Cash Jensen was a lousy lay at best, which was exactly how I wanted it. There was no doubt a dictionary existed in a corner of the world with his headshot next to the words: vain, arrogant, and hot-headed jerk. That laundry list of craptastic behaviors, along with being robbed of my third orgasm that week, helped keep my attachment to him at a bare minimum. It was perfect—a less than lukewarm connection, at least from my perspective. I called it my “five fingers” plan. As long as someone had a constancy of five or more shitty qualities, emotional investment was impossible. However, Cash was a special breed of asshole. He exceled at being part of my elite “ten fingers and ten toes” plan.
“Oh, Cash.” Each pelvic thrust was monotonous as I rolled my eyes behind closed lids. The words I spoke were forced and detached. “Don’t. Stop.” I did my best to make it sound like “don’t stop”, more of a command than two separate sentences. But I failed. As usual, he was too wrapped up in himself to notice. Let’s call a dick a dick here. Cash was a speed fucker, a two-pump chump, a cock sneeze.
Some girls would argue I settled for dating Cash and his silicone personality. Okay, I’ll be honest. Most girls wouldn’t even qualify what we did as “dating”. Any details I offered about my arrangement with him were vague and his identity kept under wraps. The responses I received were usually greeted with a disapproving head bob, a wince, or a consoling pat on the shoulder. Sometimes, I’d even get all three at the same time. I called that combination the She Has an Asshole Trifecta or SHAT. I’d lost count of how many times I’d been “SHAT” on, thanks to Cash Jensen. It was so bad, shots of alcohol were even offered my way at a bar one night by a nun who’d overheard one of my lame sauce stories. Now, if a bar-hopping nun’s pitying your sex life, something’s wrong. Really wrong. Why did I stick around? It was minimal effort because relationships were overrated. Every single one of them.
“More.” I began creating a grocery list in my head as he grunted, pounding me into the mattress like a caffeinated jackhammer with a thirty-second battery life. Bread. Milk. Eggs. Tampons.
Cash was good enough, a warm body for me to sleep next to a couple of nights per week, and he served as someone to give off the illusion of the R-word. Relationship. Yuck. I swear, those four syllables teamed up together gave me a case of hives. But it kept sleazy men at bay from asking me on dates, and it discouraged the few people from my pathetic excuse of an inner circle from playing matchmaker. Knowing there was “someone” in my life seemed to be the ticket, even though I could’ve bought an inflatable doll and passed it off as a significant other. Oh, wait. That was the equivalent of Cash.
I shuddered at the thought of that stupid R-word. Never again.
“Damn, I’m a motherfuckin’ stallion.” Cash growled as he rolled off my body, both sweaty and spent. He folded his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling with a satisfied smile. I knew that look all too well. His next words would be a confident, ‘“Wasn’t I incredible?”. He wasn’t asking for my opinion. He was informing me he’d scored his performance an A-plus grade.
I parted my lips slightly and mouthed the phrase as he spoke it aloud.
“Wasn’t I incredible?” he asked.
I knitted my brow and pushed a stray lock of dark hair out of my face. “Yep. You’re a raging sex god.”
My monotone response wasn’t lost on him, but don’t go thinking he was tuned in to my emotions on a regular basis or any similar bullshit. That wasn’t his style. Getting any level of sensitivity out of him was rare and only happened when pigs took flight. On most days, I was able to mask my dissatisfaction to stroke his ego. In turn, Cash was usually too focused on himself to notice.
Rolling onto his side, he propped his head up with his hand, his elbow resting on the pillow. “C’mon, baby. You were good too. I could tell by the way you moaned my name at the end.” He paused for a fraction of a second. “Seriously though. What was your favorite part? Was it the thrusting to the beat while I sang the chorus of Mambo Number 5? That was great, wasn’t it?” There was no room for a response. “Either way, you were one lucky lady to be part of it.” He winked, made a clicking sound, and formed his thumb and index finger into a gun shape. Then, he offered me a cheesy grin while pulling the imaginary trigger.
Be still my beating heart. Did he really do that? And if he did, why haven’t I noticed it before? I thought to myself as I opened my mouth to unleash a snarky comment, but Cash cut me off again.
“It’s okay. If I were you, I probably wouldn’t be able to choose the numero uno momento either. See? Those Spanish courses from the late-night infomercial you made fun of are starting to pay off. Olé!”
I withheld my glare, but it was my own fault I stayed with Cash; I knew that. Plus, faking my climax again didn’t help my mood. It hadn’t always been that way, or so I tried to convince my libido on multiple occasions. Call it lying to myself. Call it some masochistic form of self-punishment. Call me a martyr. Any way you looked at it, Cash’s ego had gone into overdrive and his sexual stamina into underdrive. I couldn’t break it off though. My life was complicated.
