CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Harper
VIK’S NOT MY loaner penis.
Okay.
He’s not just my loaner penis.
He’s not just anything. How do I know this? Let me count the ways. Item one: I’m reading his texts while I mainline my sad desk salad at work. Usually, I do a quick run-through of the major financial news sites while I work my way through two cups of arugula and a can of dolphin-safe tuna fish. Item two? I spent the weekend texting him and trying not to run over to his place to check up on him.
I’m not sure how his dad is doing, or if Vik’s okay. He spent the weekend with his dad, which I totally get. The Friday-night ER visit turned out to be precautionary rather than required, and his dad’s back home. Vik is still trying to sort out tests and doctors, but he claims everything is more or less fine. I’m not so convinced, even though today’s text has me smiling, and it’s not even funny. Or dirty. Or unusual.
And that’s the problem right there.
My phone always starts buzzing at 12:01 because he knows I’ll ignore him before I take my solo thirty minutes. At 12:01, however, he’ll text What r u doing? and I’ll text back. That’s how our Mondays go. There are limits, of course, on the shareable stuff. I don’t give him details about my trades or the investments I’ve set up; I don’t tell him dollar amounts, names or personally identifying information. We’re just swapping stories. He knows about Coffee Man, who never comes in without two Americanos clutched in his hands, and who gets progressively more jittery as our half-hour appointment winds to a close because it’s time for his next hit. He laughs his ass off at It Girl, whose portfolio is entirely invested in the fashion industry—and who picks her stocks based on the contents of her closet. He tells me to give Weeping Widow a hug (which I can’t, although she really needs it) when she dissolves into tears yet again because I want her to make changes to the investments her husband set up and she wants everything to stay the same even though it’s already changed.
Sure enough, my phone buzzes with Vik’s favorite question. What r we eating today?
I’m not adventurous when it comes to food. My standard Monday fare is arugula, tuna and feta. For 358 calories, I get 39 grams of protein and 2 measly grams of fiber. I went wild this morning and added a cup of blueberries because fruit is good for me and you can’t have too much vitamin C and folate in your life. I send Vik a picture even though my Tupperware hardly qualifies as food porn. Vik promptly counters with a picture of the taco truck parked outside Ink Me.
There’s only one response besides demanding he run a bag of that goodness over here. I can hear your arteries clogging from over here.
I’ve offered to make him a salad to take to work. His whereabouts are unpredictable, I’ve pointed out. There’s zero guarantee he finds a food truck because he’s not always at Ink Me. He doesn’t share details about Hard Rider business, but he’s frequently on the road on his bike or out at the clubhouse. There are things he can’t tell me, just like there are things I can’t tell him. I suspect the key difference is that his things could get him five to ten years in state prison.
We eat lunch together over our phones, texting back and forth. When I ask about his morning, he bitches about a rainbow and unicorn tattoo requested by a college freshman.
Don’t want to talk about that. U got ur next ink picked out?
I suddenly know how Eve felt when the serpent started pitching his suggestions. No, I haven’t thought about getting more ink. In fact, I’m still kind of getting used to the newly healed firebird on my back because it’s my first, it was a drunken impulse and neither of those things gets much play in my life. But maybe I should think about getting more. If the first was so amazing, how much better will the second one be? Or the third?
I can haz rainbow kitten?
Google produces a truly astonishing number of rainbow-colored kitten images, and I send him a selection. You know. Just to torture him. His response is short and to the point.
Fuck no.
Alrighty then. This would be more fun if I could see his face, but I’ll just have to make do.
What would you ink if it were your skin?
He fires back an answer quickly.
Kinda think it is my skin
Huh. That’s not disturbing at all.
Brooklyn bangs on my door while I’m still trying to decide how I feel about Vik’s inner caveman coming out to play. After I sad-desk-salad and text with Vik for thirty minutes, she and I speed walk around the block half a dozen times. Otherwise, as she’s pointed out, we only get up to pee and we hobble like we’re eighty. The mile we squeeze in also burns off approximately a dozen lettuce leaves and several bonus blueberries. It’s a win-win.
I snap the lid onto my Tupperware, de-mute my phone and follow her outside, squinting. I usually don’t see so much sunlight on a weekday. Good thing Kate’s got my back with a pair of snazzy sunglasses.
I’m barely outside, however, when my phone goes off, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” announcing an incoming text from Vik. I should have stayed muted even if I am temporarily out of the office.
“Haaaarper.” Brooklyn draws the syllables of my name out.
I concentrate on focusing straight ahead and resist the urge to yank my phone out and see what Vik’s said this time.
Undeterred, Brooklyn pokes me in the side. “Is it your pet Viking? Show me.”
Ever since Vik sent me a shirtless selfie (his jeans were partially undone as well for added biker badness), Brooklyn has hounded me to share. She claims it’s selfish to keep all that hotness to myself.
Brooklyn makes a give-it-up gesture. “Is he wearing the boots today?”
We both take a moment to mentally appreciate the goodness that is Vik in a pair of motorcycle boots.
My phone announces a second new text.
I should get that. I’m sure I need another half-naked selfie from Vik like I need a hole in the head, but screw it. He’s gorgeous, I’m weak and hearing from him sort of makes my day. I pull my phone out and we both stop walking, cupping our hands over the screen to see better.
It’s a picture of his...stomach. Okay. It’s way better than it sounds because the man’s six-pack hosts its own eight-pack and that much smooth, hard, muscled man begs a girl to lick and touch. Obviously, I need to get a grip, but still.
Brooklyn lets out a little moan of appreciation, and I fight the urge to do a triumphant fist pump. That’s my man.
Wait.
Rewind.
When did he become mine? Because he’s totally, absolutely not and any unrequired liking or possessiveness on my part will end badly.
“You’re so lucky.” Brooklyn’s finger hovers over the screen. “You’ve totally won the boyfriend sweepstakes. Send this to me? Just, you know, so I have something droolworthy for my screensaver?”
“We’re not—”
Shut up. I start walking. God, I’m in so much trouble.
“Not what?” The mischievous smile curling the edges of Brooklyn’s mouth warns me that I’m about to be given so much shit it would take me a month to shovel it. Hercules could clean up a dozen Augean stables in the time I’d need to deal with what Brooklyn’s about to land on me.
“Not boyfriend/girlfriend,” I grit out.
There’s a brief moment of silence broken only by the usual cacophony of Vegas traffic (so okay, it’s still really freaking noisy but Brooklyn stays quiet), and then she positively cackles.
“How’s the weather in the Land of de Nile?” she asks. “Is it hot enough for you? Because the two of you are a thing. An item. The world’s dirtiest and most ill-kept secret.”
“We have sex. Nothing wrong with that.”
I sneak another peek at the picture he’s sent me. He’s sprawled in a chair, the phone angled away to take the shot of his stomach. I’ve got some bonus blue jeans (those buttons are my favorite) and...there’s a rainbow-colored kitten cavorting with his belly button. The man definitely shouldn’t be left alone with Sharpies.
“Harper.” Brooklyn’s voice is soft but insistent. “If you’re not dating, what are the two of you doing?”
I shove my phone back into my pocket. “Hooking up.”
“Uh-huh.”
I’m not sure which of us sounds less certain—me or Brooklyn. And she’s got a point. No matter how hard I try to spin it, Vik’s not just my loaner penis providing physical release. Our hookup is becoming something more...something way too much like an emotional connection for my comfort.