“What did he look like? Maybe I saw him before we left?” Becca quizzed me.
I had to talk to someone about what I’d encountered with Cord, but I couldn’t really let her know it was him. She’d only make fun of me, and I didn’t feel like hearing how weak I was.
You know what? Weak didn’t even come close to what I was.
I was pathetic. Throwing myself at him like I did.
Regardless, he never acted like he was trying to sleep with me. He was the least aggressive Ken Doll I’d ever come across—pardon the pun. It was some potent brand of sexual reverse psychology he had. In addition to how attractive I found him, he played his game so cool that I’d practically lost my fucking mind.
Which brings me to why I had to call Becca. I came in like four minutes, which was a record, and that’s the shit you call true friends about. I just couldn’t admit to her that it was Cord.
So I lied. A little here and there. Kind of. Dammit, I crossed my fingers when needed, okay?
“I don’t think you saw him. He showed up after everyone left. He was sort of goofy.”
“Like goofy-stupid? Or goofy-cute?”
I chuckled remembering his face while he laughed at the Waffle House. “Goofy-cute.” That was true enough.
“Okay, so you brought him back to your place and banged? And you got off really fast?” She guessed based on what little info I’d send her in a text that morning. It simply read: I had a four-minute orgasm last night. Beat that, slut.
I emphasized, “No, like really fast.”
“Were you doggy style? I come really fast like that.” God, Becca and her love of being bent over. I swore she was a four-legged mammal in a former life.
“No. We weren’t even having sex, Becca. That’s what I’m saying.” I finished the coffee I’d brought in my travel mug and put it in the cup holder as I sat in my car outside of Fit Club that Saturday morning. I’d called her from the parking lot because I’d tried to dial her on my way there and nearly creamed a bird with my grill. Served the fucker right.
I hated birds.
“Was he going down on you?”
I played with the useless, old air freshener hanging from my rearview mirror. “No. It was his hand.”
“Goofy’s hands do it for Dana,” she teased in a sing-song voice, and then laughed her ass off. “You got finger banged by a goofy guy. Was he wearing white gloves like the cartoon? I’m picturing it. Oh, my God. I can’t stop.”
I swatted at the green cardboard pine tree. “Shut up. Listen to me.”
She’d cackled herself into a coughing fit, so I gave her time to recoup. “You’re just jealous. Anyway, that was all we did, but, when he was leaving, he patted me on the head.”
“Like a dog? Isn’t Goofy a dog? Maybe it’s a dog thing.” She really thought she was cute and lost her shit all over again. “Does this do anything for you, girl? Woof!”
I should have called Jodi.
“You’re a bitch.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A bitch?”
I moved on to playing with the flashlight on my keychain, clicking it on and off as we talked. “Shut up. No one has ever done that to me before. The head thing. Well, or the orgasm thing, but I’m talking about the head thing right now.”
“I’d rather talk about the finger bang, but whatever. Do you think he was drunk?”
That would have been a perfect excuse, except he totally wasn’t.
“I don’t think so,” I answered.
“Maybe it was just one of those fluke awkward things. You know? Like when someone tells you happy birthday, and you say you too. They’re social behavior glitches or something. It happens to everyone.”
I stared across the parking lot and rationalized. “You think?”
“I think if I got off in under four minutes I’d let him put a leash on me and call me Lassie. Also, I think this is major. You had a positive sexual experience with a normal dude.”
Normal dude. Whoops. I might have described him as average earlier in the conversation when he most certainly was not. I grimaced hearing my fib repeated. I supposed he acted like a normal guy though, but that was probably because I told him—repeatedly—he didn’t have to work for it.
“Are you going to see him again?” That was a damn good question.
I ran my finger over the screen on my dashboard to clear off the light layer of dust.
“I don’t know,” I confessed, which actually was the truth. I’d been wondering that myself. Technically, we hadn’t had sex. And, since I was allowing myself one last hunky hook-up, it could still be him.
I wanted it to be him.
What if he wasn’t into me though? He could have had me the night before. I hadn’t minced words.
If he really wasn’t interested would I look for someone else?
