Blame It on the Weird Green Glow

 

“Fuck me sideways.” I laugh as I tiptoe back to my bedroom. “Did I really just see what I think I saw?”

Yeah, it would appear so. If I had any doubt the past five minutes were a dream, it’s dispelled every time I blink. There seems to be a glowy green burned on the back of my lids.

Well, on the bright side of things—no pun intended—one thing is clear. If I wasn’t 100 percent sure before that Aubrey Shelburne is attracted to me, after what I just witnessed, I am now absolutely certain.

Holy shit, she was getting herself off while thinking of me. I heard her calling out my name…and my number. I had no idea I had a starring role in her fantasies. Too bad I missed the main event. Instead, I was left dodging that fake green dick when I ventured into her room.

What the hell was that thing, anyway?

The shape was normal enough, so, yeah, I knew what it was. But what was with the bright glow… and the color… and the 51 on the side?

Mysteries, all of them, except for maybe the 51. I think I have that one figured out. Not only is it the same number I wear, but Aubrey was chanting it like a Benedictine monk. Wow, I wonder if she bought the sex toy because of the number on the side.

“Nah, that’s just wishful thinking,” I mutter as I crawl back into bed. “But she was definitely fantasizing about you.”

I feel kind of bad for walking in on her while she was engaged in such a personal act. If I had suspected that was going on, I would’ve heeded her warning to not come in.

You’re just disappointed she covered up before we could see her completely naked, my dick, coming to life, chimes in.

I ignore him. I’ve given him enough attention for the night.

Anyway, I never would’ve ventured from my room in the first place had I not noticed the strange green glow out in the hall. It was so bright it was shining in from under the door. I was almost asleep, but that shit woke me the hell up.

“What the fuck?” I mumbled. “Is there some kind of chemical spill in my house?”

You never know living out here in Nevada. There are military installations all around, and I’m sure they test all sorts of crazy things. Something could seep into the ground, or emit into the air. Hell, Area 51 is less than a hundred miles from my house.

That’s when it hits me that Aubrey’s toy is Area 51-themed.

Oh my God. You bet your ass I am going to have all kinds of fun with this.

 

 

Turns out, my fun with Aubrey has to be put on hold.

Claiming she’s not feeling well, she holes up in her room the entire next day. I go about my usual business, which includes diligently following the new team-approved routine she has me on.

First, I eat a nice, healthy Aubrey-approved breakfast, consisting of an egg white omelet with fresh peppers, fruit and whole grain toast. I then go down to the arena to skate for a while. I’m back in time for dinner, but there’s still no sign of my life coach.

I actually kind of miss her being around and giving me a hard time. I consider running out and buying some alcohol just so I can lure her out of her room to yell at me. But that’d probably be a bad idea.

I decide instead to make her some dinner, something I can take up to her. I’m not really good with anything fancy, but spaghetti is within my repertoire. After I boil some water and toss in a handful of noodles, I heat up a jar of marinara. I even grate some fresh parmesan into a little bowl. After I plate the pasta, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and place everything on a serving tray.

“Nah, that doesn’t look right.”

I pour the water into a pretty crystal goblet and run outside to snip one of the more colorful desert flowers that grow in my yard. Once I have the purple bloom placed in a bud vase, I add it to the tray, satisfied that the whole presentation looks really nice.

Upstairs, and while balancing the tray in one hand, I knock on Aubrey’s bedroom door. “Hey, it’s me. Are you awake?”

No answer.

“I brought you some dinner.”

That gets a response, but not the one I’m hoping for. “I’m not hungry, Brent. Just go away.”

Not a chance. “Aw, come on,” I press. “I made it myself.”

Silence.

I lean my forehead against the door and try to make a joke. “I promise I didn’t poison any of it.”

Nothing.

“Aubrey? You have to be hungry. You’ve been in that room since last night when you went to bed.”

I hear her groan. “Ugh, please. Can we forget last night ever happened?”

Sighing, I say quietly, but still loud enough for her to hear, “Look, I’m sorry I walked in on you. I was just worried about that…glow.”

“Stop, pleeeeease!”

I try another tactic. “For the record, there’s no reason to be embarrassed. Hell, I beat off all the time and—”

Wait, that’s probably making things worse.

But then I hear Aubrey let out an amused snort, and I can’t help but smile. Maybe I am getting through to her?

“Come on,” I say. “Let me at least bring in your dinner. I’ll leave right away if that’s what you want.”

When she mutters a barely audible, “Okay,” I hurry in before she changes her mind.

