Blitzed

by Alexa Martin

  “I know, but when’s the last time you bought a cereal that wasn’t marketed to children? Have you ever even bought Cheerios?”

  “Once, they had a special edition for the Olympics that had marsh—never mind.” I grab an olive out of the container and aim it at her forehead when she starts to laugh.

  Of course, she’s just as athletic as her husband and snatches it out of the air and pops it on her finger. “Give me more, I wanna do E.T. fingers.”

  “You’re so strange,” I say . . . but I still fill a cup with olives.

  “Oh god.” Vonnie sits next to Charli. “You’re worse than my fucking kids,” she says.

  “But you loooove me.” Charli wiggles her olive-covered fingertips in Vonnie’s face, doing what I think is her version of an alien voice.

  “I do.” Vonnie stills Charli’s hand and eats one of the olives off her finger.

  I stare wide-eyed as Charli feeds Vonnie another fingertip. “You guys are fucking disgusting,” I say.

  When I was a kid and I pictured being an adult, this is not what came to mind. Hell, when I turned thirty this wasn’t what I pictured.

  “Hmmm,” Vonnie says when she’s finished chewing. “You still haven’t seen Max, have you?”

  “Ooooh! That’s why she’s such a grumpfish!” Charli sounds way too excited about my foul mood and turbulent relationship.

  “Why don’t you just go over to his house? You have the code to get in, right?” Vonnie asks.

  I open my mouth to answer, but Poppy magically appears and beats me to it.

  “Max and you are still weird?” Poppy’s hair, which is always glorious, is somehow even more wonderful. She’s not wearing any makeup, but it looks like someone bronzed her skin, and her lips look like they’re swollen from being kissed all morning. Which might be the case, but since she hit the second trimester, they’ve been like this all the time. Her boobs are fucking huge and her bump is tiny and adorable. I already know that if I ever got pregnant, I’d be covered in acne and probably carry in my ass. Poppy looks like a fucking supermodel.

  “No, we’re fine.” I shrug and start rearranging glasses that don’t need to be rearranged.

  “Shit,” Poppy says. “You only organize when you’re really stressed. It must be bad.”

  Ughhhh!

  I close my eyes and start to count to ten, taking deep breaths through my nose. This is the downside to having a great group of friends. They notice things about you that you don’t notice about yourself, and it makes it impossible to hide anything from them.

  “You know what? You’re right,” Vonnie says before I get to seven. “When we were getting her ready for her date, Aviana threatened to tape her hands together so she’d stop trying to organize the eye shadows.”

  “When I was working here, some magazine was doing a feature on HERS, and she spent the night before it was published alphabetizing the files and writing a new manual that included the direction the toilet paper must face.”

  “Oh my god! I’m standing right here!” I abandon my deep breathing on my third attempt to count to ten. “First of all, organizing is an extremely healthy way to deal with stress, especially when you have multiple bottles of tequila at your fingertips.”

  Upon hearing “fingertips,” Charli starts to wiggle hers at me again.

  “Also, nobody here can tell me that toilet paper shouldn’t go over instead of under. That was a perfectly reasonable addition to the manual.”

  Poppy ignores me. “She also added that if one of us goes to Fresh for a break, we are required to ask everyone on shift if they need a caffeine pickup as well.”

  Dammit. I don’t have an argument for that one. I wrote it and even I know that was batshit crazy. “Fair point.”

  I don’t give in often, so Poppy’s face lights up—even more, the glowing bitch—knowing she beat me.

  “Okay,” Vonnie says, her voice all business and a stark contrast to Charli, who is loading up her fingers with more olives. “So we watch this game, and when it’s over, we all meet at Brynn’s to come up with a plan on how this should be handled. But no more talking about this here, because there are too many ears and Avi and Jac are going to be here soon and they’re filming.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Charli says.

  Poppy nods her head in agreement. “Agreed.”

  “You guys want my input?” The snark is heavy in my voice.

