She reached for her fork. “Okay.”
Her facial expression didn’t match her response.
I drew a breath and shook my head lightly. “Act like you would with anyone else you’ve ever been attracted to. Only imagine that your doctor said you’ve got to wait thirty days to have sex.”
She looked up. “Why would he say that?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “An infection.”
“Oh. Now I’ve got twat diseases?” She stabbed a pecan. “That’s nice.”
I let out a laugh. “Have you ever waited to have sex with someone? Dated them for a while first?”
Her face washed with embarrassment. “No. Not really.”
It wasn’t the answer I’d hoped for. “Well, just act like--”
“For what it’s worth, I like fucking,” she said. “A lot. This is just weird. The whole thing makes me nervous.”
“I like fucking,” I said flatly. “And, believe me, I don’t--”
“I can’t tell.” She cocked her head to the side and shot me a look. “I think you like fucking with women’s heads, not their va-jay-jays.”
“Excuse me?”
“Last night. You asked, does the amount of men you’ve had sex with equate to the amount of men you’ve dated? You said that to make me feel bad, even though you said that wasn’t what you were doing. You were trying to get me to agree to your little thirty-day bullshit.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I said. I said--”
“Close enough,” she said. “Am I right, or am I wrong?”
I grinned.
She wagged her finger at me. “You’re a manipulator.”
“I’m results oriented.”
“You fuck with people’s heads.”
“I simply brought something to light that you were already aware of.”
“You knew the answer, though. You didn’t ask it because you wanted to know, you asked it to get a result.”
She was right, and I let her know it. “I used it to benefit me.”
She poked at her salad for a moment, and then looked up. “I shaved my pussy this morning. It’s like a baby’s butt. Smooth and soft.”
She was trying to crawl inside my head. I had to give her credit for her effort, and found it reassuring that she’d somehow become comfortable enough to attempt such an act.
I glanced at my half-eaten hamburger. “That’s good to know.”
“Guess what else?”
I looked up and widened my eyes in mock interest. “What?”
“I fingered myself while thinking of you. My pussy was so tight I could barely get my finger in. I almost gave up.”
“But you stuck with it, right?” I asked, my face expressionless.
“I rubbed my clit, too. While I was fingering myself.”
“I would hope so. The clit’s the gateway to the soul. I can’t imagine you leaving it out of the equation.”
She exhaled heavily. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“You’re a prick.”
“I can be.”
She rested her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands. “I really want to bone.”
“So do I.”
Her eyes shot wide. “Really?”
I locked eyes with her and leaned closer. “Absolutely. I’d like to hike that little dress over your waist, bend you over this table, and shove you so full of dick that you gasp for your next breath. And, while you’re trying desperately to figure out what the hell is going on, I’d grip the back of your neck, pin your face down beside that pecan you dropped, and continue fucking you until you had an orgasm so earth shattering that you’d tell your grandchildren about it.”
I relaxed against the back of my chair and crossed my legs. “But I can’t.”
Her pale skin reddened. She fanned her face with her hands. “Why not?”
“Because I’ve got twenty-eight days to go.”
“Like I said. You’re a prick.”
I reached for my burger. “Right now, I’m a hungry prick.”
She huffed out a breath and picked up her fork. After a few bites of my burger, I reached for my napkin. “Still nervous?”
“Not really. Now, I’m just sexually frustrated.”
“That makes two of us.”
“You too? You get that way?”
“I’m human,” I said.
She coughed a laugh. “I have my doubts.”
Chapter Seven
Taryn – Day four
I set the foil in place, brushed the color on Sheri’s hair, and then folded it. As I reached for next one, I tapped her on the shoulder. “Guess what?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “What?”
“I’m seeing someone.”
“That’s awesome. How’d you meet?”
I should have known it would be her first question. Telling her I met Marc in a bar would certainly raise eyebrows, so I decided to tell my own version of the truth.
“We met before, but I was really drunk. So, our first date was a disaster. I decided the other day that I wanted a second chance. I knew he hung out in this bar, so I went in there looking for him, hoping to reconcile. We did, and now we’re seeing each other.”
“That’s awesome. What’s he like?”
“He’s tall. Muscular. Has a few tattoos. Gray eyes. Shark eyes, that’s what I call them. And, he’s really nice. He’s got a place on the beach.”
She chuckled. “He’s muscular, nice, tattooed, and he has a place on the beach? Does he have a big dick?”
Her sister, who was in Stefanie’s chair, gasped. “Jesus, Sheri. I can’t believe you asked her that. Who asks such shit?”
“If he did, I was going to see if he had a brother,” Sheri said with a laugh.
Stefanie looked up. “She doesn’t know if he’s got a big dick. Do you, Taryn?”
I set another foil, and shot Stefanie a sideways look. When she met my gaze, I sharpened my glare and mouthed the word bitch.
As soon as I folded the foil, Sheri tilted her head back. “You haven’t seen his dick?”