First thing I notice is her “51” toy is no longer lying on the floor. I guess Aubrey put the freaky, glowing dick away. Which is good, seeing as the last thing I’d want to do is step on the thing and crush his green shaft. That would be like adding insult to injury.

“Just leave whatever you brought on the dresser,” she mumbles from where she’s buried under a pile of blankets.

I do as she asks, but instead of leaving I walk over to her cocoon.

“You seriously cannot be this embarrassed,” I say. “Really, what happened is not that big of a deal.”

“It is when I’m supposed to be here in a professional capacity,” she says very loudly from under the covers, which kind of negates the whole “professional” aspect, more so than that sex toy.

“Yes, speaking to me while buried in blankets really gets that professionalism point across.”

Oh shit. That gets the blankets off her.

Aubrey pops out from under the covers like one of those fake critters in the Whack-A-Mole arcade game. And wouldn’t you know it; she’s dressed in squirrel-themed pajamas. Mole, squirrel, whatever, this chick is still hot.

I resist the urge to laugh as she narrows her turquoise eyes at me from behind her glasses. It reminds me of that morning, and I chuckle a little.

“You know you’re just making things worse, right?” she says.

Her long dark hair is a mess, in a sexy, tousled kind of way. And even though she has on no makeup and glasses—and the squirrel pj’s are kind of silly—she looks really pretty.

I decide fired-up Aubrey is a good look for her.

But I better not fire her up any more. “I’m sorry,” I say.

She puts her face in her hands, which I take as a cue to sit down on the edge of the bed.

“Listen, Brent,” she begins, looking up and straightening her now-askew glasses. “I’m thinking of calling my firm this evening.”

“Why?”

“So they can send someone out to take my place.”

“Wait.” I’m confused and panicked. I don’t want her to go. “Why would you want to do something like that?”

She shakes her head. “How can you ever take me seriously now? You walked in on me basically fucking a sex toy. And not just any toy, but one that’s florescent green, and that freaking glows.”

“The glowing part is an interesting feature,” I note, all nonchalant as I try to view the incident in a practical manner and hopefully put her at ease. “I have to say one thing, though. That sucker sure is bright. I bet it’d make a great flashlight if you were ever stranded somewhere.”

She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Yes, Brent, I can see where that feature would come in handy.” Her tone is pure sarcasm. “Next time I’m out on some lonely road at night, and I just have to get myself off—because women do that on desolate roads oh-so-often—I’ll be sure to thank my lucky stars that I happened to have on hand the only sex toy that doubles as a freaking flashlight.”

I decide then and there to share something I’ve never told anyone. Maybe it’ll quell her irritation with me.

“Hey, that needing to get-off-while-driving thing isn’t all that farfetched. I can’t speak for women, but men can get horny anywhere. There was this one time I was so hot and bothered that I had to pull off the road to take care of business.”

She seems equal part horrified and intrigued. Intrigued wins out.

“Really?” she says. “What’d you do?”

Sheepishly, I admit, “Uh, I jacked off in some weeds.” After a thoughtful pause, I add, “Come to think of it, good thing it was late at night. And really good thing there wasn’t any poison ivy in those weeds.”

She nods in agreement. “Definitely. That would’ve really sucked if there’d been any type of poisonous plant and you’d gotten too close.”

“Like itch weed?” I say, going with it.

“Ooh, itch weed would’ve been bad, very bad. You know,”—she waves her hand at my junk—“especially down there.”

I wince at the thought. And then we share a smile. “I can’t believe we’re seriously discussing me masturbating on the side of a road.”

“Right?” she says, smiling. “Guess we can pretty much talk about anything after last night.”

“It would seem so,” I reply, chuckling. “So do you feel better?”

“Yes, actually I do. Thanks, Brent.”

Softly, I ask, “Does this mean you won’t be calling your firm? You’ll stay here with me?”

After a long pause, she says, “Yes, I’ll stay.”

“And”—I jerk my thumb over to remind her of the tray on the dresser—“you’ll eat your dinner like a good girl?”

“Hey, who’s life-coaching who here?” she says with a laugh.

In a more serious tone, I say, “Sometimes all of us could use a little help, even life coaches.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

I retrieve the tray and as I place it on her lap, I say, “How about, just for today, you let me take care of you?”

Surprisingly, she agrees. “All right. But only for today.”

Aubrey begins to eat her dinner, and we talk about mundane things, like how my day went, in between bites.

At one point, she holds out a forkful of pasta for me. “This is really good,” she says around a mouthful. “You should try it.”

“I know what it tastes like. I made it, remember?”

“That’s even more reason for you to have some.” She wiggles the fork in front of my face, encouraging me to bite.

