the progression of the sex.”
“So, there wasn’t much of a story?”
“The story was great,” she argued. “But, it required sex to tell it. Cocky Bastard was just the opposite. A girl named Aubrey meets a smart-ass named Chance while she’s running from the memories of her cheating ex. She’s driving across country and he needs a ride. Together, they take a journey that’s hilarious, sexy, and fun. Take the sex out of the book, and there’s plenty of humor, growth, and plot to tell the story. Take the sex out of Fifty Shades, and there is no growth.”
She left the sexual door wide open. Considering my intentions, I stepped right through it. “So, some stories are just like relationships, they’re sex-driven. Others, on the other hand, aren’t.”
“Exactly.”
“Which one are you?” I asked. “Fifty Shades or Cocky Bastard?”
She pierced a slice of brisket with the tines of her fork and raised it to her mouth. “Which book did I prefer?”
“No. Which relationship do you prefer? Sex-driven or otherwise?”
She choked on her food, turning beet red in the process. After a few gulps of water and a minute or two of fanning her face with her hand, she let out a long sigh.
“Sorry, I choked on that meat at the exact same time you asked that question,” she said. “Which what? Where were we?”
“Are your relationships sex driven or otherwise?”
She barked out a laugh.
“What?” I asked.
She adjusted her glasses with nervous hands. “I’ve never been in a relationship.”
That tidbit of information could have been the introduction to a blessing or a curse. She was either a sexual free spirit, or she was a sexual prude who lived vicariously through the characters in the romance novels she read. I needed to know which.
“You’ve had sex before, right?” I asked jokingly.
“Seriously?” She coughed. “Did you just ask me that?”
I arched an eyebrow. “Did you just answer me without answering me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve experienced it a time or two.”
“Was it sex driven or otherwise?”
She blinked a few times. “The sex?”
“Yes.”
“Definitely sex driven.” She laughed. “Sex driven sex is the best.”
“I prefer sex driven sex, too,” I said straight-faced.
“What was option two? ‘Otherwise sex’? Otherwise sex might be good stuff, who knows?” she said, looking away as she spoke. “It leaves quite a bit to the imagination.”
“‘Otherwise sex’ might be great,” I agreed.
She looked right at me. “Do you have a vivid imagination?”
“Sexually?”
“Sure.” She relaxed against the back of her seat. “Sexually, how’s your sexual imagination? On a sexual level?”
She covered her mouth with her hand and waited for me to respond. A slight smirk stretched beyond the tips of her fingers, giving away the fact that she was enjoying the conversation more than she wanted me to know.
“Mine’s pretty vivid,” I responded. “How about you?”
“Vivid.”
I wrung my hands together and studied her. With her hair up and glasses on, she looked just like Garber. A few seconds into my admiring stare, my cock began to rise. When it reached a point that it was painfully erect, I looked away.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Truthfully?” I shifted my gaze to meet hers. “I’m wondering if being around guys makes you so nervous that you puke, how it is that we can have this conversation without you barfing all over the place. You went from nervous to bold pretty damned quick.”
“Once the ice is broken, I do pretty good,” she responded.
“Did we break the ice already?”
She chuckled. “It was fractured when the cops pulled us over. I think it cracked pretty good when I hurled on your car. Then, it pretty much shattered when we started talking about sex.”
“Talking about sex doesn’t bother you?”
“Not so much.” She said with a shrug. “Should it?”
“Most women aren’t willing talking about it openly. I guess depends on the person. I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be comfortable with it.”
In clear opposition to my statement, she folded her arms over her chest. “Why not?”
“You seem pretty reserved.”
Her eyebrows raised. “I’ve got social anxiety.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m much more comfortable alone than I am in the presence of people I don’t know. When I’m around strangers, I’ve got this constant fear that they’re judging me. When I puked on your car and you didn’t ask me to go home, I knew you weren’t the judgmental type. Instantly, I felt comfortable. Once I’m comfortable, I’m pretty outgoing. It might seem weird but barfing on your car made me comfortable.”
“Comfortable enough to talk about sex?”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with thinking about it or talking about it.”
“What would it take to embarrass you?” I asked.
She shifted her gaze toward her purse, which was in t
he seat beside her. “If my purse tipped over and everything fell out.”
Naturally, I glanced at it, wishing I could see inside. “What’s in it?”
She chuckled. “What isn’t?”
“You can’t give a response like ‘I’d be embarrassed if my purse spilled’, and then not tell me what’s in it. What’s in it?”
“Things that would embarrass me? Or everything?”
“Embarrass you.”
“Six little bottles of Apple Crown, a remote controlled mini-egg, a random Xanax that wasn’t prescribed to me, a rag with barf on it, and a little Ziploc bag that’s filled with fingernail clippings. Oh, and my driver’s license. The picture’s pretty awful.”
“Is a mini-egg what I think it is?”
“Probably.”
“A dildo?”
“It’s not a dildo. It’s a vibrator.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Roughly the same as the difference between a goat and a cup of coffee.”
“A goat and a cup of coffee?” A laugh escaped me. “There’s no similarities there.”
“There is, too,” she argued.
“What are they?”
“They both taste good.”
“You’ve eaten a goat?”
“Every chance I get,” she replied. “Goat tacos are the best. Have you ever been to Mexico?”
I shook my head. “We’ll come back to the goat later. Let’s discuss the vibrator. What’s the difference between a dildo and a vibrator? I’m serious.”
The thought of her carrying a dildo in her purse, regardless of what she called it, was a huge turn-on. Visions of her diddling herself at a traffic light or while sitting in a Carl’s Jr. drive-thru rattled around in my head while I waited for her to respond.
“For future reference, a dildo,” she explained. “Is an object shaped like a dick that is used to simulate sex. A vibrator may or may not look like a dick, but it always vibrates. A dildo may or may not vibrate, but it will always resemble a penis. Mine doesn’t look like a penis, so it’s a vibrator.”
“Why’s it in your purse?” I asked.
She rested her forearms on the edge of the table and looked me dead in the eyes. “Because if it was in the only other place it belongs, the buzzing sound would distract us while we’re trying to eat.”
The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance Page 4