I let out a sigh. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“He’s got rules about sex,” I said. “We’ve got to wait thirty days.”
“He hasn’t even let you see it?”
“Not yet.”
“Feel it?”
“No.”
“Hand job?”
“Nope.”
“Through the pants squeeze?”
“Not yet.”
“Any rubbage? Has he let you rub it?”
“Nope.”
“Thirty days before you can even see it? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Marc had said we couldn’t have sex until the thirty days was up, but he didn’t say we couldn’t do other things. After Sheri’s barrage of questions, I wondered what possibilities existed in the sexual arena other than sex.
I set another foil. “Yeah. We’re on day four. Twenty-six to go.”
“Is he weird?” she asked.
“He’s not weird. He’s just…”
“Sounds weird to me,” her sister said. “If he’s making you wait thirty days, something’s wrong. Either he’s got a wife he’s not telling you about and he’s waiting for the divorce to be final, or he’s got some disease he’s getting rid of.”
“Teri!” Sheri hissed. “Talk about rude.”
“Just saying what no one else has the guts to. Any man who says he’s got to wait thirty days to show you his dick is a weirdo, or he’s got something.” She looked at me and shrugged one shoulder. “Sorry, Taryn, that’s just how I feel.”
“I understand. But, he’s not weird. He’s just. It’s complicated. When it comes to sex, he’s different.”
“Different? How?” Sheri asked.
“Yeah how?” Teri chimed.
Stefanie cleared her throat. “He’s a Dom.”
“Well, that explains alot,” Teri said over her shoulder.
“Those guys are an odd bunch. He’s probably going to make you sign a contract at the end of thirty days.”
“I don’t know if he’s a Dom, he’s just--”
“He’s a Dom.”
“He hasn’t said anything that--”
She peeled off her gloves. “He’s a Dom.”
“Read all the fine print when he gives you a contract.” Teri chuckled. “One day you’ll be getting it from behind and thinking everything’s on the up and up, and the next thing you know, he’ll make you wear a butt plug to work and a collar around your neck.”
I spit out a laugh. “He’s not poking anything in my butt. And, I’m not a dog, I’m not wearing a collar.”
“Won’t have much say about it when you’re tied up and a rag’s stuffed in your mouth,” she said.
“He’s not going to shove--”
“Believe me,” Teri said. “He will. I know. I was with one of those guys for a year. He had me so brainwashed, I thought what we were doing was normal.”
“George wasn’t a Dom, he was a dick,” Sheri said.
Teri shook her head. “He’s was both. I’m just telling you to be careful. Those guys get inside your head and make you believe you want whatever it is that they want. That crazy bastard I was seeing talked me into a threesome. I was convinced he loved me. He loved screwing me, but that was it. Never again. Lesson. Learned.”
“I’m not doing any threesomes. Like I said, I don’t even think he’s a Dom.”
“I know a girl who wore a butt plug,” Stefanie said.
I laughed. “That was random.”
“Who?” Teri asked.
“I’m not saying.” She alternated glances between all of us. “But she liked it. She wore it all the time, and nobody made her. She loved it. Had a permanent smile on her face.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Teri said. “I felt violated.”
I shook my head. “No butt plugs. No threesomes. No brainwashing.”
“You say that now,” Teri said. “I’ll see what you say when I come back here in four weeks.”
“I think you’ll be surprised.”
I had twenty-six days to figure out who Marc was. In the end, I hoped it wasn’t me who was surprised. If I was, I could always walk away.
That would be a first.
Chapter Eight
Marc – Day six
I sat in my normal seat. After adjusting my silverware and repositioning the condiment basket, I glanced at Charlee.
Seated across from me, she had her nose buried in a tattered paperback. Her hair, normally a cute mess, was simply a mess. Wearing jean shorts, sneakers, and a sleeveless The Smiths concert tee, it appeared she hadn’t slept since I’d last seen her.
I unfolded my newspaper and situated it on the table. “Late night?”
She continued reading for a length of time that made the silence between us awkward. While I prepared to repeat the question, Jacky walked into my line of sight and smiled.
She set a cup of coffee on the corner of the table. “Good morning, Marc. The usual?”
I met her gaze. “Good morning. Yes, please.”
“Ever since she started that book, she’s been a disaster,” she whispered.
“What’s she reading?” I asked under my breath.
“That conspiracy theory book. She’s convinced the author could see into the future. You should tell her she’s nuts. She’ll listen to you.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Thank you.”
I smiled in return.
“It’ll be up in a few,” she said.
I gave a nod, checked my silverware, and looked at Charlee. “Late night?” I said, the tone of my voice raised as if trying to wake her from sleeping.
She lowered the book and looked up. Her eyes were wide and her face was slightly gaunt. It had only been twenty-four hours since I’d seen her, yet her appearance had changed dramatically.
