In typical Brick fashion, he ignores my liquid assault. “If you must know… She slapped me.”
I’m not quick enough to cover my mouth before I’m spitting out vodka through a fit of laughter. “That is the greatest thing I have heard since I first heard Josh Groban on the radio.”
“It was a traumatic experience.”
“Yeah?” I pout again and caress the side of his face. “Your poor wounded ego.”
“Again, you’re close but no cigar.” He pushes me away and moves past me. “I had a few too many drinks.”
“Before noon? Typical.”
“Says the girl who wakes up to mimosas.” He’s got a point there. “Anyway, I approached her and told her she was beautiful, but unfortunately I don’t fuck before noon.”
“You idiot.” The look painted across my face is a beautiful, abstract collage of equal parts amusement and shame.
“And then, I checked my watch and it was a minute after twelve.” He smiles wide, a little too proud of himself.
“Did you really think that shit-fucked pick up line was going to work?”
“I pity you, Apple.” He places a hand on each of my shoulders. I pull away ever so slightly, but not far enough so I escape his grasp. “It worked exactly as planned.”
“Oh please, enlighten me, your majesty.”
“I’m addicted to the booze.” He moves closer and this time, I don’t resist. “My life has become a wreck.” His palm trails down my side and against my stomach. “I’m spiraling out of control and the only thing that’s going to save me is the love of God.” He breathes a deliberate symphony of breaths against my skin before grabbing the glass out of my hand, and pulling away. “Or maybe, an innocent girl to guide me through the darkness.”
“It’s never going to work. She’s too smart.” I turn around to face him.
He finishes off the glass of my very expensive vodka. “All girls want a fairytale and none quite have the emotional punch as the one where the princess saves the bad boy.”
“That’s funny.” I rip the glass back out of his hands. “I never read that in the book of Grimm.”
“That’s because it’s a modern-day fantasy. I’ll autograph your very own personal copy when my legacy is unleashed upon this world in print.”
“You’re a dreamer. I’ll give you that,” I say as I find myself pouring my fourth glass of Vodka I have poured since returning home from True Love Revolution. Suddenly, I’m regretting wasting an entire glass on Brick. “But if that should ever come to pass, it’ll be me writing the forward. Signed, the girl who beat him at his own fucking game. Your delusions of grandeur are amazingly entertaining.”
“You are so bitter.” He laughs, because it’s either a joke to him, or most likely because he’s prepared to revel in my misery.
“You’re wrong, but lets pretend you’re right. Why the fuck wouldn’t I be? If you win, it’s not because you’re better than me. It’s because society gave you a hugely unfair head start. Men are expected to fuck everyone and everything. It’s the cool thing to do. If I should ever do the same—“
“You do,” he points out.
“When I do the same thing, I’m a Goddamn whore. The whole city is ready to gather in town square to stone me to death. I was branded a slut long before I ever sucked a dick.”
“I’ll counter your point.” He reaches for my glass again, but I’m too quick for him this time. “It’s easier to lure a man into bed than a woman. Men are sleazebags—“
“Agree.”
“They’re horny and ready at any given moment. Women, however, take careful and intricate patience.”
“Why do you hate women?” I ask with an undercurrent of a serious inquiry and slide back into my throne, leveling my drink on the arm of the chair.
“That’s the most idiotic thing I have ever heard. I love women. You, of all people, should know that.”
“There’s a difference between loving to fuck women, and loving them.”
“Like you have room to talk.”
“I have to get to work, so you’re going to have to leave.” I take a sip of my vodka and relish it, moaning in voyeuristic delight as he watches me. “Really, though. I have to get to work.”
Brick left the house, at my command, about thirty minutes ago. In that short span of time, I have readied myself for work. I’m low maintenance like that.
Kidding.
I’m slouched in my throne, wearing nothing but a matching pair of white panties and a bra. My feet curl around opposite sides of a jumbo dildo, a dildo that could pass for the real thing if it were strapped onto a pelvis. The skin is smooth, with painted dark veins spread across the shaft.
In front of the monstrous dildo, is my computer—my workstation. The camera is on, and on the other end of the world and the other side of the internet connection is a sad, old man who wants nothing more than to fuck a freshly washed pair of toes.
I’m as close to that fantasy as he’s ever going to get, and I crave my alone time. If not for the money, then because like everything else that has the power to make me feel alive, it’s all about the power. I have something he wants, something he yearns for.
That’s power.
I have it.
He doesn’t.
My mind wanders into an alternate reality. A reality where Lydia tires of the library on a chilly Sunday night, and stumbles into our shared house to receive the shock of her life. Poor girl would have a fucking heart attack, and I’d be left with the difficult decision of whether or not to call the ambulance.
Okay, I’m not that fucked up. I’d call for help.
There’s something about stroking a fake cock with my toes that brings out the Plato in me. I’m lost in the emotionless act, and cling to something to dream about—something, at least, to think about.
I raise my head and take a quick glance at the screen of my computer to make sure the volume is on mute. When I’m certain that it is, I pick my phone up from the arm of the chair and dial Cece’s number.
Before I logged into work, I engaged in a little Facebook espionage. I was prepared to walk away from the computer empty-handed—of information, not money—so it was a pleasant surprise to find this imbecile had her phone number splashed across her home page.
“Cece?” I ask when the ringing comes to a clipped stop, and I can hear someone on the other end.
“Yeah… who is this?”
“It’s Apple. We met at True Love Revolution earlier today.”
“Oh, hey,” she squeals, forcing me to pull the phone away from my ear. “How did you get my number?”
“You have it listed on Facebook.”
“What?” she asks in her most panicked tone. “I thought that was private.”
What I want to say: Then why the fuck did you put it on there? Do you need to be reminded of your own phone number?
What I actually say: “Do you want to hang out sometime?”
“Sure!”
This is entirely too easy. “Why don’t you meet me at Gatsby’s tomorrow night?”
“Isn’t that a bar?”
“Not only is it a bar, but it’s the best bar in the entire damn city.”
“I don’t know…” her voice trails off as I catch a notification on my screen. It seems Mr. Footie wants sound. I’ll need to wrap up this conversation real quick, or risk losing a loyal customer.
“Come on, it’ll be fun.” I reach my foot out and point my toes along the top of my keyboard, searching for the mute button to turn the sound back on.
“I’m not twenty-one.”
“It’s fine. I know the bouncer.” I finally manage to click the button with my toe and hang up the phone, throwing my head back and moaning in the process. “Yes, fuck my toes. Fuck them!”
Since the majority of my body—and my face—is out of frame, I continue to carry on with the vocal cries of ecstasy as I shoot Cece a quick text: Sorry. Lost service. Meet me at nine tomorrow night.