I’m planning to decline since it is the only meal she’s had all day, but when a noodle comes dangerously close to hitting me in the face, I have no choice but to let her feed me the forkful of spaghetti.

After I’m done and as she’s pulling away, I grab her hand. Slipping the fork from her grasp, I say softly, “It’s my turn now.”

I proceed to twirl spaghetti, and holding it out to her, I urge, “Be a good girl, Aubrey, and open your mouth.”

With a smile she can’t hide, and a bit of a blush, she lets me feed her, just like she did for me.

We take turns feeding each other, but finally I have to say, “This is supposed to be your dinner, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter. I like sharing it with you.”

“Yeah, I kind of like you sharing it with me too.”

After we’re done eating, I figure it’s probably time for me to leave. But when I start to stand she asks me to stay.

“You sure you’re not too sleepy?” I say, cognizant that it’s getting late.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you kidding? I slept all damn day.”

“True.”

“Hey!”

I evade a smack, as well as the plate that almost tips into my lap. Catching it and slipping the tray off her, I say, “Okay, I’ll stay. But let me move this thing before we both end up covered in tomato sauce.”

“Good call.”

After placing the tray back on the dresser, I return to the edge of her bed. Aubrey wiggles back against the pillows, getting comfortable. “So… What should we talk about now?” she asks.

Waggling my brows, I propose, “More masturbation stories?”

She hits me with a pillow. “No way. Any more talk of itch weed and I’m going to break out in a rash.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

Sighing, she says, “Why don’t you tell me about your family, Brent.”

That sounds good to me, but I insist she’ll have to share with me, as well.

We proceed to talk about everything. Not just families, but her days at college, and my time in juniors. She tells me about the townhouse she bought in Chicago, but explains that it’s only been her home for a short while. She was born and raised in western Pennsylvania. We talk about my life growing up in Minnesota, and I share with her some of my fondest memories, like the hours I used to spend skating out on the pond at the back of our house.

“Wait. Didn’t you say before that you guys had an indoor rink?”

“Yeah, we did. But I liked skating outdoors way better.”

Pretending to shiver, she says, “Ugh, but winters are so brutal up there.”

“They’re no worse than the ones in Pennsylvania.”

When she gives me a yeah right look, I concede, “Okay, yeah, ours are probably worse.”

She tells me about her sister, Lainey, and when I hear how fun-loving and carefree she is, I say, “We should set her up with Benny. He’s a let-the-good-times-roll kind of guy. They’d probably be perfect together.”

“Who’s Benny?” she asks.

“Benjamin Perry. He’s one of my teammates.”

“Oh, wait.” She holds up her hand. “I read about him in the file they gave me. He’s on your line. Plays left wing, right?”

“Left wing, eh?” I laugh. “Sounds like someone’s been brushing up on their hockey terminology. And yes, that would be the same Benny.”

We talk about hockey for a while. Hell, I could talk about hockey all night. But eventually our conversation turns to my father. I feel so comfortable with her that I end up sharing how all I’ve ever wanted to do in this life is make my dad proud of me.

“I’m sure he’s plenty proud already,” she says with a smile that tells me she thinks I’m a big deal. That makes me feel amazing.

“I’m sure he is,” I reply. “But I don’t think he’ll ever truly be happy till I win a Cup.”

“A Stanley Cup, right?”

She is too adorable.

“That would be the one.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of pressure, Brent,” she says as her brows crease with concern.

It’s sweet she’s worried, but I assure her, “I’m used to pressure. I’m the captain of the team, remember?”

“I know. I meant family pressure.”

I shrug. “Eh, it’s always been that way. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so my parents’ expectations have always fallen on me.”

She eyes me warily.

“Uh-oh, what’s that look for?”

“I was just thinking,” she says. “Do you think maybe that’s part of the reason why you sabotage yourself sometimes?”

Whoa now, hold the bus.

Bristling, I snap, “Are you life-coaching me right now?”

She shakes her head. “No, not intentionally. But it is a legitimate question. I’m asking it tonight, though, simply as your friend.”

I cock my head. “Is that what we are now?”

“You tell me.”

She is becoming my friend, it’s true. Despite all our run-ins, or maybe because of them, we’re growing closer and closer. Though, if I’m to be honest with myself, I kind of want more. Oh hell, there’s no “kind-of” about it when it comes to any of my feelings for Aubrey.

But the friend zone is safe—and allowed—so I say, “Yes, we’re friends.”

She smiles. “I think so too.” Pinning me down with serious turquoise eyes, she resumes her earlier line of questioning. “So back to the point, friend. Do you think all that pressure has made you rebel and act out?”