She scratched at her hair with her free hand. Loose strands of her curly locks fell over her eyes, partially obstructing her view. “I have two words for you.” She swept her hair away from her face. “Winston. Smith.”
“Big brother is watching,” I said.
“You’ve read this one, too?”
Her reference to the character Winston Smith, of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, shed a little light on her unkempt appearance. I could see her reading and re-reading the novel, trying to piece together scenes from the book, while comparing them to modern day events.
“Several times,” I said.
She slapped the book against the table with a thud. “I haven’t slept in three days.”
“You were reading it yesterday? I thought you were reading The Great Gatsby again?”
“I tried to read Gatsby again. I’d already read this piece of crap twice.” She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I’m almost done with the second read. Orwell’s foresight was genius.”
“It’s an interesting read, that’s for sure.”
“He explained what’s going on today with the government, in detail, almost seventy years ago. Cameras on the street corners, someone watching your every move. He even described Photoshop long before there were computers. Cutting people out of photographs to support your story? Re-writing what actually happened to match the government’s claim of what they want you to believe happened? Re-writing history? Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past. It’s crazy when you think about it. I’ve highlighted about half of this book. I hate Big Brother.”
“The thought of a Big Brother existing, or the depiction of it in the--”
Her eyes shot wide. “The thought of one existing? Hell-o. The White House. The CIA. The FBI. The POTUS. Even Amazon. It’s crazy. Big Brother is everywhere.” She scratched the sides of her head frantically with both hands, and then looked at me. “I’m never watching the news again. They feed us what they want us to believe. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. That is never going to happen to me. I’ll be a free thinker forever. When this world goes to hell, and believe me, it will – I’ll be the one handing out propaganda on the street corners.”
Resembling a female version of Albert Einstein, only with much longer hair, she looked like a lunatic. I struggled not to laugh. “Propaganda, huh?”
“Pamphlets.”
“What will they say?”
She pursed her lips, glanced at the book, and then looked at me. “Oppose everyone who opposes you. Oppose the Opposition. That will be the headline.”
“Doesn’t leave much room for growth, does it?”
She shot me a glare. “Are you one of them?”
I chuckled at the thought. “I believe in considering everything that’s presented to me, and only adhering to what it is that makes perfect sense to me. I’ve never cared to have anything shoved down my throat.”
“That’s a decent policy.”
“Sometimes, your opposition’s beliefs need to become your own.”
She cocked her head. “When?”
“Upon realizing your beliefs are preventing you from making progress.”
“So, life is about progress, and nothing else?”
“We’re all on a journey,” I explained. “Every inch traveled between our beginning and our destination is progress.”
“I like that. Okay, we’re still friends.”
I cleared my throat. “I enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind, except that you happen to be insane,” I said, citing a quote from Orwell’s book.
“I may be insane, but one of these days, I’m going to save the world. I need to get a cape and a really cool suit to wear, though. That Super Girl crap is so yesteryear. I want something cool. Something purple with pink piping. Maybe some gray just to make it pop.”
Jacky walked between us.
She set the plate jus
t inside the edge of the table, beside my newspaper. “Three over medium, dry wheat toast, and three pieces of turkey bacon.”
“Thank you.”
She looked at Charlee. “Super Girl, huh? I doubt Super Girl’s bedroom looks like a bomb went off in it.”
“I know where everything is.”
“I’m afraid to go in there. You need to clean it.”
Charlee fashioned a gun with her fingers, and then gave her mother a salute with her free hand.
Jacky looked at me. “Enjoy.” She turned toward Charlee. “Let him--”
“Let him eat, Charlee,” Charlee said mockingly. “I always do, mother.”
I folded my newspaper, set it aside, and moved my plate to the center of the table. Halfway through my breakfast, a line from Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four came to me.
Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.
I wondered how many people simply wanted to be understood. If being understood was often mistaken for love. I doubted anyone could or would ever understand me, and decided to have someone love me would be much easier than having them developing an understanding of who I truly was.
I finished my meal, pushed the plate to the side, and repositioned the newspaper.
“Why do you bring that thing?” She motioned toward the newspaper. “You never read it.”
“Habit.”
“But you’ve never read it. Not once.”
“Maybe one day I’ll leave it at home,” I said, knowing doing so would be impossible.
She gave it another look and then shrugged. “Doubt it.”
I raised my coffee cup and grinned. After finishing it, I folded my newspaper, stood, and tucked it under my arm.
“Are you going to save the world today?” she asked.
I tossed $30 on the table. “I’m going to give it one hell of a try.”
She leaned against the back of the booth and swept her hair away from her face. “Maybe you should get a cape and a cool suit. You’d look good in black.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“Have a good day, Atticus.”
I paused. “I figured you’d call me Winston.”
“He betrayed his true love to save himself from facing his greatest fear. I don’t think you’re like that. At least not in my mind. If you are, don’t tell me. Now, go save the world, Mr. Watson.”
F*CKERS (Biker MC Romance Book 7) Page 124