by Sara Ney
Abbott chuckles; this time, it’s not at the TV. She’s silently laughing at me, my dick, and my plight, concealed from prying eyes by our blankets, her shoulders bare and exposed. My gaze drifts to the curve of her upper body, porcelain and perfect. Silky. Unblemished. The slope of her neck glides into a perfect arch, and I imagine my mouth there, kissing up and down the skin. Just below her ear. Down her neck. Across her shoulder.
I imagine she’d shiver if I did.
Fuck it.
Leaning down just the barest fraction, I’m able to give her light hair a decent whiff without making any sounds. Inhale.
Exhale.
Once more and my nostrils are definitely flaring, dick hardening. Body tense.
Abbott fakes another uninterested yawn. Ass squirms. “It feels to me as if you’re not going to win this one. You don’t have the willpower of a Billie Belmont—he was a shutout.”
“Christ,” I grind out, teeth clenching. “Don’t say that name to me right now. It’s idiotic.”
“Billie Belmont Billie Belmont Billie Belmont.” The name flies out of the brat’s mouth and she doesn’t trip over the tongue-twister once.
Why is she being such an asshole?
Abbott Margolis is the female version of myself, and I want to strangle her and stick my dick in her at the same time. Wait—that didn’t come out right, which only makes my mind wander further into the gutter: what kind of kink is Abbott into? Choking? Spanking? Biting? Licking? Bent over from behind?
Fuck fuck fuck it.
Fuck it, I’m over this.
I should put my goddamn clothes on and get the hell out of here.
My hand is over it, too, the impatient motherfucker with a mind of its own, sliding from my hip to the couch cushion, across the one-inch gap separating Abbott and me. She flinches slightly from the unplanned contact of my hand on her back but remains motionless, letting me slide it up, over her spine.
Over her rib cage.
Finally, she sucks in a breath. Lets it out. Lies still, waiting.
Don’t touch her tits, don’t touch her tits, don’t touch her—
I touch her tits.
Run my palm over her voluminous side-boob, over an areola I can only visualize since I’m bringing up the rear and can’t actually see. Speaking of rears…
I glide my hand down the flat planes of Abbott’s stomach, waiting for that sharp intake of breath I know is coming; all girls do it and she is no exception. Keep running that hand down, slowly creeping until I reach her ass. Her firm, perfectly round butt. Squeeze playfully, feel her smile.
“Whatcha doin’ back there?” she teases, giving her buns a wiggle and ignoring the fact that two seconds ago, my giant palm was cupping her bare tit. “You’re not into butt stuff, are you?”
“I’m into whatever you’re into.”
“Slow your roll, cowpoke—we’re supposed to be watching TV. We’re just friends.”
Friends—we’re back to that bullshit, eh?
Abbott squirms, sending a shockwave of nerves jolting from the front of my legs down to my toes.
My dick tingles. Twitches.
“Is your dick moving?” My neighbor does a half-laugh, half-moan, half-dressed but mostly not.
“Definitely. It wants to friend-zone you, too.”
“Why should I make an exception for your dick? You’ve been very adamant about keeping this whole thing platonic.”
“In fairness, I’ve never used the word platonic in my entire fucking life.” The truth is, I’ve had plenty of female friends who I’ve boned. The problem isn’t Abbott and wanting to remain friends with her—the problem is that I don’t think I can stay that way. “You’re just as adamant, so let’s not kid ourselves.”
Abbott is the kind of girl you marry, not the kind you have a one-night stand with, something casual to get your rocks off.
She’s a good girl.
Not to be confused with a goody two-shoes. Don’t ask me how I know she’s wholesome, but the second time I laid eyes on her (the first time I just thought she was a colossal asshole), I knew her intentions would always be pure and she would never intentionally hurt anyone.
Abbott Margolis has a kind heart.
Let’s not forget her amazing, accomplished family. Abbott is sexy. Funny. Cute. Smart as a whip and doesn’t put up with my shit, either.
