by Mika Jolie
Maribel thought she was my girlfriend and demanded I cut all ties with Cori. For a nanosecond, I actually considered saying, “Sayonara, see you never,” to my little Moonchild.
Then sanity kicked in—one of the rare times my dick and my brain were not in agreement.
On several occasions, we get the same shit from men filled with insecurities. They have this crazy notion that a man and a woman can’t be friends.
My point is, I know it’s coming. One day she’ll no longer be the yin to my yang.
Something in my gut twists. I take another shot of the scotch. If it’s my support Cori wants, then she shall get it. “You’re serious about this baby thing?”
“Yeah.”
“All right.” I wipe my hands on the cloth napkin. “Your pussy doctor should be able to give you a list of sperm donors.”
“They’re called obstetricians or gynecologists or” –she looks down at me— “OB-GYNs, if the other words are out of your vocabulary range.”
“I like pussy doctor better,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.
She cackles at that. “You’re incorrigible.” A slight flush touches her face. “I’m going to do it the natural way, goof.”
“Natural . . . as in?”
She shocks me by letting loose an unrestrained laugh. “Yeah, like sex.”
I down the rest of my scotch in one shot and signal the waitress for another round. Hell, by the end of the night, I’ll be shitfaced.
“I don’t just want to have a baby. I want the whole thing: to date, fall in love.” A dreamy look I’ve never seen before settles on her face. “I want the fairy-tale ending.”
“They are called fairy tales for a reason.”
She gives me a don’t-be-stupid-look. “Your parents found it.”
No argument from me about that. Thirty-two years later, my parents still gush over one another. Get this—they still hold hands, kiss each other, and all that mushy stuff. It’s really gross, said in my seven-year-old voice.
Cori steals another fry from my plate. By the way, she has a mound of fries on her own plate. “I want to start dating again.”
She’s been on a long hiatus since Barry, which worked in my favor. For the last year, I’ve had my buddy back. A new man in her life means she’ll no longer be able to catch a movie or go bowling with me. The idea weighs heavily on my chest. “You want to fall in love?”
She takes another sip of her drink then meets my questioning gaze, hers serious. “I want the whole thing.”
“The whole thing?”
She gives me a big white smile. “Lust, love, and a smidgen of romance.”
Well, damn, what can I say about that? Cori has always believed in romance, and I can tell her mind is made up. Once she reaches that point, I can no more change her mind than I can persuade a snowstorm not to come. Any rationalization about why this is a bad idea is pointless right now. “All right,” I concede. “I’ll help you find the right guy.”
Her eyes don’t blink for at least forty seconds. “What?”
“We’ll start a process.”
“No,” she says firmly. “I don’t need a process.”
Arms crossed over my chest, I lean back in my chair. “You have dates lined up?”
“Well, no. I was thinking of creating an online profile.”
Oh, hell no. Those sites are filled with assholes who get off sending pics of their dicks to women. Seriously guys, stop doing that shit. I’ve never met a woman who finds a dick selfie sexy.
“No online dating.”
She arches a brow. “Why not?”
“Those guys on those sites are perverts.”
“That’s right.” She snaps the imaginary light bulb on. “You used to be on one, right?”
Silence.
“What was it again? Hook Up dot com or something like that.”
“It was an experiment.” A brief stint that passed with flying colors. Hooked up with a bunch of women, although, now I can’t envision any of their faces. But let’s stay focused on Cori. “I’m ruling out online dating based on experience.”
“Whatever.” She throws another fry in her mouth. “I’m still creating a profile.”
I can feel the stubbornness rolling off her body. Knowing when to wave the white flag, I go back to another topic I have a chance of winning. “Then we come up with a process.”
She groans. “Oh, boy.”
“I’ll come up with a list of questions.” After chewing down another bite of my burger, I say, “We can meet for lunch and go over them.”
“Oh. My. God. Not one of your processes.”
“Hey, I’m a hedge fund manager. Assessing risk is what I’m good at.”
“What does your job have to do with me setting up an online profile?”
“Want to know why we’re successful at what we do?”
She raises a brow. “Other than your good looks?”
From any other woman, I’d take that as flirting, an invitation. But this is Cori. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s never flirted with me. “You need a strategy.” I take another sip of my drink. “I’m going to help you with all of that.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Believe me,” I say, fully confident I’m the man for the job . . . to help her find her . . . What did she call it? Her happily-ever-after, or some shit like that. “I’m the man for the job.”
Cori drums her fingers on the table. “You’re my happily-ever-after?”
Shit. I almost choke on my scotch. I shake my head. “No.”
Something crosses her face, but is quickly covered with a smile.
“What I’m saying is, the hunt for a spouse is a process.”
After a long stare, she says, “I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. Kate was right.”
The mention of my sister makes me suddenly suspicious. “What exactly did she say?”
“That you’d want to take me on as a project.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” For the record, I love my sister—she’s a pain in the ass—but she’s right, this is a project.
“Hey.” She flashes a smile that lights up her whole face. “Don’t bash my best friend.”