In all fairness, I needed to stay in my lane, and since I really enjoyed that lane on my couch the night before, it was wise to just follow through with Cord.
“What if I want to see him again?” It was like I’d never been out with a guy.
“You should. Just see what happens.” She was a smart woman.
See what happens. I could do that. There was no use in making any major decisions at the moment anyway. I’d just play it by ear.
“Okay. Well, I’ve been sitting in my car talking to you long enough. I need to go work out or go home.”
“Get swoll, Rogers. Pump it!”
“I’ll talk to you later. Don’t tell anyone what we talked about—not even Reuben. Don’t try to deny it either, I know you tell him stuff. He’s starting to look at me weird.”
She chuckled guiltily. “Fine. I’ll keep Goofy’s hands a secret, but if I drink, I can’t promise it won’t come out.”
“Bitch,” I warned.
“Okay. Fine. Bye. Let me know if anything happens.”
“Whatever. Bye.”
I hung up and pulled my earbuds out of the center console. I hadn’t slept that well, and I hoped if I turned my music up and got lost in a rhythm on the treadmill, maybe I could stop thinking about him for a while. Maybe I could make my mind up about if I should see him again or not. Odds were good, but I was still on an orgasm high.
Fit Club was kind of busy that morning and the machine I usually chose was already being used. I wasn’t a baby, so I used the one next to it, even though it kind of threw me off.
Isn’t it weird that something as insignificant as having to use a different machine when you’re getting your jog on can make things shift?
With my playlist booming in my ears, I quickly found a comfortable pace, and I watched out the front window at the people as they parked and walked in and out of shops. People watching was an excellent distraction from my thoughts.
After I ran as long as I could, I hopped off the machine to fill up my water bottle at the fountain before I left.
“Hey, Dana,” called Nolan as he walked down the hall where I was chugging like I’d crawled through a dessert.
“What’s up?” I didn’t feel like chatting much, on account of being sweaty and gross, but he had seen me like that a few times and never made me feel weird about it.
“How long did you and Cord stay out? I sent him a text when I got home last night, but he never replied.”
Me and Cord? That wasn’t a thing, I immediately thought—defensive as it was.
My middle and index finger knew what to do and they crossed behind my back. “I left the bar not long after everyone else. I was in bed pretty early, really.” Pretty early in the morning that was, but I went to bed alone, so that counted.
I was becoming quite the Fibbing Fanny. Not bold-faced lies, more like truths well bent.
“Huh,” he huffed. “I thought you and Cord would do late night.”
I didn’t have a comeback for that, so I shrugged and took another long drink.
“Last night was fun though. We should all hang out again sometime. The guys and the girls,” he said with a wiggle. Then he did this weird shoot-em-up double air-gun thing. Pew-pew style.
It was becoming more and more obvious how he and Cord were such good friends. If Reuben was anything like them, I could see how Becca would love spending so much time with him, which she did. They were an easygoing bunch to be around.
Well, Nolan was. Cord was different.
I said, “I think there will be plenty of that with the wedding coming up.”
“Yeah, Cord, Trevor, and I are groomsmen. I cannot wait for that party.” Spoken like a real guy.
“Jodi and I are in it too, and Becca’s younger sister, Jyl.” I bounced around anxiously, not really feeling the small talk.
“See? Reuben had nothing to worry about.”
“What? Why?” I froze feeling like I should pay close attention.
“Oh, he just thought you and Cord would hook up, and then it would cause some tension. Cord is …”
What? Tension?
Well Reuben was right about that. I felt all the tension.
I didn’t speak, but I leaned forward to coax him into finishing the sentence he’d cut off midway through.
Finally, after careful consideration, he continued, “Cord is just different, is all.” Then he made a face like he’d said something wrong even after trying not to. Flipping a page behind his clipboard he studied something written on it, suddenly acting like he had something important he should be doing.
I answered a little too fast. “Well, Reuben doesn’t have anything to worry about. I don’t think he’s my type.” Not the New Dana type anyway.
If and when Cord and I hooked up, I’d make sure he could be discrete. Plus, hooking up would ensure that any and all tension that I may or may not have had would be long gone before the wedding, leaving us fully capable of focusing on our friends. It was their big day after all.