  “Nope,” Vonnie says. “We’re good.”

  I throw a handful of cherries in Poppy’s Shirley Temple and put it in front of her with a little more force than necessary. “Ugh, Lady Mustangs.”

  “Bitch, please,” Vonnie says. “Enough of that. You’re a Lady Mustang too.”

  “Am not,” I say, but I don’t even convince myself.

  “Oh, you so are,” Charli chimes in. “You attend more meetings than me.”

  The world around me turns silver as everything explodes into a combustion of crystals and glitter.

  “Fuck.” I rest my head on the bar, which is something else I added to the manual on things that were not allowed. “I am.”

  “Oh my god! Look at this place! I’m going to have to call a babysitter more often.” Lucy shouts over the noise of HERS. I almost don’t recognize her without her massive diaper bag over her shoulder and a baby strapped to her chest. She reaches us, pulling out the empty seat next to Poppy. “So, what did I miss?”

  “Oh, girl.” Vonnie pushes her martini over to Lucy. “If we’re gonna play catch-up, you’re gonna need one of these.”

  “Yes!” Lucy punches the air and drains Vonnie’s glass. “The only gossip I ever get is which preschooler picked their nose. I came in an Uber and I’m so ready for this.”

  Well, at least that makes one of us.

  Thirty-one

  Surprising nobody at all, the meeting of the minds at my apartment solved absolutely nothing.

  I did, however, discover that Lucy is so much fucking fun, and if I could, I’d get her drunk every day. The pictures she sent me the next day of her with circles under her eyes and children literally climbing on top of her in bed with the caption “Send help” are being printed out so I can frame them in my office.

  HERS doesn’t open for another couple of hours, but I got in early to catch up on all the work my sex-addled mind has forgotten about. Even though there are speakers built into the ceiling, I use the wireless speaker I ordered specifically to use while I’m doing paperwork. It’s covered in magenta Swarovski crystals. Was it a waste of money? I mean, who can really say? Can you really put a price on joy?

  I blast my playlist—aptly named “Get Shit Done,” which is filled with gangsta rap and Spice Girls . . . it might sound like an odd combination, but it keeps my mind sharp—and get to work.

  I return emails and check the inventory. During the holiday season, I use these things as my excuse to get out of all Christmas-related activities.

  I used to love Christmas. My mom was like Queen Christmas. We hung the lights, decorated the trees (multiple), made the cookies, and did whatever crazy festive thing she deemed was necessary. We started listening to Christmas music at Halloween, and she wouldn’t take down the decorations until Valentine’s Day.

  Then she left.

  And every white light and jingle bell reminded me of the gaping hole she blew into my life. I know I hold a mean grudge, but even I feel like this is a little long for poor old Saint Nick.

  I’m going over the marketing schedule for the next three months when the doorbell I had installed goes off. People don’t often ring it, mainly because we are a bar, and what kind of bar needs a doorbell, but it always makes my day when they do because it rings to the tune of “Turn Down for What.” I don’t think I have a delivery scheduled for today, but as a member of Amazon Prime and an Etsy enthusiast, I know that anything’s possible and make my way to the
door.

  As soon as my glass doors come into view, my heart soars and my feet falter when I see Maxwell standing on the other side.

  It’s Tuesday, but since we’ve been going strong on a steady diet of text messages and avoidance, I didn’t have high hopes for seeing him today. And now that he’s in front of me, I’m not sure how I feel. I keep my steps even as I approach. No way will he get the satisfaction of seeing me run to him after he’s basically ignored me for a week.

  When I unlock the door, I fold my arms in front of my chest and keep my mouth closed. My stubbornness beats out my need to jump his bones.

  “I’m sorry,” he says with no hesitation. “Seeing Theo really fucked with me, and talking to him only made it worse. I haven’t seen him in years and it was intentional. We don’t like each other, and a lot of really bad shit has gone down between us. I should’ve handled this better. My mind has been a mess and I didn’t want to drag you into the darkness that Theo brings. And to be honest, things are still a fucking mess and I know I should stay away from you, but I can’t. I can’t make myself leave you alone when you’re the only person who can give me back the light.”

