The Lineup

by Quinn, Meghan

  “I think that’s the most intelligent thing you’ve said since I met you.”

  “Well, I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?”

  He really is, surprises that are starting to eat away at my cold exterior. And that’s a problem. Because that’s what I’ll never allow to happen . . . again.

  Cute, sexy, crazy baseball player be damned.

  * * *

  “Albert, Bart, Chris, Darrel . . . Emmitt, Uh, Franklyn, George, Harrison, Ichabod . . . umm . . .” I wince. “Jake?”

  “No,” Jason groans. “Jesus Christ, woman. Jorge, it was Jorge.” Jason throws his arms in the air, clearly distressed over the stupid ABC game we’re playing. “We are never going to make it all the way to Z with the kind of gnat brain you have.”

  “Hey, you screwed up once too.”

  “Because you said the most abstract girl name I’ve ever heard and I couldn’t remember it for the life of me.”

  “Abstract means you remember it better.”

  “Abstract means I’m going to forget how to pronounce it in seconds.”

  “Oh, I forgot, you get hit in the head with balls for a living.”

  He scoffs. “No, I don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t be a damn good catcher, one of the best in the league, thank you very much.” He sighs and shifts his body so he’s lying completely on the floor, his shirt as a pillow. Yes, he’s removed his shirt again, and I’m not complaining one bit. “What kind of name is Euphemia anyway?”

  “Oh, now you get it right.”

  “Well, you screamed it at me five times in a row as your spittle smacked me in the face, drilling it in my brain.”

  “There was no spittle.”

  “Oh . . . there was spittle,” he says, his voice full of humor.

  Damn him for making me smile again. That’s what the last twenty minutes have been—him being ridiculous, me trying not to smile. I’ve finally resolved to laying my head on my purse so I don’t have to look directly at him.

  Smacking his hands together, he rubs them and says, “Okay, let’s go for actor last names now. I’ll start. Aniston.”

  This is what my life has come to.

  “Aniston, Bullock.”

  “Aniston, Bullock, Cox,” he replies.

  I lift up to look at him. “Are you just going to list off cast members from Friends?”

  “Shh.” He waves his hand at me and then presses his fingers to his temples, massaging his skull. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  Good . . . God.

  * * *

  “H.”

  “Nooope,” Jason drags out, a smart-ass look on his face. “One more leg and you’ve been hanged, milady.”

  I can NOT believe I’m losing to Jason at hangman. Not just losing but losing terribly. We’re talking ten games deep, and he’s won every single one of them. When he initially suggested the game, I thought, sure, why not? This will be easy. He acts like an immature frat boy with the IQ of a pigeon despite majoring in engineering, so all I’ll have to do is guess different sexual organs and it will be money in the bag.

  But here I am, one leg away from losing once again, which means if he wins all ten games, I have to take my shirt off as well.

  Stupid bet, but I really didn’t think he could sweep me.

  Think, Domico, think.

  Blank, U, M, blank, S, blank, U, blank, blank.

  Yup.

  I’m screwed.

  I tap my chin, really pretending to put some though into it. “Let’s go with Y.”

  “I’m sorry to do this because you’re pretty, but the noose is coming for you.” He adds the last leg and then draws two X’s where the eyes should be and a squiggle mouth, indicating death.

  “Ugh, what is it?”

  He fills in the blanks and I read the word out loud, “Numbskull.”

  “Yup.” He bops my nose with the pen and says, “That’s exactly what you are, a numbskull.” His laugh does nothing but make me madder. He motions to my shirt. “Show me the goods. A bet is a bet.”

  “You realize when I take my shirt off, you’re going to regret it, right?”

  “Pretty sure I won’t.”

  “You will when I start playing with my tits and jiggling them. Pinching my nipples, moaning from the sensation . . .”

  “Yeah, I won’t regret that.”

  “You will when you get hard and you can’t do anything about it.”

