The familiar ding of a doorbell rings through my ears.
I am giving Brick fresh pussy on a fucking silver platter, and he has the nerve to be impatient about it? God, help his sorry ass because I want nothing more than to shove a shovel up it.
“You should go,” I say through a forced smile and pat her on the shoulder.
“Yeah…” she mumbles to herself and slides the patio door shut.
I watch her walk away and take a deep breath as she approaches the front door.
Ding-dong. The doorbell rings again, and I imagine a beautiful scene in my head: My hands around Brick’s throat.
The hours tick by and I haven’t received a fury of texts or a panicked phone call. I’ll take that as a good sign that everything is falling into place, but I’ve had one too many mimosas and I find myself drifting off to sleep.
I force my eyes open and catch the scene on the television. Much has happened in between the time I last closed my eyes and now. It would seem as if the sweet girl, Summer has been influenced a little too much by the queen bitch of the show, Tamra. It’s called The Rules of Innocence, and it’s the greatest brushstroke of reality television since Big Brother first premiered when I was a toddler.
As I told Cece earlier, I’m still waiting for my royalty checks to come in from the producers of the show. It’s like an investigator followed Brick and I around campus, catching us in all of our devious glory, then reported back to the network executives and made a show about us.
Meh. Whatever. My lashes fall over my eyes…
16
I fumble with my fingers to place the cap on the back of my hoop earring as I trip over a random shoe and stumble out of my bedroom and into the bathroom. When I flip on the light switch, I give my reflection on the oversized mirror an approving nod.
Damn, I look good today.
That’s what a ten-plus hour nap will do to you, I guess. I’m clean, refreshed and prepared for war. By the time Jensen pulls back into my driveway Sunday evening, I will have him on a leash so short he will be begging to move in with me by the end of the week.
That’s a trade I would almost go for. Lydia for Jensen? Lets run down the pros and cons:
Pros: Sex when I want it, Lydia will be gone
Cons: It could be difficult living with a man after his heart has been ripped out of his chest.
Maybe that’s not such a good trade after all. I lean close to the mirror, purse my lips and apply a thin layer of cherry lip gloss. When I’m done, I smack my lips, grab a bag full of makeup and flip off the light switch as I exit into the living room.
I drop my makeup bag into a larger duffel bag and scoop my phone off the arm of the couch. No new notifications, which annoys me. I want—need—crave—details about last night. I don’t care who the fuck spills the beans, Brick or Cece, but I need to know what kind of shitfuckery went down last night before Jensen arrives to pick me up.
Ding Dong.
Too late.
I reach down and zip the duffel bag before straightening out my white tank top, and adjusting my short denim jeans. When I pull the door open, Jensen smiles and takes a quick glance at the silver watch on his wrist. It glistens and sparkles under the harsh sun.
“You look… different,” I say, taking stock of the man before me. Dark sunglasses shield his eyes. A cutoff university shirt drapes around his neck and shows off his impressive shoulders. The holes on either side of his shirt are ripped down to just below the line where black gym shorts cuts against dark skin. He looks like a fucking fratboy and I want to jump his bones. I would ride him in the fucking streets.
“I’m incognito.”
“Why?” I ask, my eyes squared on his spectacular pectorals.
“I heard it’s not kosher to take your students on weekend getaways to the beach.”
He has a point there. I leave the door open and turn to retrieve my bag. I take precise measures to give him the best view possible as I bend down to grab the duffel. My shorts hitch up my thighs, and I give him a purposeful and playful peek of my ass cheeks.
“Quit showing your ass. We’re going to be late.”
I snap my attention toward him to discover him checking his watch again. I push my bag into his arms, causing him to flinch backward. “Do you think I’m your slave?”
“Oh, please,” I huff, shut the door and turn my key in the lock. “So, the beach, huh?”
He nods and drops my bag into his hand. “Carolina beach.”
“Great,” I groan. “That’s what? A four hour drive?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“How fast I drive.”
My hair blows in every direction imaginable as we cruise down the highway. His hair does too, but it’s short and manages to stay out of his eyes. It’s a warmer day than yesterday. It almost feels like summer has arrived a month or two early, and I have no complaints.
When I grow up, I would love to trade my Civic in for a convertible like Jensen’s. I’ll cross that bridge after I graduate and find a job. Even with a marketing degree, I envision a rough road ahead. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t end up back at the same trailer park I grew up in.
I take a peek at the speedometer and notice the red hand swaying over the sixty mark. “You know the speed limit is seventy, right?”
He glances at me and shakes his head. “I’m aware.”
“Then step on it.” I throw my arm over the side of the door. “I don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”
He laughs and presses his foot lightly against the brakes. “Do you want to drive?”
“Nah.” I wave him off and lay my head against the seat, taking in the view of billboards stitched between collages of trees.
“We’ll be there in a little over two hours.”
We begin to speed up, but I know without looking we’re still not traveling at, or above, the speed limit. If Brick were in the driver seat, we’d be pulling into the hotel in about thirty minutes. But, he’d also make me blow the patrolman when we’d inevitably be stopped.
My mouth waters when I see a billboard advertising Cook Out, the greatest fast food chain in all of existence. Their cheesecake milkshakes are to die for. Seriously, like full-on cardiac arrest. It would be almost worth it.
My stomach drops into my gut when I see the next billboard: Hell Is Real. I have enough problems to worry about without this bullshit. Real or not real, I’ll figure that shit out when I die—probably the next time I sell my soul for a blueberry cheesecake milkshake.
The next billboard—advertising an adult store with a woman with luscious lips—steals Jensen’s attention and we find ourselves perilously close to the edge of the road as tires spin against gravel. “Jesus, Jensen,” I squeal and throw my hand over my pounding heart. “Does the mere display of sex turn you on to the point it’s worth killing the both of us?”
The next billboard wages full-on war against the last one: Sex Is Sin. At this point, I’m hesitant to disagree.
I look over right on cue to see Jensen adjusting an erection through his shorts. His cock pushes against the fabric, drawing an outline that makes my mouth water. No, I tell myself. Bad Apple, I reprimand myself. I’m going to make him earn it, I promise myself.
“I’m going to need you to stop playing with yourself and focus on the damn road.”
He’s his own man and is going to do what he’s going to do. He makes that much clear when he steadies the wheel with one hand and pulls his shorts down in the front. His cock springs free, resting against his cut-off tee.