It was just a matter of fact. He’d lose interest, and I’d be looking for someone who was ready for a relationship. Hell, in a perfect world, if I was lucky, I’d be taking the next guy with me to the wedding.
I looked at my watch hoping to subtly work my way out of the conversation. Although Nolan wasn’t being a shit or anything, I was uncomfortable.
Besides, I had super cool things to do that day. Like laundry.
Fine. My big plans were washing and drying my clothes, but since I was doing laundry, I’d also let myself have a guilty pleasure night. Wine, something I usually only drank by myself because I tended to get emotional sometimes from the vino. Some good tunes—maybe a little Tupac. And an adult coloring book. My pencils were already sharp and ready to haul ass across the pages.
Everyone had their thing. Mine just happened to be gangster rap and coloring until my hand looked like a claw. I’d get drunk, and—if I felt really wild—I’d order Chinese food.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to do something that night, but it was becoming harder and harder to find anyone worth partying with. Worth the sore feet until the next Tuesday. Worth the hangovers. Worth the pissing a hundred dollars down the drain in exchange for uninteresting conversation and watered-down cocktails. Vampire friends. The ones you only see between the hours of nine and three on a typical same-places-and-faces Saturday night.
On top of that, going out was getting kind of tired. Just like the Old Dana.
To say my transition phase was weird would be putting it mildly. New Dana was moving on from players to more stable men. From going out to the clubs to meeting up at music trivia for an early Friday night out and staying home on Saturday. From sleeping in as late as I could to working out almost every morning. It was a complete lifestyle change really, and it wasn’t that bad.
Plus, I was making new friends, like Nolan, who was flipping through his clipboard as I fidgeted like a weirdo.
“I’m heading out,” I said. “I have a lot of stuff to do. So …”
“Yeah, sure. Sorry. Don’t let me stop you,” he said, grinned, and headed down the hall. “See you later, Dana.”
I waited until he was around the corner, then I made a dash for the exit. I wasn’t suitable for the general public. My mind was all over the place.
Focusing on the nice wood floor beneath my marching feet, I pushed the glass door open, and I was met with cool air and the sound of his voice.
“Dana,” Cord said, and I looked up just in time to see him step up on the sidewalk from the parking lot. “Good morning.” His head held high, he gave me an award-winning smile.
What was the etiquette?
What was I supposed to say to the guy who charmed an orgasm out of me, but then didn’t jump at the opportunity to have actual sex?
Like I said, my head was scattered, and I wasn’t myself. So naturally, I said the coolest thing possible. “Yo.”
Yo. I died a thousand times inside.
He chuckled. “Yo, to you.”
It was hard to look him in the eye, but I forced myself to. I hadn’t behaved the way I had the night before because I’d drank too much. It was completely premeditated, but he didn’t know that.
Or did he?
Or had I?
I was confused about everything. I wanted to have sex with him, yet I wasn’t so sure.
He was giving signals like he wanted me back, but then he’d cooled off so fast.
If it was going to happen, it would have to be his move.
I broke our gaze and fumbled with my keys. “I have to … um … buy fabric softener.”
Again. Very smooth, but I was unprepared to see him. His tall, relaxed stance. His eyes that sometimes looked like they were grinning even when his mouth wasn’t. How sometimes I’d catch him looking at me like he knew me, but then I felt like I didn’t know myself at all when I looked back.
I lacked the aptitude to rationalize things. Especially, while he beamed at me like he was.
He said, “Okay, but hey. Do you want to do something later?”
If a passerby were watching, they would have witnessed me looking like a maniac walking sideways and pointing to my car. My stomach knotted and, in hindsight, popcorn might not have been my best choice for breakfast before a work out.
My head swam.
I spoke over my shoulder, “You mean something like …?”
… like the something we’d done the night before? Because, let’s be honest, I was down for that.
“I mean like barbecue,” he clarified. Then he casually lifted the side of his shirt and scratched his stomach, all the while flashing his abs at me. He repeated, “I think barbeque sounds good.”
“Barbecue?” I tripped a little over my foot and pried my eyes off his bare skin to see where I was going.