  He laughs and motions with the pen to take my shirt off. “It’s funny how you think I have no issue jacking off right here, right now. I have zero modesty, Dorothy, so I would watch what you do with those tits.”

  I should have expected that. With a resigned sigh, I take my shirt off and watch Jason nod in appreciation. He takes my breasts in, long and hard, never blinking, just observing until he gives me one curt nod and says, “They’ll do.”

  He’s such an ass.

  * * *

  “Heads.”

  “Tails. Ha HA!” Jason clasps the quarter in his fist and raises it to the elevator. “Pants, Domico.”

  “You didn’t flip it right,” I counter, not wanting to lose my pants. I’m wearing a thong and sitting in an elevator in only a thong and bra doesn’t really scream good time to me.

  I also didn’t think I’d be this terrible at heads or tails. Who loses twelve times in a row? It’s like there is some magnetic force controlling the elevator, blocking me from winning any ridiculous game I play with Jason.

  “What do you mean I didn’t flip it right? I flipped it in the air, it turned multiple times, I caught it and then flipped it on the back of my hand. Standard heads or tails rules.”

  “You have a trick quarter.”

  “It was from your purse.”

  Valid point.

  “Ugh, fine. But I’m warning you, don’t consider this an invitation to gawk at me.”

  “Oh, like you haven’t been gawking at me this entire time. And don’t you even try to deny it. I see the way you look at my stomach, lust and desire swimming in your eyes.”

  “Oh, get over yourself. You’re delirious and exhausted.”

  “Either way, you want me,” he says with a pant-load of confidence.

  Grumbling to myself, I take off my pants and sit on top of them so my bare ass isn’t on the elevator floor. Thank God this is a really, really nice building because if Emory and Knox lived in a pit of an apartment, there is no way I’d follow through on my bet.

  Jason scans my side and then the other, observing my choice of underwear. “Are you wearing a thong?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stand up so I can make the final assessment on that.”

  “It’s a thong,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “Yeah, but I should still see.”

  “Bite me,” I answer back.

  “Where?” He wickedly grins.

  “Oh, you would love that, wouldn’t you, getting a chance to bite me wherever you want?”

  “Sure.” He shrugs. “I’m bored. Let’s make things interesting.” He rubs his hands together. “Where do you want my mouth?”

  If he wants to bite me, he can bite me all right.

  I lift up my shoeless right foot and wiggle my toes at him. “Mr. Big Toe wants some attention.”

  “Mr. Big Toe?” He quirks a brow.

  “Yup. He’s lonely. Make your teeth his new best friend.”

  “Fine.” Before I can stop him, he grabs my ankle and chomps down on my big toe, pressing hard, just hard enough that I yelp and retract my foot quickly.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask, scanning my toe where I spot definite teeth marks.

  “You told me to bite you, so I did.”

  “Not really. Are you insane?” I rub my toe. “If anything, I thought you’d be stupid sensual about it, not actually try to eat Mr. Big Toe.”

  “You can never tell what I’m going to do. Let that be a lesson to you.”

  Chapter Ten

  JASON

  I’m.

&nb
sp; In.

  Hell.

  HELL!

  Yes, it was my idea to lose clothes, but I really didn’t think she’d be that terrible at hangman and heads or tails. Who loses that many times? Just embarrassing.

  When she took off her shirt, I had to suck in my tongue from falling out of my mouth.

  Sure, I made it seem like I wasn’t interested in the goods with my casual response of “they’ll do.” But I’ve never told such a boldfaced lie before in my entire life.

  They won’t just do. Dottie’s tits will be the star of my dreams for weeks to come.

  Plump, almost spilling out of the tops of her bra and firm, but also look like they would be heaven to rest my head on. And because it’s a cool temperature in here, her nipples are poking against the thin, lace fabric of her bra and they’re nipples I could see myself getting along with. Not quite the torpedoes I hoped for, but not pint-sized peas either.