Ouch. “What the hell am I? Chopped liver?”
“Well, both of you are,” she quickly adds, catching her faux pas. “Anyway, I can find my own date or potential husband.”
I shake my head. “Should I remind you of Mike?”
She gives me a blank look. He’s not the kind of ex-boyfriend one can forget.
“College boyfriend.” I’ve never fully accepted the fact he’d been her first. Not out of envy; Cori was too good for him. “He stole your virginity.”
“Stolen implies it was against my will.”
Which hadn’t been the case. Point taken. “Okay, Mike, the guy who broke your hymen.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Yeah, I know. The smile tugging on the corner of her lips is a clear indication she doesn’t find me one bit nauseating.
“He turned out to be a jerk.”
“Lesson learned.” She lifts a shoulder. “No regrets.”
“From what I remember, I did present a strong case for you not to sleep with him.”
“Remind me again why.”
“You were too young.”
“I was nineteen, some consider that late.” She tilts her head to one side. “Oh, in case you’ve forgotten, you were having sex at nineteen.”
“I’m a guy.”
Cori scoffs. “You’re sexist.”
I shrug.
“By the way,” she says, a teasing tone in her voice, “whatever you can do, I can do . . . while wearing heels.”
“If a fire were to break out, do you expect a fleet of women to show up?”
“Yes,” she answers without a beat.
“They’ll be in broken heels.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “I give up.”
“You still love me.” Truth be
told, I’m not sexist about anything. I believe in equal opportunity for everyone and everything, except, when it comes to Cori. No man will ever be good enough. Seriously, is any worthless-piece-of-shit man good enough for your daughter or sister?
What’s that? No?
Exactly.
Cori steals another fry from my plate. “I’m beginning to wonder why you and I are still friends.”
“Because I’m a good-looking SOB.”
She snorts.
“And, I make you laugh.”
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.” She sighs as if this admission pains her. The dynamic between us is effortless. Easy. Fun.
“Then there was Barry, or something like that,” I mention her last boyfriend for the first time in a long time.
“We dated for a year,” she said in a nonchalant tone.
“He hurt you.” This pains me to say, but I need to present my case. The douchebag broke her heart just when she started dreaming of wedding bells.
She straightens herself, shoulders squared, her gaze defiant. “I dumped him.”
It’s true, she dumped his ass. But that doesn’t mean the breakup hadn’t hurt. “He asked you to do the impossible.”
“Dean Conrad Morello, ending our friendship is not impossible. However, if I ever cut all ties with you, it will be because you hand me the scissors, not because of a man. Do you get that?”
That makes me feel better. “Ditto, gorgeous.” I lean forward and place a couple of fries in her mouth. She closes her eyes and chews with a look of ecstasy on her face. Two things put that look on Cori’s face—fries and salted caramel brownies. Mine is the look of pleasure on a woman’s face at the pinnacle of an orgasm.
“So, can we go back to normal now?” she asks, once back to earth from her fry-gasm.
“Only if you agree to let me screen your potential baby daddy.”
“Baby daddy doesn’t marry the woman,” she says in all of her smartassery.
“You’re missing the point.”
She studies my face for a long minute before asking, “Why is that so important to you?”
Does that question even warrant an answer? She’s one of the members of my universe. I take her hands in mine. “You need someone who’s stable.”
“Don’t worry.” She gives me a small smile. “I’m not going to abandon my children to travel the world with my husband.”
The sadness in her voice pushes every emotion from my being. Technically, her observation is not too far off. Cori’s mother is a wildflower, a former child star who married an artist. Between them, they produced Cori.
I can count the instances her parents have been around on one hand. Twenty-one years ago, with Cori’s father by her side, Sage Foster Phillips dumped Cori at her mother’s house and decided her destiny was to travel the world with her husband and help the less fortunate. The rest is history.
Unlike her parents, who were born to spread their wings, Cori was born to spread her roots. Because of that, I understand her desire to settle down. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not one of those chicks who has a fear of being alone. Quite the contrary, she finds solace in her own company. I’m not worried about that. However, when my Moonchild marries, it will be a one-time deal with someone who’s willing to give her the world. Hell, she deserves the damn moon.
“I just want to help.” I give her hands a light squeeze before releasing them, and reach for my scotch. “Let me at least do that.”
“Fine.” Her rich, golden brown eyes are sparkling again. “I’ll consider your opinion.”
Some of my underlying tension melts away. “Not consider, you’ll take it into account.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Nope. You see—”
She raises a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. “I’m not an account you’re closing in on.” She extends her right pinky finger out to me. “It’s a deal.”
We pinky promise, pinky swear, something we’ve been doing since I was nine and she was seven years old. But this time, something doesn’t feel right. I attribute it to one thing only—anticipation, a nervous kind of energy. It tingles through me like electrical sparks on the way to the ground.
The day I’ve been dreading is here, and I can’t halt the beginning of the end of Coriander Moonchild Phillips and Dean Conrad Morello.
“Life was meant for good friends and great adventures.”
