Entice

by S. E. Hall

  I don’t take time to relax or fall down beside her. I don’t even catch my breath, not wanting to send her any fucked up signals. We’re done, so I jump out of bed and walk to the bathroom, disposing of the condoms. Yes, condoms. I always wear two.

  Unfortunately, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I walk past it. When I turn to examine my reflection, I realize I look as shitty as I feel. My eyes are vacant and hollow, my heart damn near visible on my sleeve. I’ve never done relationships with all the snuggling and kissing, but I’ve also never been quite the callous ass I’ve become. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit ashamed of myself, yet I can’t seem to pull myself out of my funk. Even the women willing to forego being wined and dined, or even sweet-talked, before they jump in bed and spread their legs to help ease my ache and tension don’t deserve the level of asshole I’ve become.

  I’m not completely in denial; I know I’m idealizing her in my head and building up a fantasy perhaps a million times greater than what it would actually be like in real life. I haven’t stopped the idealistic comparisons, imaginings, what ifs in my head ever since that night. There’s a tugging in my gut that tells me, more certainly than anything ever before, that together, we’d be something special. Maybe it’s all the “true love” bullshit around me, everyone pairing off, my friends adored by some of the hottest, coolest girls you’ll ever meet, but I’m starting to feel like anything but the lucky bastard who escaped the claws of a woman. I feel like something’s missing.

  Oh, fuck me, I’m a goddamn chick, dreaming of my skipping, extraordinary Princess Charming. Gidge and her Disney bullshit are rubbing off on me and shriveling my nut sack into a vag. Is there a razor here? I’ll go ahead and slit my wrists right now and call it a day.

  Sighing, I wrap a towel around my waist and open the door, ready to try and at least behave cordially, which I know is only right. “Listen, can I—”

  “She’s gone.”

  I look up, startled by Laney’s voice and even more shocked to see her sitting on my bed. Thank God I put on a towel. “Where’d she go?”

  “Home, I guess.” She shrugs. “I didn’t ask. I heard the front door slam and got up to see what the hell was going on. Since you’re here and she’s not, I’m assuming it was her.”

  How did I not hear the door slam? Not that I would’ve chased her. “All right, she left. So what’re you doing in here?”

  She stands, grabbing some shorts off my floor and throwing them at me. “Go put those on and we’ll talk. Since I’m up,” she reminds me with an evil glare.

  I head back in the bathroom to change, and stay in there, locking the door and taking a deep breath. I’m over six feet tall and lift almost every day, but yes, I’m scared to face Laney. Not only is she a hellcat when she wants to be, but I don’t want to see the disgust or disappointment in her eyes. She’s one of my best friends, even more so after becoming roommates, and her opinion means a lot to me.

  “Get out here!” she yells when she finally realizes I must be stalling. “Take it like a man.”

  I might as well go out there or she’ll undoubtedly come in here, kicking in the door or taking it off the hinges in what I have no doubt would be less than five minutes.

  She pats the bed beside her when I open the door. “Come sit down. We’re doing this now.”

  I hesitantly take a seat, my knee bouncing as I wait for her to speak.

  “First, and of the utmost importance, you know I call my father ‘Daddy,’ so hearing your visitors scream it repeatedly in the middle of the night freaks me out. I wake up thinking I’m in some bad Lifetime movie.”

  Fighting my smirk, I agree. “Okay, got it.” Maybe this little chat won’t be so bad after all.

  “Second,” she stands and tucks my extra pillow between the headboard and wall before sitting back down beside me, “on school and game nights, booty call curfew is eleven. That work for you?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh and run my hands along my head, wishing I had some hair to pull. “It won't happen again, Gidge. I'm sorry.”

  She places a hand on my shoulder with a small smile. “Don't be sorry. This is your house too and we hadn't talked about it. Now we have, so we're all good. Any rules you want to put in place?”

  “Nah, I'm easy.”

  “Made crystal clear by the parade of women coming in and out of here.” She laughs and scoots away quickly, ducking the pillow I grab and swing at her head. “Speaking of which, been busier than usual lately—you trying for Guinness or Gonorrhea?”

  Here we go—this is what she really wants to talk about. It was a nice segue, funny even, but I’m on to her.

  “I mean, you used to at least walk them out and kiss their cheek at the door. I know you said you'll come to me when you're ready, but I can't watch you self-destruct much longer and not say anything.” She ducks her head and looks up at me, forcing my eyes to meet hers. “You’re trying to fuck something, or someone, out of your system, Sawyer, and it’s killing you.” Care to share with the class?”

  “I would’ve walked her out. She left before I came out of the john.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Molly,” I answer immediately.

  She sighs heavily, flopping backwards on my bed but jolting right back up like the mattress shocked her. “Oh, God! Gross! I just laid on your bed o’ brothel. Ewww,” she whines.

  “Relax,” I roll my eyes at her, “I double wrap and she faked it. There’s nothing on this bed but some sweat and regret.”

  She stands, waving me up with her hand. “Still, better safe than sticky. Ew, yuck, not a good joke.” She pulls the blanket all the way up, covering the sheets, then sits back down right on the edge. “Now then,” she again pats the spot beside her and I sit, “her name was Carmen. You weren’t even close!” She slaps my back. “And by the way, I read or heard someplace that double wrapping isn’t recommended.”

  “If I triple wrap, I won’t feel a damn thing! And just one? No fucking way. I’ll take my chances.”

  “Fine,” she huffs, defeated.

  “And how in the hell do you know her name? Are you sure it wasn’t Molly?”