Plus, she has a fully stocked fridge and always has food being delivered. AKA I’ll never go hungry with her living across the hall.
The total package.
You don’t tangle yourself up with a girl like that unless you’re serious. And I’m not.
I have a bet to win, one I can’t afford to lose.
But if I were going to lose, it would be for a girl like her.
Dangerous thoughts, not made any easier by the stirring of my junk or the shaking of her ass.
The sound of Abbott’s front door opening and clicking shut doesn’t register as quickly as it should, my brain still letting my dick rule my thoughts.
“Abbott? Abbott dear, are you here?” The sound of expensive heels clicking on the foyer tile reaches our ears at the same time. The heels stop clicking for the briefest moment, and a delighted voice filters to the living room. “Oh, Brooks, are you here, too?” Nan calls out.
“Holy fuck!”
Where the hell are my fucking clothes, where the hell are my fucking clothes? I stumble, clambering. Falling off the couch, onto the floor.
She must have spied my shoes next to the door, my keys resting on the table.
“Kids? Where are you? Are you in the living room?” I hear the distinct sound of grocery bags being set on the kitchen counter and her heels clicking as she gets closer and closer…
The apartment might be posh, but it’s smaller than a postage stamp, so realistically, in a matter of seconds, Nan is going to walk into a scene straight out of an amateur porno, probably giving the old woman a stroke.
And if we give Nan a stroke, that means I get no more treats.
But then…Nan finds me with Abbott’s leopard-print throw blanket twisted around my hips. She enters the living room holding what looks like a bag of Chinese takeout in her prim and proper hands. A black purse is slung over her other arm.
She quickly turns and heads back the way she came—but not before, “For land’s sake, cover your little bits, Brooks. They’re dangling out the side of the blanket like cherries.”
Jesus Christ, if my balls weren’t already shriveled from the cold draft, they’d be buried inside my body from the humiliation of having my neighbor’s grandma seeing my fucking nuts and telling me they’re dangling like cherries.
My dangling bits.
Christ Almighty, will I ever live this down?
“Nan!” Abbott exclaims after gathering her own wits. “What are you doing here? It’s…it’s…”
“Late,” I deadpan, checking my phone for the time. “It’s eight o’ clock.”
“I know dear, but Grandpa and I were at the club and I thought I’d pop by to invite you to lunch tomorrow.”
“Did you bring me groceries?” Abbott is sliding her pants on, shouting to her grandmother in the kitchen, the only one of us with any fucking common sense at the moment.
“No, dear. These are for Brooks. Men so rarely handle these matters themselves.” Her head pops around the corner as I’m pulling my shirt on. “Isn’t that right, young man?”
“Uh.”
This is what happens when you let your guard down and forget the rules…
Rule 3: No giving gifts.
Not the same as receiving gifts, but is food a gift? I should have thought about all this when Nan gave me the gift cards.
Giving is not getting—I haven’t done anything wrong.
Still. A nagging guilt settles in my stomach when I step into my pants, hard-on still a touch too alert for my liking.
I yank at my shirt, dragging it down to conceal my erection.
That’s not shit I need Nan seeing.
>
Nan doesn’t seem to give a shit that you were in here dry-boning her granddaughter.
The sounds of Nan bustling around Abbott’s kitchen can be heard, drawers opening and closing like she’s doing a home inspection. In reality, the old broad is giving us time to pull ourselves together.
“Anyhoo, are you both free tomorrow? Who is going to meet an old woman for lunch?”
My dick might be a droopy, useless piece of shit, but my ears work just fine and what they heard was Who wants a free meal?
I shoot Abbott a look at the same time she shoots me one.
My shoulders rise and fall, head bobbing, and I whisper, “I could eat,” to my cute, half-naked neighbor.
“Yeah?” she whispers back, putting her socks back on. Fully clothed, she still wraps herself in a blanket. “Same. I could always eat.”
