by Sara H Ney
“It’s past two o’clock,” she reminds me again. “This was kind of a dick move.”
I shuffle my feet, still stuffed into my borrowed black, steal toed construction boots. “Are you mad?”
I can’t even flirt without scaring the shit out of a girl and realize I’m pretty terrible at this relationship crap. Then I recognize the fact I just classified us as in a relationship.
I stare down at Cecelia, seeing her in a new way as she bites her lip and stares at the far wall, thinking. “No. I’m not mad.”
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Good. Because I wanted to tell you good night.”
“You came all the way over here to tell me good night? You need medication.”
“Probably. Also... maybe I wanted a peek at you wearing nothing but your jammies.” I peer down at her cleavage. Her round breasts are smashed against my chest, pushed together from the contact of our bodies and taking on a Maxine Magazine worthy appearance.
Nice.
“Are you here to call in the bet?” She squints up at me suspiciously. “Because you can’t kiss me until you do.”
Actually, I hadn’t thought about the bet in days... but now that she brought it up...
Laughing, I brush a few stray hairs out of her eyes as an excuse to touch her face. “Do you want me to call in the bet?”
“No... but... the bet was that you couldn’t kiss me. We never agreed I couldn’t kiss you.”
**Cecelia**
Matthew’s nostrils flare as I say “We never agreed I couldn’t kiss you,” and his pupils dilate.
I wonder if he’d agree to wear eyeliner for me more often.
It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen...
“I can live with that,” Matthew gruffly replies, the low timbre of his voice vibrating against the walls. He runs his large hands up and down my arms, as if trying to warm me up.
Trust me. It’s totally unnecessary.
My body is plenty warm.
“Just so you know, I’m not kissing you on the lips.”
Matthews’s eyebrows shoot up and he wiggles them suggestively, then rubs his pelvis against mine. I can feel his erection through his pirate cargo pants. “I’m totally okay with you kissing me other places instead.”
“Alright pervert, bring it down a notch. And for the record, I don’t do blow jobs. Ever. So, get your mind out of the gutter.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Have you ever?”
“Don’t you think this conversation is a bit premature? We aren’t even dating.”
Matthew cocks his head and studies me. “No, it’s not premature. The Millionaire Matchmaker on Bravo! says you should always prequalify someone you want to date. Make sure they don’t have any deal breakers.”
“I think you watch too much television.” I chuckle and tap him playfully on the bicep.
“So wait. You’re telling me you would never...” He makes a choking sound in his throat like he’s gagging. It’s disgusting.
“No.”
He pulls away and looks down at me. “I’m sorry, but BJ’s might be a deal breaker for me.”
“Are you shitting me? You cannot seriously be telling me you wouldn’t date someone because they don’t... won’t...” I wave my hand in the air in front of his pants, refusing to say the words blow job.
“Because they won’t suck my cock? Yeah. I wouldn’t.”
Holy crap, he’s actually serious. “Wow. This conversation sure took a turn for the worse.”
“Hey, what are hell are you complaining about? I’m the one who hasn’t been sucked off in months.”
“Oh my god you’re a pig.” I shove him off and away from me, backing towards my apartment, anger, hurt, and a million other feelings surging inside me.
“Baby, I’ve been one from the beginning.” He postures arrogantly, crossing his arms. His steely green eyes flash brightly under the black eyeliner, making him look like a menacing asshole.
“I am not your baby.”
“See, when you say it like that - all throaty and angry-like... I think maybe you do want to blow me.”
I cannot believe this is happening. What the hell happened to the nice guy I was coming to know and... and...
My bottom lip trembles. Don’t let him see you cry Cecelia. Don’t let him see you cry, don’t let him see you cry...
“Go fuck yourself, Matthew.”
He gives a short, sardonic laugh. “Not necessary, baby - I can find plenty of girls who will do it for me. In fact, I can think of a cheap dozen to call right now and finish what we started.”