POST-SEX CUDDLING IS all about emotional bonding and intimacy. I have no interest in any of that with a sex buddy. Leave it up to me, I’d say goodnight, go home, take a hot shower, and collapse into bed totally relaxed . . . and satisfied.
The body pressing against me is warm and soft. Red hair is spilled over my chest. I’m holding her in silence, but this is not an intimate embrace. The heat her body is projecting offers no solace. Instead, I feel trapped.
“What’s on your mind?” she asks against my chest.
“Nothing.” Through perfect teeth comes the lie, vibrating in the air, inconsequential to the medium through which it travels. Only I know the difference. Something is bugging me, for sure, and the culprit is Cori. I’m not sure why I’m bothered by her sudden need to settle down. I shouldn’t be, yet I am.
A quick glance through the sheer curtain indicates the sky has long since darkened from bleak winter gray to familiar black. A clear evidence I’ve overstayed my welcome. Time for my exit. There’s one problem with that. She’s lying next to me, one of her legs locked with mine.
Cuddling after sex is one of her favorite things.
Pets are good for cuddling. Preferably a dog. They’re furry and warm. I’m not a dog.
Touché.
My point is, I’m not a total dickhead. So, for at least ten minutes, I’m sucking up this need for physical intimacy that doesn’t involve some sort of penetration.
By the way, we’re at her place. Women don’t spend nights at my house. Not even Cori.
Anyhow, for the next few minutes, I’m the good guy, the perfect lover, as I appear to give her my undivided attention. Truth is, I’m thinking about the other top two things on a man’s list—sleep and food. I have no clue what the after-sex topic of choice is right now. But years of experience have trained me to say what every woman wants to hear: Yeah, sure, we can do that. No, those jeans don’t make your ass look fat.
While we’re on this topic, what’s wrong with a nice, round ass in jeans? As a man, I can attest that I find nothing sexier than a tight, nice, round ass. Give me some meat on those bones, and I’m a happy boy.
“What do you think?” she asks.
I open my mouth, ready to regurgitate the usual, Let’s make it happen, to Red when my Spidey sense cautions me not to open my mouth. I faintly caught her saying something about a weekend.
I wait. Women tend to repeat themselves.
“Can you come?” she asks, her voice is low and husky, filled with the aftermath of sex.
After another minute, hell yeah, I’ll be ready again. Preferably, this time with her on top, riding me until we hit our high spot, while babbling insanities and nonsense. But I don’t think we’re discussing sex. “Come?”
“I have this event in New York in three weeks.” Red is a lawyer. One of the good ones, whose mission is to save the environment. We met at a charity event a month ago. “Would you like to come?”
“I’m away.” No lie. I’m actually not available.
Every year, the guys and I—Cori and Kate included—go on a ski trip right around my birthday. It’s a tradition. The guys are Lucas and Cameron. You’ll meet both of them later. This year, we picked Waterville Valley, one of the best ski resorts tucked away in the north-central White Mountains of New Hampshire.
Back to my current state, and for the sake of staying anonymous, let’s call this woman Red. Okay, I can’t remember her name; sue me. One of her fingers is circling the left side of my chest, right where my heart beats. I take her hand and move it south past my navel.
No, I’m not emotionally
stunted. At some point in my life, I’ve experienced all the myriads of emotion. I love my family and close friends. I know joy and happiness so strong, I tingle right down to my bones. Watching my grandparents—Dad’s side—fading in and out of reality with Alzheimer’s was a fucker. So, you see, I’m not a cold asshole.
I just don’t want her to think we are a possibility. We’re not.
In case you’re wondering, my heart has never been crushed by a woman at any point in my life. Not even during my transition from puberty, with braces and pimples, to a muscular, lean, cocky SOB. Relationships just aren’t for me. At least not now.
“I’m going away with the boys,” I remind Red.
“Oh, that’s right.” She wraps her hand around my cock and gives it a light squeeze. It stands erect, ready to go. “Your ski trip to Maine, is it?”
“New Hampshire.” I mentioned my upcoming yearly ski trip earlier to Red. We can blame that moment of insanity on my BFF with her I want a baby shocker. Two days later, my mind is still reeling over the news.
“Yeah,” Red whispered. “Ski trip with the fellas.” She continues the slow and steady motion, sliding up and down my engorged flesh. “Your sister isn’t one of the fellas; neither is your friend. What’s her name again?” She tightens her grip. Seriously, this woman gives the best hand jobs.
“Coriander.” She knows Cori’s name. Why do women do that shit? If you feel threatened by a woman, just fucking say it. Jesus H. Fucking Christ!
For a moment, it crosses my mind to probe further, find out if she has a problem with my friendship with Cori. We all know how that would end. I’d say goodbye. The truth is, there’s no woman in my life worth having that conversation with at the moment.
A little chuckle escapes her throat. “Such a weird name.”
“I love her name. It suits her.” Cori’s smiling face pops into my mind’s eye. Not the time my little Stay Wild, Moonchild. I shove thoughts of Cori into a far corner of my mind, reach for another condom on the nightstand.
“I want to come with you.”