  And call me a softy, tell me I’m a fool for forgetting about how angry and hurt I’ve been for the last week, but that’s all I needed to hear before I’m yanking him into HERS and locking the door behind him. You can also blame it on the fact that I have literally been dreaming about sex with him for days now and I’m so sexually frustrated I could cry.

  “My office.” I point to the open door, where the distant sound of DMX yelling at me is coming from. “Then take your pants off.” You know, ’cause I’m all classy and emotional and shit.

  “But first”—Maxwell pulls me into him, our chests pressed against one another—“I need your mouth.”

  I tilt my chin and he touches his mouth to mine.

  “I’m so sorry, Brynn.” Another kiss. “I promise I won’t do it again.” Another kiss. “You can trust me.”

  “Shut up,” I whisper before opening my mouth and deepening the kiss. Because I know I can trust him, implicitly and to my bones. What I don’t know is if I can trust myself. I am, after all, my mother’s daughter.

  We don’t pull away as we walk to my office. It’s not pretty and I’m sure I’ll have multiple bruises on my legs from running into the corners of tables, but what it is is raw. There’s no faking what runs between us.

  I kick my office door shut behind us, and as much as I want the movie-perfect scene of swiping all the papers off my desk, I have a brand-new Apple computer and it was freaking expensive.

  “Pants off.” I point at his sweatpants with the tented crotch before I move to my desk and unplug my computer and very carefully relocate it to the empty desk I bought for Ace when Poppy worked here. Then, when I’m sure it’s not going to topple over onto the rug-covered ground, I peel off my yoga pants and white tee.

  I take my time walking back to my desk. I bask in his attention and add a little swing to my hips. I know I look good naked, and I know Maxwell thinks I look good naked. And holy shit, is there power in that. I reach my desk, bending over slowly, and finally sweep it clear of all paperwork.

  Papers fly into the air, taking their time to swoop around before landing on the floor. I prop my ass on the edge of my desk, my legs spread just so, and watch as Maxwell’s sexy ass steps over the mess on the floor and makes his way over to me.

  It only takes him a few long strides before he’s standing in front of me, reaching out to touch me.

  “No, no, no.” I tsk. “I’m not sure you get to touch yet.”

  “What?” His eyes are too heavy to widen much, but he does pull his hands back to his side.

  “You ignored me this week.” I keep my eyes on his, but the same can’t be said for him. No, he’s laser focused on my hand that’s slowly, but surely, drifting up the inside of my thigh. “Do you know how that made me feel?”

  “How?” he grinds out between clenched teeth.

  I spread my legs open wider and put one hand behind me on the table as I arch my back, pushing my breasts toward him. “It made me feel frustrated and lonely.” I slide the hand up my thigh higher and higher until—“Mmmmh”—I moan. My eyes close of their own accord and I pull my bottom lip in between my teeth.

  My fingers dancing between my thighs start to move in circles, and I feel Maxwell harden against my thigh. It’s not easy, but I manage to pry my eyes open. It’s a mistake, because when I see the look on his face and his hand stroking his length, my little game is almost over immediately.

  “You like watching, don’t you?” I speed up the circles before dipping a finger inside. “Oh my god!” My free hand flies to the edge of the desk and clings to the small ridge as I lie flat on my back.

  “Jesus, Brynn.” Maxwell’s voice is barely recognizable. I faintly hear the tear of a foil wrapper as I switch back to the circles.

  I start working my hand faster and harder. A pace that I need . . . that I crave . . . and that is nowhere as good by myself than with the man staring down at me.

  Beads of sweat are dripping down his forehead and his chest. His black eyes are watching me so closely, it’s like I can feel his hands on me. And as much as I love this, I love what he can do even more.