  I caught myself leaning toward her a few times, lips pursed, ready to suckle. Thank God, she’s been clueless or else I’m sure I would have heard about it.

  After a while, I started to get used to her topless, but now that she doesn’t have pants on, yup, my jeans are feeling tight in the crotch and I’m doing everything in my power to keep myself in check.

  “Do you always wear thongs?”

  “Why is that a question you’re asking?”

  Because all I can think about is you, in a thong, sitting on the luckiest pair of pants ever. I wonder what she would say if I offered her to sit on my face instead of the cold hard floor . . .

  “Just trying to get to know you.”

  “How about this, do you always wear thongs?” She crosses her arms over her chest which only lifts her breasts up more. I swear she’s doing that on purpose.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Only on long runs.”

  “Yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “Okay.”

  “I do,” I answer honestly. “My friend Holt introduced me to the man thong in college, said it held his junk close to him while running, but he also had the added benefit of his shorts brushing against his bare ass. So I decided to give it a try and I’ve never looked back.”

  “Wait.” She blinks a few times. “You mean to tell me, if I went into your apartment, pulled open your dresser drawer, I’d find a collection of male thongs?”

  “Yup. My favorite ones are leopard print.”

  “Stop it. You do not have a leopard print thong.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “No,” she answers immediately and with finality. “No more bets.”

  “Okay, then how about we just agree that I have one and we start making out?”

  We’re both sitting up, facing each other, and if any time is the perfect time to make out with someone, it’s when you’re stuck in an elevator.

  “We are not making out.”

  “Scared?”

  “No. You’re not my type, and I don’t waste kisses on boys not my type.”

  “Oh damn.” I smile and lean back on my hands. “For some odd reason, even though it denies me your lips, I really liked that response.”

  * * *

  “We’re never getting out of here. Emory’s plants are going to die,” Dottie says, after the two-hour mark hits.

  “I wonder what floor we’re on,” I say, looking at the ceiling as if that will tell me.

  “It felt like we were pretty high, but who knows. I blacked out from rage being stuck in an elevator with you.”

  “Rage seems like a strong word.”

  “Rage is accurate. You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

  “So you said.” I poke her leg. “But aren’t you glad I’m here?”

  “Why do you make me be mean to you? You know what my answer is going to be.”

  “Hey.” I stand tall so she has to take all of me in. “I’ve been entertaining, I shared my dinner with you, and I’ve only stared at your boobs a few times.” Because they are fucking sexy and if I looked more than a few times, I’d seriously need to fuck you senseless. Talk about self-control, people. “I think you should be grateful I was the one you got stuck in an elevator with.”

  She stands as well, in all her almost naked glory. Hands on her hips, she goes to say something just as the door to the elevator opens and Mr. Trigger at the end of the hallway stands there, mouth agape, staring at the both of us.

  Dottie squeals and covers up, holding her clothes over her body as I, like the chivalrous man I am, stand in front of her.

  “Mr. Trigger,” I say in a cool, even tone, “you’re looking handsome tonight. Dinner plans?”

  He narrows his eyes at me and points his cane. “You youngins have no class. Keep it in your pants.”

  I chuckle. “It’s not what you think. We were stuck in the elevator. You actually saved us. Thank you.”

  “You were stuck? Doesn’t seem like it since you’re on your apartment floor. You’re going to have to come up with something more creative than that.” He motions to our bodies as I feel Dottie getting dressed behind me. “Why are you naked?”

  “Technically, Mr. Trigger, naked means being completely devoid of clothes, and as you can see, we aren’t bare ass and chest, winging our willies around—”

  “Your friend has a willy?” Mr. Trigger leans to the side, trying to get a look at Dottie.

  I chuckle and shake my head as Dottie elbows my back. “No, I think she wishes she had one at times, but no. She has lady parts.” I lean forward and say, “A vagina.”

  “Can you not?” Dottie asks, storming past me fully clothed, with her bag at her side. She gives Mr. Trigger a curt wave and then takes off down the hall.