He was Cash Jensen, what many would consider a trophy boyfriend. Yet, I felt like the loser. Irony at its finest. There was no secret; he was gorgeous. Anyone could see that. Piercing blue eyes. Tousled blond hair that looked great at any time of day. Dimples complementing a strong jaw. Tanned skin that made every suntan model in America jealous. Not to mention a muscular physique requiring few trips to the gym. It was enough to make most women’s ovaries swoon with excitement—but not mine. That’s where the vision faded. Skin deep. Cash was like a latex balloon. Thin-skinned. Empty up top. Full of hot air. Ready to pop at the first hint of penetration. It was transparent and shallow companionship. The greatest perk was it couldn’t lead anywhere serious.
I was convinced our mediocre partnership was better than being alone where awful memories would hunt me down, screaming for my attention. And that same level of mediocre was more desirable than a healthy and stable relationship where I’d be emotionally invested. Mediocre was my theme, my safe zone, and that was okay. It was where I was protected, and I could never be broken again.
Surfacing to the present, I shoved Cash’s egotistical behavior and his hand aside while looking at the clock. “Shit!” I sat upright in bed, tossing back the European down comforter. The damn thing was worth three months of my salary. For that price, I joked it had been stitched by unicorns and enchanted fairies. “It’s almost seven. I’m gonna be late.”
As I hurried around the bedroom, rifling through the aftermath of the clothing tornado, Cash grabbed my waist and pulled me against him. The skin-to-skin contact made me cringe. “It’s fortunate you have an in with your boss.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Just because you sign my paycheck doesn’t mean there isn’t talk around the water cooler. I have to be on my A-game to avoid the whispers and the looks. Everyone’s so fucking nosy around there. Plus, your brother would nail my ass to the wall if he knew we—”
“Whispering? Someone giving you grief at the office, baby?” A muscle clenched along Cash’s jaw. He was always looking for a reason to exercise his authority. “I’ll fire them. Give me names.”
“Relax. I can fight my own lunchroom battles. Workplace relationships are frowned upon by—”
Cash stifled a fake yawn. “What did you do? Memorize the employee handbook? It’s not very becoming on you.” He rolled his eyes before turning over to graze his fingertips along my thigh. “Now, if I were on you, I’d be coming—”
I swatted his exploratory fingers away as they made a sudden grab for my tit. “Late. Remember?”
“Besides, don’t forget I own half of that company.”
“Forty-nine percent, if you want to be technical about it, Cash.”
He held up his index finger to correct me. “Dr. Cash.”
“I already told you I’m not roleplaying and calling you ‘Dr. Cash’.”
He sighed and crossed his beefy arms.
“Look, your brother still outranks you by one percent, so he makes the final decisions around there. Case closed.”
“Can we not talk about Price after the award-winning performance that occurred in this bed? Remember, I’m a sex god. Thanks to me, the star. And you, Blue, were my supporting role.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
My cell phone buzzed on the nightstand, interrupting our conversation. I was thankful. Scratch that. I was only appreciative until I saw who was calling.
I glanced at the screen while Daveigh’s name flashed in bold red letters. “Ugh. Not today, drama queen,” I mumbled.
“Problem?” Cash nibbled my shoulder, his facial stubble abrasive against my skin.
I wriggled away from him. “I’ll deal with it later.”
An envelope blinked in the upper corner. New voicemail. A few seconds later, a text message popped up in the center of the display.
“For the love of…leave me alone.” I sighed.
“Wait.” Cash grabbed the phone as he examined the screen. Who’s Davey, and why is he texting you this early in the morning?”
I snatched it from his grip. “Stop pissing on me to mark your territory. Her name is Daveigh, and it’s pronounced Duh-VAY. She’s my sister. I’ve mentioned her to you a thousand times.”
“Sister. Right,” he echoed, and I could almost see the mental sticky note he made for future reference. I was willing to bet it would flutter to the floor of his overinflated brain within a matter of minutes and we’d have a repeat of the same conversation within the next week.
I jammed the phone into my purse and grabbed a thin sweater from the smallest drawer in the bureau. It was Cash’s birthday gift to me. The drawer. Not the sweater. I was less than impressed with the gesture, especially considering he’d only given me half the space while he acted as if he’d presented me with the Holy Grail.
“Will I see you tonight?” Cash flashed me his abnormally white smile, the text message already lost in his mind.
I worked my waves of black hair up into a sloppy ponytail while pinning a thick rubber band between my teeth. “Maybe.”
“Cash Jensen doesn’t do maybe,” he replied.
“Well, Blue Brennan doesn’t do conversations where Cash Jensen talks in third person. You know it creeps me out.”