“Cool.” I throw a few pillows back onto the couch, tucking my T-shirt into my bottoms. I raise my voice, calling to the kitchen. “Nan, we could both eat.”
“Excellent. I’ll just get out of your hair. Grandpa is waiting in the car.” A cabinet shuts. “Abbott, darling, I’ll text you the details.”
Text her the details. “She could have texted you in the first place!” I hiss, too embarrassed about getting caught fooling around red-handed by a girl’s grandma to actually go speak to Nan face-to-face.
“You think I don’t know that!?” Abbott shakes her head. “I’ll go say goodbye, you tuck in your pee-pee.”
I glance down.
The cock I thought had lost its erection continues to poke at the fabric of my pants, wanting to stick itself in something hot and wet, Abbott in particular—apparently no interruptions from a seventy-year-old can keep the good man down.
I glance across the room, catching the all-knowing eye of Desdemona.
Is it just me or…does the cat have one eyebrow arched?
Judgmental bitch.
15
Abbott
“And then,” I pause for dramatic effect, “my nan walked in.”
Sophia gasps, and I know she’s actually covering her mouth with the back of her hand despite the fact that I can’t actually see her. “Who gave her a key?”
“All you have to say is who gave her a key?”
I hear my best friend take a bite of her bagel through the phone, chewing thoughtfully. “Did she actually see anything?”
“She claims to have seen Brooks’ wiener, but he wasn’t completely naked and she never actually walked into the living room. So, no, I don’t think she saw anything. Plus, she announced herself before actually coming into the living room, probably assuming we were fooling around.”
Which we kind of were.
I hear her pause. I hear her glare. “Did you just use the word wiener? Don’t do that again. Say penis.”
I shake my head vigorously. “I hate the word penis. It’s weird.”
Penis, fart, bloated—all words I can’t bring myself to say.
Eww.
I shake my head again for good measure, on the verge of making myself dizzy. “She does the same thing to my cousins and my brother—she’s like the Elf on the Shelf. Just magically appears, makes magic happen in the apartment—occasionally a mess, but most of the time it’s amazing.” Albeit invasive.
“Sounds amazing. It also sounds like she walked in on you while you were dry-humping the shit out of your hot neighbor, and that sounds kind of terrible.”
Exactly. “I don’t know who was more horrified—Nan, Brooks, or the cat.”
“The cat was there, too?”
“I mean, she was on her bed, so it’s not like she was there there.”
“The cat was definitely watching.”
Why is Sophia being so difficult? “No, the cat was sleeping. Can we please stay on track? I have a conference call with Bambi What’sHerFace in half an hour and then I have to scoot out for lunch.”
“Right—lunch with Nan, the break-in artist, and your neighbor, who most likely has himself a bad case of blue balls.”
I end my call with Sophia still shaking my head; I do that a lot when she and I talk. She can be exasperating and loves to play devil’s advocate.
Taking a few minutes in my office, I primp a bit before my meeting, hoping it’s short-lived and quick so I can dash out the door, hail a cab, and get to our lunch reservation before Nan or Brooks arrive.
Three minutes later, I’m heading out of my office.
I give the door to Bambi’s shared, communal office a rap with my knuckles, folder clenched in my other hand. A younger man named Ryan, who has the best vantage point of the door, spins in his chair and gestures for me to enter.
It’s a creative space with four desks, one in each corner of the room, separated by both wooden and file cabinets, a large counter island splitting the room down the center.
A buzz of energy zings in the air; it’s a fun room, a shared design and workspace.
Bambi is one of two females in this department, and I find her slumped a bit at her desk, shoulders quaking a little.
I glance over my left shoulder at Ryan.
He shrugs, pulling a face and lifting his palms helplessly.
“Bambi?”
“Hey Abbott, what’s up?” Bambi clears her throat, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
“We have a meeting at eleven.” I’m matter-of-fact and stern, lacing my statement with the disappointment I feel upon discovering she’s unprepared.