Finally, when I had my footing, I glanced back. He looked as confused as I felt.
“Sorry, I have to go,” I said to him from the door of my car about fifteen feet way, ready to pull it open.
Maybe I’d have to settle for a finger bang as my last hoorah because seeing him jacked with everything I had figured out. I didn’t have it in me to be a ho again, if that was what he was after.
I looked at my wrist, but I wasn’t wearing a watch.
His head fell to the side, and I gave him what I hoped was an apologetic smile, but I had to get out of there.
Seriously, I was hopeless.
The night wasn’t a total bust. Since it was early summer, I didn’t actually have as much laundry to do as I’d thought.
In Kansas, the weather can be unpredictable, but that evening, there was a nice warm breeze blowing through my windows, and I sat on the floor in my living room, listening to music, drinking wine, and taking my time with the intricate shapes and lines on the page I was coloring.
There was something almost meditative or hypnotic about just relaxing and letting your mind wander wherever. I never gave too much thought to the colors I chose, but that night I’d went with a selection that was made up of blues and browns. It was calming, and as I shaded the last portion with a pretty russet color, I felt a sense of accomplishment.
I sat back when I was done, finished the last of the Lambrusco in my glass, and then giggled. For a piece of paper with the word cocksucker on it, it sure was pretty. Maybe it was just the artistic font the designer had chosen, but it was the cutest cocksucker I’d ever seen.
I picked up the bottle to refill my glass, and as I gave it a testing shake, I remembered I’d emptied it on my last pour.
Good thing I had more.
I wondered what Cord was doing since I’d acted like a fool earlier. Was he out on the town? Did he go get barbecue? I’d thought about him every few minutes the whole day. Mostly of how disappointed and confused his face looked when I pretty much ran away that morning. Then my thoughts would return to last night.
The way he kissed. Smelled. Tasted. Sounded. How strong and gentle his touch was.
He was good. Better than good really.
It only verified that I’d chosen wisely for my last grand hoopla. Judging by the way his fingers quickly picked up on what I liked, I was sure he’d be excellent in bed.
The sooner that happened, the better.
It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy having the whole bottle of wine to myself and total control over the music that played, because I did.
On the contrary, there was a new part of me growing stronger, a part of me that was bored with myself. I wanted to learn about someone else as much as I wanted someone to take an interest in me. Someone to spend Saturday nights in with.
After tossing the empty bottle in the trash and hanging my cocksucker masterpiece on the refrigerator, I opened another bottle and refilled my glass.
A song came on over the speakers, and I started to sway. I’m not the best dancer in the world, but, in the privacy of my living room, I might as well be a flygirl, complete with my purple sweat pants and white ribbed tank top.
I led a very glamourous life.
The microwave said it was all of nine thirty and I was admittedly lonesome.
What would be the worst thing that could happen if I sent him a message? He might not answer because I’d been psycho, but maybe it would make up for it.
I returned to my spot on the floor in the living room and flipped over my phone. It was taunting me, daring me to do it.
What would be the best thing that could happen? Sex. Hot, passionate, sex with Cord Taylor.
It was worth a shot.
Realizing I still didn’t have his phone number, I quickly did a Google search for him. I could easily send him a message on Facebook like he had me the week before, but I wanted to give my sex with Cord the best shot I could. For whatever reason, my buzzed head told me social media wasn’t the way to do that. In less than a minute, I brought up his clean and well-designed site on my phone’s browser.
Just like I’d hoped, when I clicked on the section with his contact information, there was his cell phone number. The thrill had me taking two long drinks of my favorite red, but it was cheap, so I didn’t feel bad drinking it like Kool-Aid. With only a few more clumsy taps on the screen, I had him saved in my contacts.
Having the information, and therefore nothing stopping me, I kind of felt nervous. What if that asshole voice in the back of my head, the one saying that he wasn’t interested in me, was right?
That would suck.
I picked up a sapphire colored pencil and tapped it against the glass top of my coffee table where I’d set up shop for the night. After a few deep breaths, I found my balls and opened a new text message. I’d send him something casual, and heed Becca’s advice—see what happens.