  “I want your mouth on me,” I groan, my throaty whisper at least an octave higher than normal.

  He drops to his knees and yanks my ankles until my ass is dangling off the table and my ankles are over his shoulder. “Fucking finally.”

  I’ve wanted this since our date. I was already primed and ready before the little show I put on. So once his mouth latches onto my center, it’s only a matter of seconds before my back arches off the desk and my hands fly to his head, anchoring myself to him. But after I let go of his head, I realize I didn’t need to hold him to me because he still doesn’t come up for air. He keeps his mouth attached to me even as my body quakes and trembles through at least two, but maybe three orgasms.

  “No more,” I plead through labored breaths. Every nerve in my body is lit and even the soft kisses he’s trailing up my stomach cause my core to clench. “I need you inside of me.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?” He straightens at the base of the desk, lifting my hips to position himself right at my center. “You’re the one in charge here.”

  He pushes in hard and fast, but my body is so primed and ready to go that it adjusts to him the second he enters me.

  He pounds into me over and over again, but it’s not enough . . . I don’t know if I’ll ever get enough of him.

  “Wait.” I place my palms on his hard, sweat-covered chest.

  He pulls out without hesitation, concern coloring his expression. “Are you okay?”

  I don’t even entertain that question with an answer. Instead I turn around and bend over my desk. “This way.”

  When I look over my shoulder, his eyes are on my bare ass tilted up, and it only takes a second before his hands are gripping my hips, his fingernails biting into my skin, as he enters me from behind.

  I arch my back, needing him deeper, wanting to feel him throughout my entire body. He drops one of his hands from my hip and wraps it in my ponytail, pulling my head back and deepening the curve of my back.

  It’s exactly what I needed. That dull ache against my skull causes my body to tense and my core to throb around him. He speeds up his thrusts, each one harder and better than the last until my eyes close and my bones turn to jelly as the orgasm rips through my body.

  “Oh my god!” I shout over the sounds of our skin slapping together and the moan Maxwell lets out as he comes.

  Maxwell lifts me off of my desk and carries me to the couch. My body is still trembling from the intensity of my orgasm, and I know if I were to come again, I’d most likely die. But as soon as he tucks me into his front and I feel him behind me, I’m ready to go again.
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  I start to wiggle my butt against him, but before he can even respond, the doorbell rings again and I hear Paisley shouting my name.

  “Shit!” I scramble off of the couch, searching for underwear and then realizing I def didn’t put any on this morning.

  Well, crap.

  This is going to be a long day . . . and with any luck, a longer night.

  Thirty-two

  I thought I hated the Lady Mustangs before.

  I had no idea.

  “It is freezing and I despise you all and how did you trick me into this?” I ask Vonnie, who, even though it is negative one million degrees outside, has somehow managed to still look fabulous and glamorous.

  Me? Well, I’m bundled up in all of my skiing gear to the point where my arms can’t even rest flat against my body.

  Vonnie drew the line at my goggles though.

  This is the final regular-season game of the year. I learned upon eavesdropping that the Mustangs always save the food drive until this week. It doesn’t make sense to me. I thought they’d do it around Thanksgiving. But they said, when I acted on my eavesdropping and voiced my opinion, it’s because people forget to donate after November and they like to give a large donation to start off the New Year. It’s nice, I guess. If it were me, I’d do this in September when I couldn’t see my own breath.

  “It’s for a good cause, Brynn,” Vonnie throws over her shoulder as she collects another bag of canned goods from some fans. “And if you are so miserable, why are you smiling?”

  “This isn’t a smile!” I try to fold my glove-covered fingers to point at my face, but they are too thick, so I have to gesture with my whole hand. “My face is frozen like this!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Vonnie says to the fans. “We love her, but she’s a little dramatic.”

  Me? The dramatic one in this group? Is she serious right now? If glaring didn’t take up so much of the energy I’m using to keep warm, I would level her with a nasty one.