I don’t plan on being late for my lunch date. It’s the only thing I’ve looked forward to in a long time, other than Brooks coming to my place and spending time with me a few times a week.
That I love and look forward to quite a bit.
This meeting with Bambi? Not so much. The girl resents my authority and has tried to thwart me since day one, and this meeting was my chance to gain an upper hand.
“Oh shit, that’s right. I forgot.”
She forgot? Nice. I make a mental note of the oversight for her manager since she’s already on my shit list.
“I’m so sorry.”
Oh.
Well.
That I wasn’t expecting.
Bambi turns to face me, and it’s then I notice her puffy red eyes and swollen nose.
“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” It’s a dumb question because clearly, everything is not okay—not if she’s been bawling her eyes out at work and can’t manage to be professional.
Not to be a brat, but she should have canceled our meeting and taken a personal day. She’s obviously not working.
“No, everything isn’t okay.” Her head dips again and I take a second to glance over at Ryan, who’s surveying us intently. There is no doubt that if their other two officemates weren’t otherwise occupied, they’d be staring, too.
Here goes one for the company rumor mill…
“What’s wrong?”
“M-My…” She sucks in a breath. “My boyfriend broke up with me.”
She had a boyfriend? Dang, how did I not know that? “Oh Bambi, I’m so sorry! How long were you together?”
“Not long, but long enough. It felt like we’d known each other our whole lives.”
“I am so sorry,” I repeat, not knowing what else to say, torn between comforting her as if she were a true friend and keeping my distance since we’ve never gotten along well. “What was his name?”
Her head shoots up, and she sniffles. “Blaine.”
Blaine?
Figures she’d find the one guy in town with a name douchier than Brooks. Bet Blaine is a real piece of work, too.
“I know he loved me—he’d just started saying it.” Bambi’s eyes narrow. “His friends hated me.”
Big shocker. “How do you know?”
“They’ve been trying to break us up since we met.” Her chin tilts arrogantly. “They’re intimidated by a strong female.”
Oh brother. “I’m sure they didn’t hate you.”
“No, no—they did. He let it slip once.”
“He did?” What an idiot.
“Blaine isn’t the smartest—I could talk him into anything. He’s very easily influenced, so if his friends hated me, we didn’t stand a chance. He’s known them longer than I have, so they always won.”
I stand quietly next to her desk, leaning my hip against the counter as she goes on, floodgates now open.
“Honestly, they say jump and Blaine says how high. I was getting so sick of it.” She inhales a shaky breath. “Ugh, and they meet all the time at this dumb bar, never invite me along, and smoke cigars.”
Sounds like a real gem.
“Maybe you’re better off without some guy who can’t stand up to his friends.”
What kind of guy is that? One with no spine. Gross, who wants that?
“He has this one friend who is such a douchebag. The freaking worst—thinks his shit doesn’t stink because he has this great job and makes all this money. Bosses them all around.”
Basically like every other guy I’ve ever met. Typical of a group—there always has to be one in the bunch who takes charge. The ringleader, as they say.
I set the green folder I’ve been holding on Bambi’s desk, giving it a little pat. “I’ll just leave these here. Take a look at them when you can. And could I offer you a little advice?”
“Sure.”
“Take the day off, go get a facial—then forget about that dickhead. Anyone who chooses his friends over you doesn’t deserve the tears you’re wasting on him right now. Somewhere in this city is someone who will be better for you.”
Her brilliant blonde hair flips. “I know. That’s what all my friends keep saying.”
“Because it’s true.”
“It sounds easy, but it’s not. I’ve tried. I lie in bed scrolling through Instagram, and whenever I read an insightful breakup meme, I cry.”
Jeez. Drama queen. “It’ll get easier.”
This time, I do reach my hand out, placing it on her back, giving her a little rub. Round and round my hand goes, comforting the woman who only a short ten minutes ago I was dreading having to sit down with.