I step back into my apartment and slam the door in his face so violently the frame shakes.
Leaning against the living room wall for support, I close my eyes, squeezing them so tightly the salty tears behind my quaking lids are unable to escape. The unshed sobs burn inside my chest, and I’m only able to control my breathing by slowly inhaling through my nose... and breathing out through my mouth.
Several minutes pass before I hear the footfalls of Matthew’s retreating form.
Only then do I let my body collapse to the floor, weeping.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Matthew
“The best way not to get your heart broken is to pretend you don’t have one.” - Charlie Sheen
“Wow. You really are a heartless bastard.” Weston stares at me from across the tiny table at Starbucks, sipping from the straw of a Venti Iced Tea Lemonade. In front of him, a plate of pastries (two small muffins and one blueberry scone), a plastic container of yogurt, and a slice of pumpkin pound cake. “I mean... I kind of thought the whole douche bag thing was just an act. Guess not.”
“I couldn’t help myself. It just came spilling out.” I shift uneasily in my seat as he silently observes me, unwrapping his utensils from their little plastic baggie and stabbing the spoon into the yogurt to stir it. “Like verbal diarrhea.”
“Only worse?” Weston asks, slurping a big blob of strawberry yogurt off his spoon, then ads, “You know she’s eventually going to tell Molly, right? You’re pretty much screwed.”
“Thank you Captain Obvious.” I poke at my caramel cake, uninterested, with a plastic fork, deciding I don’t have the appetite for it anymore. “You know, this is the reason I’ve never dated Molly’s friends.”
“Oh really? It’s because none of them will let you shove your dick in their mouth?” He laughs to himself and takes another drink of lemonade, draining the cup, then taking the top off to shake ice into his mouth. Chewing noisily on ice chips, he says “I will say this: you royally fucked up your chances with Cece...”
“Seriously dude?”
“What? You can’t handle the truth? Cece is probably at home right now stabbing pins into the teeny tiny dick part of a Matthew voodoo doll.” He tips his cup back again, shaking more ice into his mouth and chewing. “The likelihood of you getting back into her good graces: slim to none.”
The ice in his mouth crunches loudly - the sound is grating on my nerves worse than nails on a chalk board. And the worst part is, I know for a fact he fucking chews ice at the movies, too.
Drives me nuts.
Despite my scowl, Weston continues. “In an ironic twist, I bet she goes and screws some random dude at a party just to spite you.” He laughs ruefully and picks a blueberry muffin off his plate, muttering, “That would be a classic chick move,” as he peels back the muffin wrapper.
“I swear to god I hate you.”
“Bro. Is that a nice thing to say to your probably future brother-in-law?” His eyes linger over my caramel cake, setting his muffin back on its plate. “Are you gonna eat that?”
Irritated, I push the cake forward. “Just take the damn thing.”
“You’re so charming. I don’t know how the ladies can resist you.”
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks. I’m fucking your sister.” Matthew casually takes a bite of my cake.
“Wh
at the hell did I tell you about saying shit like that?”
“Sorry. You’re right. Molly prefers the term making love.” He shoves the caramel cake in his big fat mouth whole, chewing slowly. Crumbs fall out in chunks and land on the table, his tee shirt, and the floor.
“Are you always such a slob?”
“Would you stop deflecting your issues on to me? I’m not the one throwing a bitch fit because I treated the girl I’m falling in love with like a damn groupie.” He wipes his stupid face with a paper napkin and points a calloused finger at me. “Last time I checked, that would be you.”
“Um....”
“Congratulations. If you wanted to make her feel like a cheap whore, I’m sure you succeeded.” I glare at him but he continues, spreading his hands out on the table.
Frustrated, I run my fingers through my hair. “You know that wasn’t my intention. She and I have been tiptoeing around each other for weeks now, and I’m... I’m so horny I can’t even see straight, dude. I want to fuck her so bad.”