“Oh, come on, baby.” He smiled. “That new sushi restaurant opened downtown, and I’ve been dying to try it. Plus, that dirty art exhibit unveiled at The Miriah. Rumor has it there’s a sea of cock sockets dangling from the ceiling. Each one is suspended by fishing line. It’s like they’re floating. Think about it. Sushi. Vaginas. It’d be considered a theme night.”
Although I was impressed Cash finally used the word “theme” correctly in a sentence, my heart hesitated as the morning took a sudden nosedive. “P…public? Cash, we can’t—”
“Shhhh.” He held a finger up to my lips. “Maybe it’s time we take our relationship out from under the sheets and into the real world.”
My stomach sank to the floor as I headed toward the kitchen with Cash in tow. Whoa, cowboy. Relationship? My mind whirled while I questioned what pivotal point made him think we’d achieved that status. I banked on it being second-rate sex and meaningless dinner conversation. To me, he was a placeholder for a void I vowed to never permanently fill. It was my worst nightmare come true. Keeping what Cash and I had hidden was where I wanted it—swept under the rug. Maybe under a dozen rugs. Thick ones. Oh! And a cement floor. Six feet under. Having people see us together would make what we had real. Work had always been the perfect excuse for secrecy. Why was he changing the rules on me?
“You don’t have to tell me, I already know what you’re going to say. The restaurant is ritzy, out of the way, and you don’t like sushi. I get it. None of it’s your style or your comfort zone, but that’s all fine with me. I promise it’ll be worth your while when we get back to my place.” He ran his tongue over his teeth before gesturing at his crotch. “Mini Cash will make sure of it.”
Mini Cash? I was speechless, and perhaps that was for the best.
“Shhhh….” He held up his index finger to my lips again, squashing them flat this time. “I can see it on your face. You’re going to say, ‘We always go to your place. Why can’t we go to mine?’ I’ve been thinking about it. Yours is a little too crummy for me.”
“Crummy?” I felt nauseated as I filled my travel mug with coffee and stuffed a giant blueberry muffin in my purse. I wasn’t sure if it were because of the impending date, Cash’s words, or his sleazy mouth gesture. Maybe it was all three, and I’d been SHAT on yet again.
Cash nodded toward my purse. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
Considering the conversation that morning, I began questioning every choice I’d made since meeting him. “Is what a good idea?” I snapped.
“An entire muffin. Every day you’re here, you take one for breakfast. Do you have any idea how many carbs and grams of sugar are in those?” He reached for a bottle of low-sugar, low-fat, low-calorie, low-flavored protein shake from the fridge and extended his hand out to me. “Here. This won’t cling to your ass, requiring me to lipo it later.”
Anger didn’t begin to describe what I felt. I wrinkled my nose at the wildly-colored label with misspellings, recalling the flavor and consistency were both comparable to lawn clippings. The bottle showed a picture of a cartoon peach with ridiculously large biceps, but it lied like a sack of potatoes. Nothing about it tasted like fruit…or French fries for that matter. “Not interested in the shitty shakes your cousin sells out of his garage. He’s had five lawsuits slapped against him from customers who’ve gotten sick.”
“Suit yourself,” he let out a condescending sigh and put the bottle back in the refrigerator, “but don’t come crying to me when you can’t button your jeans. Remember, your metabolism is going to slow down in a few years.”
“I’m perfectly happy with my pant size. If I want a blueberry muffin, I’m going to eat a fucking blueberry muffin.”
Cash gripped my shoulders in a possessive gesture and spun me around in a circle slowly, taking inventory of my frame from head to toe. “I’m just saying, I’d honor the employee discount to do some work on you. Call it a perk of sleeping with a plastic surgeon. A little tightening here.” He lightly squeezed my upper arms and then palmed my ass. “A little lift back here. And maybe some breast implants to boost the twins up another cup size. Don’t get me wrong, it’ll take some definite work on my end, but I’d have you flawless eventually.”
I narrowed my eyes and moved out of his reach. “I’ve turned you down hundreds of times for nipping and tucking. That’s not gonna change. Even though I work for you, we both know I’m not interested in the services you provide.”
“What we both know is you are interested in some of my services you haven’t turned down.” He winked. “How many months have we been sleeping together?”
There wasn’t time to fight with him. I was already late for work. From any angle, I didn’t know what more to say, so I merely sagged my shoulders in defeat. Arguing or coming up with every excuse imaginable in the situation would be pointless. Headache? He’d take me to an acupuncturist before dinner. Emergency root canal? He’d call his dentist at three in the morning if it meant dragging me to an art museum where vagina artwork was on display. Brushing my goldfish’s hair? He’d call in a favor from a salon to appease me. One fact was certain. Cash Jensen was known for not taking “no” for an answer.