Sometimes people accuse me of exaggerating about my special talents.

I think that’s because most guys don’t really deliver. They talk a big game, and then when it’s time to come through, they can’t get the job done.

Just so I’m being clear, I’m talking about sex. Fucking. Coming. Orgasming. You know, the stuff everyone loves doing but most people are scared to talk honestly about.

Like last night.

Look, there’s no reason to beat around the bush. Lacy hates my guts.

So why would I change up my attitude and behaviors to suit her? If I’m with a girl, I’m not going to hold back. That would be a shame for all parties involved.

I’m still lounging on the couch when Lacy gets home.

She says nothing, then comes and plops down on the couch, all smiles.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey yourself,” I retort back, still staring at the screen.

“So I’ve got a friend coming over tonight,” she says. “We’ve got to work on some moves.”

“Oh?” I smirk, turning to face her. “Couple of hot dancers coming over? Sure thing. Maybe you can put on a show for me.”

“I’ll ask,” she answers coyly. “Thanks so much, Carter,” she pauses. “You’re actually sometimes a good guy, you know.”

I laugh a little, but then narrow my gaze.

“‘Good guy’ and ‘Carter’ are two words that don’t belong in the same sentence. I’m willing to admit that. ‘God’ and ‘Carter,’ however. Those two shall hereafter always be said together.”

“Will you just shut up and let me give you one compliment?”

I sigh, and look at Lacy, all cute as she twirls a few locks of her long black hair. It’s suspicious, but maybe she’s realizing this isn’t a war she’s going to win.

I ignore the question and ask her something I’ve been wondering. “How’s your mom doing anyway?”

“You’re . . . asking a real question?” She jerks her head back.

I put my hand on her shoulder, and give her my best fake sincere face.

“Every time you say ‘God’ and ‘Carter’ in the same sentence, I ask something thoughtful. That’s how this works.”

She rolls her eyes, normalcy returning to her expression. “She’s doing fine. I called her last night to tell her how I’ve settled in. And she wants to know the name of your new girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend? What on earth are you—?”

“The girl you were with last night.”

“Oh. Her? She was no one.”

“No one sure is loud. So she doesn’t have a name?”

I shrug. “That’s just kind of how it goes with me, Lacy.”

She arches an eyebrow. “So I’ll be listening to the ‘Carter’s women’ playlist all summer long?”

I shake my head at her. “I’m twenty-seven. I don’t know where you got off being so stuck up, but some people do like to have fun. Have sex. It’s what adults do. Maybe you should try it some time.”

“Oh I like to have fun, too.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes.” She looks down at her phone. “Oh, looks like he’s here.”

My stomach burns unexpectedly as I process one of the words she says. “What do you mean, he?”

Okay, I know there are guy dancers. But when I initially said she could dance with a friend in the living room, I was definitely picturing two girls.

Her blue eyes meet mine, her gaze hard. “What do you mean ‘he?’ My friend Lance. He’s one of the dancers.”

As she gets up off the couch and calls on her cell phone down to the front desk, for some odd reason I have to stifle a rush of adrenaline that comes over me. She stands there in a white tank top and pink booty shorts that say ‘dancer’ on one cheek and ‘pink,’ on the other, and I feel my jaw twitch.

First of all, why the hell do they keep making those booty shorts that just say the color? It has never made any sense to me. But I’m not one to make a cause out of protesting girls in hot short-shorts.

Second of all, and more importantly—just two minutes ago I was picturing some sort of double hot girl dance session taking place as I watch TV.

My dreams are tarnished when Lacy opens the door to my penthouse and—very clearly—a man appears.

“Hey Lance!” she says. She hugs and kisses him.

On the lips.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

One day in, and she’s bringing a . . . a date to my place?

“Hey there,” the guy says as he comes on in.

He’s probably six foot two. He’s got long brown hair, and, shit—I’m man enough to admit the guy looks a lot like that Fabio guy from the old romance novels. His hand rests on the small of Lacy’s back.

“Thanks so much for letting us use your place to practice our routine. I’m Lance, by the way.”

He sticks a hand out, and I try to mask how begrudgingly I’m shaking his hand.

“Nice to meet you Lance.” I can’t avoid the vitriol that comes out as I say his name.

What kind of fucking name is Lance anyway? Sounds like a kid I played t-ball with who could never hit the fucking ball. Larry would even be a better name. Larry, the name of a guy who loves to wear leotards.

I clench and unclench my fists as I watch them. Why am I letting these two get in my head??

“I think we should stretch it out, first,” she says in a sultry voice, taking Lance by the hand to the living room, just to the right of the television.

I plop back on the couch and try to focus again on the classic game I’m watching, the Michael Jordan versus Charles Barkley matchup of 1993. But Lance is bending Lacy’s legs behind her back—literally.

And I can’t help where my mind goes.

Lacy has definitely come into her figure over the last few years. I give her that.

Have I thought about her romantically?

Sure, a few times, maybe.

Is it anything serious? No.

My coveting gaze drifts to Lance as he presses her legs wide apart, helping her stretch.

And pangs of jealousy flare through me.

I’m not about to watch her get worked out by some other guy.

I consider my plays here. I could kick them out. I could continue watching this sideshow.

Instead, I call up my teammate Chandler and arrange to meet up in my building’s gym for a night-time workout.

Chandler is as big of a gym rat as I am, so it works out.

“I’m gonna jet out of here for a little. You guys do your thing,” I say, and head out.