“So is this all that is to you? A quick lay?”
“No... no.”
“Then maybe you should try telling her how you feel and start being honest.” I might be imagining it, but I swear he mumbles ‘for once in your life.’
“What the hell do I look like? Some kind of pussy?”
Weston gives me a pointed look that says ‘yes you do’ and in return, I shoot him a glare. “Don’t you dare answer that.”
“I just think it’s fucked up you think sharing your feelings makes you a vagina. When were you born, the fifties?”
“Actually, I think you’re starting to sound like a vagina. My sister sure did a number on you with all this feelings bullshit, didn’t she?”
He shrugs. “Whatever dude. I’m the one getting laid, so...”
“So you keep saying,” I complain as I begin shredding a napkin. “It’s not like I actually wanted a relationship with her.”
Weston slams his fist down on the table, startling me and a few nearby patrons, some of whom glance over at us, worry etched on their faces. “If you don’t give a shit, then enough already. Let it go. You’ve treated Cece like shit from the beginning, now she thinks you’re a dick. If you want to get laid so goddamn bad and you don’t care who it’s with, go. Go fuck a groupie. Be my guest. But then don’t waste my time with all this... whatever this bullshit is.” He stuffs a muffin into his mouth, then says with a mouthful, “And let’s not forget: you called me to talk, not the other way around.”
I stare at him, passive expression pasted on my face.
He rolls his eyes. “Cut the crap. Do you want to say ‘fuck it’ or do you want to fix it?”
A loud clearing of the throat from the next table interrupts us, and we both turn in our seats to acknowledge the older, gray haired woman sitting directly next to us. She looks old enough to be my grandmother, and is glaring at us through narrowed eyes. “Excuse me, young men. I’ve been sitting here since you sat down and I must say, the amount of cursing coming from this table has ruined my morning coffee.”
“Sorry ma’am.”
“Don’t apologize to me, young man. Apologize to whatever young lady the two of you are yammering on about. If you ask me, she would be lucky to be rid of you. If you were my grandson, I would be ashamed of your behavior. Appalling.” She stands, grabs her giant satchel of a purse, her coffee, and huffs at us before waddling off, murmuring, “Kids these days.”
Embarrassed, shocked, and horrified (take your pick) neither Weston nor I say anything long after she’s departed. Instead, I pick at a straw wrapper and Weston stares blankly out the window, watching the old woman slowly hobble to her green ‘95 Cadillac sedan.
“I hate to be the one to say this, but... that old bag made a really good point.”
“Which is?”
“Maybe Cece is lucky to be rid of you.”
“Seriously dude, whose side are you on?”
Weston shrugs, his broad shoulders move up and down faintly as if he’s not committed to the task of his forthcoming lecture. “Look. You start training camp in a few short weeks in California. A relationship wouldn’t have worked between the two of you anyway unless she was willing to move.”
“I know, but...”
Weston silences me with his stare, and I clamp my mouth shut, watching as he studies me. Then nods. “Okay. We’ll figure something out. In the meantime, let me handle your sister.”
He winks.
Oh Christ.
**Cecelia**
Over the next few days, I pour myself into my thesis work, taking refuge in the University’s library, hardly coming up for air. At this point, I’m so close to being done with my Masters I can taste it.
Thirty-eight more days.
But who’s counting?
Not only is it necessary for me to buckle down and get my final paper done, but... I honestly need to keep my mind off Matthew Wakefield - aka “Mr. Desperately Seeking Blow Job.”
Besides: I heard through the grapevine that he’s leaving for training camp in California at the end of December, and the last thing I need to do is get wrapped up in a guy who isn’t even going to stick around.
Long-distance relationships have never been my thing.
Even casually.
I tried it once when I was a sophomore, after a guy I’d been dating since my freshman year at Madison transferred to Purdue. He was a really nice guy; funny, smart, good-looking with lots of potential. But you know... after only a few weeks of texting and Skyping, we finally agreed a technology based relationship just... well...