If he didn’t get it until later, then fine. No harm done. But if he was available and sent me something back, it was on.
I took another sip for extra courage.
ME: Hi. It’s Dana.
I wondered if he knew many Dana’s. From the way Nolan and Becca talked about him, he knew lots of ladies.
ME: Dana Rogers from last night.
I sent that last one before I realized how fucking stupid I sounded.
From last night? Uh, hur hur hur.
I rolled my eyes and laid my head back on the cushion of the couch behind me. The memory of what he’d done to me the night before in that very spot flashed through my mind again.
Those talented hands.
Fuck it. It was still worth it.
I took another drink, but most of it slid down my chin to my shirt. Funnily enough, the red wine looked almost purple on the cotton, and it kind of matched my pants. So there.
I switched out of the text message into the playlist app and scrolled through my music. I needed something empowering. Something less fuck bitches, and more I am woman. Something that said yeah, I’m horny and acting like a fool, but so fucking what. I want what I want, and I don’t mind going after it. Rawr.
Beyoncé it was.
As I looked through her catalog for the right anthem to match my mood, I saw his reply come through. A notification flashed, but all I saw was CORD TAYLOR and I closed my eyes.
I’d hoped that he’d respond quickly, but I wasn’t expecting him to reply that fast. My pulse skipped around, and I took another drink before opening the message. My stomach tensed.
CORD: Dana from last night, did you think I’d forget you that fast?
Game. It’s just a game. Play along, Dana.
ME: I wasn’t sure. I bet you know lots of Danas.
I bit my lip.
When I usually had a man in my sights, I played it cool, and I’d passively wait for them to contact me. This was definitely not my normal behavior, but it was so much more exciting.
CORD: I did NOT forget you.
My mind wandered evilly, making up an image of him out on a date with someone else. Some combination of a dirty slut and filthy whore. A slore.
Dana, focus.
ME: I’m sure you’re busy. I just wanted to give you my number.
Don’t be a pussy.
ME: I had a good time last night.
CORD: I’m not busy. Just good, huh?
Oh, God. What was I supposed to say to that? Why wasn’t I a better tramp? I sat there thinking of something flirty and witty to reply, but he didn’t give me enough time.
CORD: The Waffle House is better than just good. What are you doing now?
I smiled thinking about the Waffle House. It had been awesome, even though I’d let him think I hadn’t liked it much. The company hadn’t been that bad either.
I was compelled to make up something cool that I was doing, then changed my mind. I didn’t need to pretend this was something it wasn’t. I’d be brutally honest.
ME: I was thinking about inviting you over.
I sent it, then covered my face and screamed into my palms. Maybe I wasn’t that terrible of a whore after all. It was probably because I’d drunk damn near a bottle and a half of cheap red wine. That seemed like something a slut would do too.
After a minute of no reply. I considered sending a text that said just kidding.
CORD: I can’t come over.
Well, shit. There it was. I slumped over and laid my head on the floor. The big billowy wad of hair at the back of my head making the wood almost comfortable. I dropped my phone to my chest.
CORD: I can’t drive, but I still want to see you. Will you come here?
I lifted my cell and read the screen from between my boobs, giving myself layers upon layers of double chins I was sure.
He was drunk too?
Wait. Was I drunk? Like drunk-drunk? Absolutely. Not woozy, fally-over drunk, but definitely well passed buzzed. There was no way I’d ever consider driving anywhere—the promise of amazing sex or not.
ME: I can’t drive either. I’ve drunk too much.
CORD: Where are you?
ME: On the floor.
CORD: What?
ME: At my house. I’m on the floor in my living room.
CORD: Are you all right?
ME: Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just hanging out. Coloring.
Oh, my God. I had to stop. I’d went from slut team six to six-year-old.
My phone rang.
“Hello,” I said with absolute certainty it was him. I should have sent the call to voicemail.
“Coloring?” he asked, laughing. “Tell me that was a typo?”
If only.
“It’s for adults, okay?” I sat up, prepared to defend myself and my naughty word coloring book.
“I don’t believe you. Send me a picture.”