“Act out? You make me sound like a three-year-old.”

“Some of your behavior would rival that of a three-year-old.”

I let out a snort. “You are life-coaching me now, Miss Shelburne. Don’t try to deny it.”

“Maybe just a little,” she admits. “But I’d really like to hear your answer, as your friend and as your life coach.”

“Wow, okay.” I run my hands through my hair. “You know, I’ve never thought about it like that. But it does make sense. There is an element of rebellion in most of the things I do.”

Softly, and after a long pause, she says, “Maybe that’s because a person has to want for themselves all the things other people are pushing them to do. You can’t live your life for someone else, Brent.”

“I don’t.” I shake my head. On this, I’m sure. “I really want those things too.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I hate that she makes me analyze myself like this. But I know it’s for my own benefit.

Why do I sabotage things? I want success; I definitely want to win championships. But—and this is why her being here has been so helpful—I don’t want those things all alone. Sure, there’s an entire team striving for the same thing as me, but it’s different. I want to share my success with someone who really cares about me, but also someone who can call me out on my bullshit.

Like Aubrey.

Hell, no. She’s my life coach and my friend, nothing more.

Liar.

Getting involved with her is strictly forbidden, remember?

We could always say ‘fuck it.’

Shit, this is too confusing, so I just answer her question. “To be honest…and this is hard to admit…”

“Go on.”

“I think I’m the kind of guy who needs someone to share things with.”

“You have your parents—”

“Not like that.” I make a face. “I mean something different.”

“Oh? Ohhh…” It finally dawns on her. “You mean you want to share all the good things in your life with a girlfriend, or even a wife.”

I pin her with a withering look. “Let’s not get crazy here. I’m not ready for marriage.”

“Okay. Well, a girlfriend, then.”

“Maybe someone like that,” I say, hedging.

Shit, I don’t want to sound like a total pussy here.

“Hey,” I say in a rush, “can we talk about something else? I think my dick is turning in on itself and becoming a vagina.”

She rolls her eyes at my colorful imagery. “Sure, Brent,” she dryly replies. “Pick a new topic.”

“How about something simple, like what’s your favorite color?”

“It depends on the day,” she replies.

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Aubrey.” I sigh. “And you say I’m difficult. Okay, what about food? Have any favorite dishes?”

On that, she has an immediate response. “I love anything with tomato sauce.”

“Hmm, interesting. Guess I chose wisely when I was trying to decide what to cook for you tonight.”

“You did. The pasta was delicious.”

“My mother would kill me, though,” I admit. “If she knew I used jarred sauce she’d kick my ass.”

“Why’s that?”

“Half Italian,”—I point to myself—“right here. My mom’s 100 percent Sicilian. Someday you’ll have to come to Minnesota and try her homemade sauce. She lets it simmer for hours. It’s to die for, I swear.”

Wait. Did I just invite her to my parents’ house for dinner?

Looking down to where she’s folding the edge of the comforter over and over on itself, she murmurs, “I bet her sauce is really good.”

“Yep,” I quietly reply, looking away.

There’s this long, awkward moment of silence, until Aubrey clears her throat and says, “Okay, your turn. What’s your favorite food?”

I blow out a relieved breath. “That’s an easy one. I love steak.”

“What about color? Have a fave?”

I grin as I throw her words back at her. “It depends on the day.”

“Ass.” She pushes my shoulder, but it’s like she’s trying to topple a stone statue. “God, you’re like a damn boulder, Brent,” she remarks.

I laugh. “I have to be. Otherwise, I’d get knocked off my skates every play.”

Frowning, she says, “There sure is a lot of hitting in hockey. I guess it’s good you’re so…hard.”

“Guess so,” I agree.

Our eyes meet, and I suddenly blurt out, “Turquoise. You know, like sea-green.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” she asks, clearly confused.

“My favorite color.” I hold her gaze. “You asked what it is, right? Well, today it’s turquoise.”

“Brent…” She rips her gaze from mine when she realizes the color of her eyes is what I’m referring to. “We should probably wrap it up here.”

“I don’t want to go,” I whisper.

“I don’t want you to, either. But that’s exactly why you should go.”

Blowing out a breath, I give up…for now. “Okay, Aubrey. I’ll go.”

I leave her room, but all is not lost. Despite how things wrapped up—too abruptly if you ask me—I feel like the time we spent together was a win. We were real with each other, all pretenses were dropped. And because of that we now know each other a little better.

Though the more I think about it, the more I realize that getting to know each other better is a double-edged sword. ’Cause now not only does my body crave Aubrey like crazy, but my heart’s starting to want her too.