Sucked.
I mean - what’s the point of being with someone you can’t physically touch, kiss, or hold? And pardon me for saying so, but sex is way too important in a relationship to put on hold for weeks - sometimes months - at a time.
Oh shit.
The thought makes me pause, pen poised above my notebook. Sex is way too important in a relationship to put on hold for weeks.... Way too important in a relationship to put on hold for weeks. For one nanosecond, it becomes clear to me why Matthew might have been so pissed off.
I wasn’t born yesterday: I know sexual frustration when I see it. And Matthew Wakefield has a classic case of blue balls (Jenna’s words, not mine). I mean - I haven’t even let him kiss me yet. Instead (as my mother would put it) I’ve led him on a merry chase, making him practically pant after me like we’re on a middle school playground.
No wonder he has that crazy look in his eyes half the time...
I groan at my own stupidity, regret and embarrassment in the pit of my stomach. I run a hand over my face, then think better of my own insecurities and stiffen my spine.
Nonetheless, I think we can all agree he was completely out of line speaking to me the way he did.
“Forget it,” I say out loud to myself. “I am not letting that jerk off the hook for the way he treated me.”
I mean - talk about a guy acting like a colossal douchebag.
And I think that’s putting it mildly... don’t you?
***
Matthew: Do you hate me?
Me: So many ways to respond... so little time....
Matthew: Well, at least you replied. That’s saying something.
Me: [blank stare]
Matthew: I guess I deserve that.
Me: [blank stare]
Matthew: Know what I find sexiest about you? Your blank stare.
Damn him.
I stare down at the screen of my phone, thumbs hovering over the keypad - and despite myself, a smile plays at the corner of my lips. Thank God he can’t see me right now, or I’d be a goner.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Matthew
“Despite being a huge pain in the ass and a total prick, you have to admit - I still bring a lot to the table.” - Matthew Wakefield with a grin.
One week.
One week and she’s barely speaking to me.
On one hand, I should be glad - she drives me a
bsolutely nuts most of the time and on a positive note: her nagging and bitching has stopped.
On the other hand: she knows what happened between Cecelia and me.
My sister glowers at me, arms crossed, from across our parent’s dining room table, and I can’t see it but I know she’s bouncing her crossed leg under the table. It’s one of her quirks when she’s nervous or pissed off, and if looks could kill, I would be a dead man. In fact, judging from the look on her face, she’s plotting my imminent death as we speak and deciding which weapons to use...
I hiss at her, “Would you please knock it off? Mom and Dad are going to think something’s up.”
Our parents are out of earshot in the kitchen preparing au’jus for the roasted tenderloin they’re serving for Sunday dinner - and I’m grateful they aren’t in the room. The last thing I need is my parents breathing down my neck too. Molly’s doing a fine job hating on me enough for the entire family.
She narrows her eyes and gapes at me incredulously. “Something is up, dick wad. You are a disgusting slob.”
Those are the first words she’s spoken to me since after the Halloween party, and quite honestly, I’m a little taken aback: Molly hardly ever swears. Plus, we may have had our differences in the past, but she’s never given me the silent treatment for so long.
I sit back in the stiff wooden chair, palms flat across the table. “Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?”
“An accident.” Molly deadpans. “Your arrogance never fails to astound me.”
“Seriously Molly, I’m serious.”
“Seriously Molly, I’m serious,” she mimics me in a whiney voice, sarcasm dripping from her pretty mouth like honey. “No Matthew, I’m serious. When are you going to grow up and stop acting like an immature prick? I’m so freaking embarrassed by you. That is my roommate we’re talking about, you asshole.”
“Um, I thought I had stopped acting immature...”
“Oh my gawd.” Molly throws her hands in the air, and they land on the table with a thud. “I can’t even...”
“I can’t believe you have the nerve to sit here and judge me when your relationship got off to the same start.”