  Gathering my shirt, I salute Mr. Trigger and as I pass, I whisper, “She’s sensitive about her vagina, so it’s nothing against you. Have a good night, sir.”

  I walk down the hallway, watching Dottie struggle with her purse the entire time. She sets it on the ground and starts digging around by the time I reach her. I pull my key out of my pocket and unlock my door only to lean against it and ask, “Looking for something?”

  She groans and sits on her heels, frustrated and exhausted. “I forgot the key to their apartment at my office.” She pulls on her silky raven hair. “Could this night get any worse?”

  “I think it started off pretty well if you ask me. Shared dinner with a devastatingly handsome man, played a few nostalgic games, aired out a bit . . . I think your night is just getting started.”

  Her eyes snap at me and her finger points, a slight shake to it. “This is all your fault.”

  “Me?” I point to my chest. “How is this my fault? I didn’t tell the elevator to stop. You’re the one who started pressing all the buttons. If you didn’t press them, the doors might have opened instead of you confusing it. Ever think about that?” I tap my temple. “This has elevator confusion written all over it.”

  “That’s not even a thing.” She stands, tosses her purse over her shoulder, and starts marching down the hallway.

  “Where you going?”

  “Back to my office to get the key. What does it look like?”

  “Oh okay, but if you don’t want to go all the way back to your office, I have a spare in my apartment if you want to use that. Up to you.”

  She pauses and spins on her heel, charging right back to me. I open my door, giving her plenty of space to come in. When she steps inside, she immediately crosses her arms and stands as close to the door as possible.

  “Make yourself at home. You don’t have to stick yourself to the wall.”

  “I’m just here for the key.”

  “Okay, that might be a few minutes.” I toss my shirt on the back of the couch, near the pile of laundry I’ve yet to fold, and then I put our dinner trash in the kitchen.

  “Why will it be a few minutes? Just hand it to me.”

  “Yeah, about that.” I scratch the side of my cheek. “I can’t remember where I put it. Emory brought it over here before they left in case of emergency and I’ll
be honest, I was a tad drunk.”

  “You’re a moron.” She huffs in frustration.

  She goes to leave, but I stop her by saying, “I think it’s in my bedroom. Give me a second.”

  “Oh, let me guess, you want me to help you look for it, and then oh look, we fall into your bed, and our clothes just happen to come off—”

  “I mean . . . you said it, not me.”

  “You are going to make me drink,” she mutters, stomping back to my bedroom. I let her lead the way, loving the way her pert ass sways with determination.

  “Do you want to get naked first or should I? We could do it at the same time. That might be fun.”

  “Shut up. My God, Jason. I’m helping you look for the key. Two eyes are better than one.”

  “Ahh, yup, I knew that’s what was happening this whole time.” I truly think teasing her is becoming my new favorite hobby. Talk about a short fuse. Yeesh. This girl is strung tight, but I like that about her. It’s like she’s seconds away from either ripping all our clothes off and letting out her frustration or screaming and giving my junk a good old one-two punch. Either way, the uncertainty is thrilling.

  When I get to my bedroom, she’s already rummaging through my dresser, plucking through my underwear drawer.

  “Looking for keys, or looking for those man thongs I was talking about?”

  “Get over yourself, I couldn’t care—” She lifts up my black thong with embroidered roses on it up in the air. “Where on earth did you get this? And why is it so big?”

  I chuckle and walk up to her, taking the thong away. I stretch it and say, “Grammy Q made this for me. She wasn’t sure what size I was, so she went with the largest size. She said if I was anything like her hubby, I was going to need the extra crotch room.” I whisper, “Crotch room is greatly needed.”

  “For the socks I’m sure you like to stuff in there.” She brushes past me, her hair floating over my bare shoulder. Damn, she smells good, like a goddamn flower. Being stuck in that elevator with our dinner, I couldn’t really catch a whiff of her, but now we’re out in the open, her scent pings me right in the chest.