“No.” The only one I’d finished out of the book was the cocksucker hanging on my Frigidaire. No fucking way.
“Fine. Then come over here.”
Even though I was tipsy, I picked up a change in his voice. The night before, he’d had a few drinks at the bar, but on the phone, his voice was even warmer and slower.
I considered getting an Uber because I wanted to see him, but looking like I was?
Clearly, when I had the fantasy of him coming over, I’d magically cleaned up a bit and made myself look sexy. Until that moment, I hadn’t taken into account all of the work that would entail.
“I don’t know,” I said as I got to my feet and walked to the mirror on the other side of the room. Hair everywhere. Spill on my shirt. No bra. No makeup. Wine stained mouth. A complete hot mess.
“You don’t know about what?” His words were clear but sewn together. Almost like he was singing them.
“I’d need to take a shower and change and …” I began, and then the words fizzled out.
Where in the fuck was my head?
Damn wine had fucked me all up. I wasn’t in any condition to seduce a man like Cord.
My phone chimed with a picture. It was him, in what looked like a garage, wearing a faded black shirt with a stretched-out collar. His hair wasn’t neatly styled like it had been the night before, but his face was still as striking.
I instantly felt better and put the phone back to my ear.
“What are you doing?”
“Changing the oil in my bike.”
He had a bike? Shit. I wasn’t a Harley momma or anything, but picturing him on a motorcycle was fucking hot.
“Oh, you’re a biker?” Without the forethought to filter my words through a less affected voice, I sounded breathy and silly.
“Hardly. I’ve only had it about a year. Send me a picture of you.”
I was still living in my biker fantasy when I lifted the phone and snapped a quick selfie, careful not to go too high and give him the cliché cleavage shot. There was a thin line between acting like a ho and actually being one. It wasn’t the best photo, but I didn’t give it too much thought as I sent it to him.
I held the phone to my ear to listen for a reaction, sure he was going to laugh at me.
“Yeah, you look just fine. Hey, let me call you right back. Okay?” His voice was smooth and relaxing, and I easily agreed.
After we hung up, I walked to my bathroom and pulled the elastic from my hair only to throw it right back up. There were just too many ponytail lines to even attempt at making it look good down.
It was then I realized I was still wearing my glasses and I berated myself for not taking them off before I sent the picture. I never wore them out in public. I was a contact wearer for the most part. I rarely ever even wore frames to work.
When he called back a few minutes later, I answered right away.
“Hi.”
“Jared, the cab driver from last night, will be there in five minutes. I have beer and rum and stuff, but not any wine. So if that’s what you’re drinking, you might want to bring a bottle if you want more.”
I knew better than mixing, but was I really about to go over there like that?
As I debated with myself, I made an unsure hum in my throat.
Was I too much of a wreck to go?
“Come on. I want to see you.”
Turns out that was all the persuading I needed. “Fine. I have to go.”
I ended the call and ran into my room. I’d showered after the gym—thank God—so I wasn’t filthy. I was … well, without makeup and clothes, I was just plain old me.
Then again, in my personal opinion, there was this thing about wearing sweats that felt slightly sexy. Maybe it was the way they fit low. Perhaps it was a combination of having way too much wine, being epically horny, and totally short on time.
I decided the sweats could stay, but, at very least, I needed a new shirt. Good thing they sell boy’s fitted tank tops in three-packs because I pulled another one out and replaced the wine sullied top in record time. Well, after I put on a bra anyway.
In seconds, I found my favorite flip-flops, relieved that I’d at least had a pedicure the week before. But really, what good are nice looking feet if the rest of you looks like hell? Five minutes didn’t leave any time for makeup or anything like that, and I just prayed it was dim at his house. And that he was far sighted.
In lieu of sprucing up my appearance, I marched to the kitchen and found the wine bottle koozie thing that I’d gotten from Jodi for my birthday last fall. She knew me well.
I didn’t bother getting a new bottle out of the bottom of the fridge, instead I tightened the lid to the open one, and told myself that it was more than I really needed anyway.
I wasn’t sure what I was about to get myself into, but I couldn’t deny that I was dying to see him.
What a difference a few hours and some spoiled grapes can make.