My heart punches my ribs with every clack of my wedges against the porch steps. My white jeans and crop top are demurely sexy—enough to tempt him, but not enough to say, “Hey, I’m a slut. Come eat this pussy!” Sunlight is still bouncing off Brooks’s windshield, hiding any reaction he may be having to how hot I look.
He climbs out of the car, and beats me to the passenger side, the cool breeze ruffling his hair.
Brownie point for opening the door!
I tuck myself into the seat, delighting in the stiff black leather and chemical smell of newness. The door slams, its thud bringing along a sense of imminent dread. My body trembles with nervousness, because I’m in his fucking car. Going to get a drink. Just us. I begin to panic and contemplate bolting for the house. That, or sucking him off right here—a little road head with a side of swallow. I can’t decide.
But holy shit. I’ve really done it! And I didn’t even have to kill anyone.
He gets in, the start of the engine a muted roar. He clears his throat. “You ever been to Nelly’s? The Irish bar?”
I smile. “No. But I’m good with wherever.” And I am. As long as I’m with him, I’d bathe in pig shit on a sweltering day.
As he’s reversing out of the driveway, I spot an unfamiliar car in the side mirror, idling in front of my neighbor’s house. Strange, I think. I thought Alicia and Devon were out of town. I crane my head to get a better look as we pass by. I swear I could see someone slumped in the driver’s seat, but I shrug it off as my imagination.
I stare straight ahead, not daring to make eye contact during our small-talk about my new house. I fear I won’t be able to control myself if our eyes meet. Briefly, I wonder if Brooks is feeling okay. If people knew about our date, they’d say he must have always had a thing for me, even before he found out Eliza was a cheating witch. His parents, Deacon, the witch herself—they’d all shun him. But good. I’d rather have him all to myself. I simply didn’t expect things to happen so quickly today, but I’ll take it.
“You good?” His head turns to me at a red light.
“Fine.” Quietly, I pull in a long breath. Drink in his scent—the bite of his cologne and body wash tainted by something else, something I can’t pinpoint.
Once we’re parked, I get out of the car before he can come around, because I’m a dumbass and am not used to this shit. I trail behind him half a step, avoiding the awkwardness of our first date, and allowing him time to get to the door first. He holds it, and I’m hit with the smell of greasy food that’ll pack pounds onto my thighs. The décor is typical for an Irish pub—all dim lighting, wood paneling, and rustic brick. The bar area is jammed, entertaining an interesting mix of people—from newly-legal to horny couples and packs of bored housewives.
“Hi, welcome to Nelly’s,” a quite ordinary hostess says, her eyes gleaming at Brooks and avoiding me.
He nods politely. “How’s it goin’? Any tables open?”
Anna—as it says on her name tag—looks around before grabbing a menu and whispering to a coworker. When she turns back to us, she shoots me a flicker of disapproval before smiling at him again. “Follow me!”
We’re shown to a booth in a corner. I take the seat facing the wall, because I want to focus on nothing but Brooks. His face. His words. Us.
The fabric of his shirt pulls taut over his muscles as he presses against the table to slide into the booth. He smiles at me. I start to smile back, but we’re interrupted by the hostess. Pesky gnat.
“We’re in the middle of shift change since it’ll be a late night, so your server will be right out. Can I get you something to drink in the meantime?”
Brooks tilts his head in my direction—his “ladies first” prompt.
“Water with lemon,” I say curtly. I changed my mind. I can’t drink tonight. If I drink, I will fuck. Not that fucking him would be a bad thing, but my goal is a wedding ring, not an orgasm, and Brooks has had enough sluts in his life.
“And for you?” Her voice rises in pitch as her pen is poised to fulfill his wishes.
He struggles to pull his wallet from his pocket. Purses his lips together as he flashes his license. “Corona.” He looks at me. “You sure you don’t want something? A beer? Girly drink? Anything?”
I second-guess myself, because he obviously wants me to drink. Hell, maybe he wants me to be a slut for him. His special slut, not a regular slut. “I guess one won’t hurt. I’ll take a vodka and Red Bull.” I show her my license, thankful I checked every conceivable box and had it rigged to reflect my new two-years-younger birthday. Smart.
Hostess girl scribbles in her notepad, says the drinks will be right out, and jets away.
My eyes flit to his, my breath catching upon a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What?” I ask.
The tug pulls his mouth into a wide grin. He shrugs. “Just a little awkward—you and me.”
I swallow, my heart growing heavy as I pray he isn’t having second thoughts. Maybe I do need to be drunk. Maybe his penis is lonely, and needs a friend—a permanent one. Yes, his penis needs to meet my pussy and become friends with it. Penis Jansen, meet the future Pussy Jansen. Ha!
Our waitress, Kelsey, appears to bring our drinks and take our orders.
“I’ll have the drunken clams,” Brooks says after glancing at the menu.
I chuckle quietly, because he’s gonna get a second helping of clam tonight after I get all boozed up. “I’ll have the truffle mac,” I tell her.
She takes our menus. A loud, golden-years couple directly next to us lays a tip on their table and leaves. Aw. That’ll be us one day.
The loud squeal of the microphone’s adjustment commands our attention to the bar area. The screeching is remedied, the band preparing to play. Our eyes turn back to the table again, and I realize I’m having a hard time with this—believing it isn’t a dream. Four months of not knowing how this would play out, if I’d ever enjoy the fruits of my labor. But here we are. I pinch my arm hard, the dull throb solidifying this is happening.
“So, tell me about the weirdness.”
“Weirdness?” He squints before his eyes eventually widen. “Oh! Nothing … just you and me being here together.” He picks up his beer and puts it to his lips.
My breathing picks up, and my neck prickles. “Like … a bad weird?” I realize one of my fists is squeezed tightly in my insecurity. I relax it.
He stops mid-sip. Licks his lips, his eyes growing wide in apology. “No, not a bad weird. Sorry. It was unexpected is all—running into you in the park today.”
“Oh ... yeah, it was, huh?” My throat is tight, my attention diverting to my drink.
“But I’m glad I did.”
I look at him, my eyes metal, his magnets—attracting, holding on. “You are?”
“Of course. It’s always fun to catch up with people you haven’t seen in a while.”
What? That’s not the answer I want. I’m a special slut, not a regular slut!
I let my irritation go, chalking his complacency to nerves. After the food comes, he asks about Lucy, so I tell him about her difficult early days. How she’d shit all over my living room and pissed in my bed in defiance of a new owner. Then, he tells me about Janie, and how heartbreaking it was for him to have her stay with Deacon.
“Sounds like you’ve had a really rough time,” I say, stabbing some macaroni. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes dig through mine. For a moment, I wonder if they’re trying to uncover manipulation behind my words, like a curtain pulling back to reveal a bogus prize. But then they soften, and turn sad. He spears a clam with his fork and drops it into his mouth. Holds up a finger as he chews and swallows. “It’s been fucking brutal, to be honest with you.”