  “I’m sure it was Carmen. You were still in the hall, that thing that runs right in front of my bedroom, when she said, and I quote, 'don't worry, Daddy, Carmen's gonna make you feel real good.'“ Her breathy imitation and finger air quotes are hilarious, but I bite back my laughter, knowing she wants me to take this whole conversation seriously. “Highlight of my day, really, thank you.”

  What am I doing? I'd kill any man that treated one of my girls (and by my girls I mean Laney, Bennett, and Whitley) the way I've been treating women lately. There's a big difference between trying to have a good time and straight up being a dick. I don't want to be the latter, but damned if I can find the cure for my fucked up head.

  I lie back, mesmerized by the ceiling fan blades whirling above me. “I'll try to be better, be nicer. I swear I'm not that guy.”

  “I know you’re not, which is why I'm worried.”

  “Don’t be,” I reply with a resigned sigh. “Eventually I’ll get happy in the same pants I got mad in.”

  “What? You’ll get in someone’s pants again and then you’ll be happy?” She turns her head to look at me, face full of confusion.

  I chuckle at her and shake my head. “It’s a saying: ‘you’ll get glad in the same pants you got mad in.’ As in, wait the woman out and she’ll be over it quicker than she changes clothes. I didn’t write it. Ask Confucius’ ass to explain it. And by the way,” I poke her in the side, “don’t you chicks usually veg out and eat when you have problems? You haven’t offered to make me shit. I should be surrounded by junk food by now.”

  She mocks me, poking out her bottom lip and batting her eyelashes. “Aw, does Sawyer need a hot fudge sundae?”

  “Now you’re talking, woman! Geez! You were holding back on me. What kind of friend are you?”

  She stands, pulling me up by the hand. “M
y bad. How about I give you extra sprinkles? Will you forgive me then?”

  “Maybe. You better hope you’ve got chopped nuts and chocolate ice cream though or we’re through.”

  Chapter 2

  Lost Boy

  —Sawyer—

  “You want a hit of this before I kill it?” CJ tries to hand the creepy-looking wizard bong to me, the end of his staff the bowl.

  “No, man. I'm good,” I mumble, rolling my eyes. I don’t need to take an actual hit, the contact buzz is more than enough. If I had to guess, I’d say the air in his rat-hole apartment is currently two parts oxygen, ninety-eight parts bong smoke. CJ’s definitely not the most upstanding citizen, nor is he my friend.

  The only reason I keep him around is because he’s the go-to guy for ammy motorcross. Ammies, or amateurs, are the lower level events allowed at the track on “off” times. No one’s sponsored, things are unofficial, and money changes hands under the table since betting’s technically not allowed.

  At one time, I'd been an up-and-comer in the motocross scene, getting better and better with every race, but it had been left behind when Dane and I made a pact to quit all the bullshit partying and head to Georgia to be near his brother.

  But now?

  Dane has his holy grail of happiness, his refuge from the storm, Laney. Same with Tate—he and Bennett are happy as hell. Hell, even Evan, who definitely looked to be the last dog in the race, is now all wrapped up with Whitley.

  So Imma get mine where I can.

  “You got any races booked soon?” I ask him.

  “Your bike even ready?” He coughs, blowing out a cloud of smoke as big around as my head.

  I'd recently dipped in to my savings to tweak up the racing bike I’d just bought. Dane pays me well for working at The K, or doing whatever else he needs done, and what the fuck else do I have to spend it on?

  “Yep, got it ready to ride, slicker and quicker. I rented storage for it at the track, even taken it out couple times. So, when’s your next race?” I ask again, annoyed. I’m here for one reason and one reason alone; tell me race time, sign me up, exit stage left. Enough with the stoner-speed conversation; if he doesn’t get to the fucking point soon, I’m walking out of here, straight to a skin peel. His place, this couch…it’s all suspect.

  CJ digs through the wrappers and God knows what else on the table until he finds his phone. He’s on it about ten minutes before finally looking back at me. “Friday night, 10 o'clock. You're in.”

  I nod curtly and stand, way past ready to get the hell out of here.

  “Aren't you forgetting something?” His lip curls up, baring yellow, crooked teeth. “I don’t do this shit for my health. Fifty bucks,” he sticks out his hand.

  I digging around in my wallet and slap sixty in his palm. “Keep the change.”

  It’s been a long ass week with nothing much to look forward to, and I’ve been just going through the motions. I’m glad it’s race night for no other reason than the guaranteed five minutes of pure adrenaline rush, an escape from the mundane. Tonight’s crowd is decent, the screamo music blaring as loud as the engines keeping them amped up, ready for the real show. I watched the first heat and it looks like there’s some stiff enough competition to keep things interesting.

  I’m leaned against the fence, already in way-too-hot-for-Georgia gear and waiting for heat two of four to start, when I feel a small, warm hand on my arm.

  “You racing tonight?”

  I turn my head to the sultry voice, lined with invitation. “I am.”

  Sticking merely the tip of her index finger in her mouth and giving me the classic doe in heat eyes, she asks, “Are you all warmed up?”

  I know this is the part where I’m supposed to walk away, especially after my talk with Laney about being a better guy, but if they put it in your face…it’s rude not to take it. “No, ma’am. You got any suggestions?”

  “I can warm you up.” She moves closer up against me, her hard nipples poking my chest.

  “How’s that?” I don’t even attempt to hide my perusal down her top.

  Fake.

  They’re nice, and most guys live by the motto “if I can reach out and touch ‘em, they’re real enough for me,” but I’m not a cardholder to that club. I like real tits and I cannot lie. The more they bounce when she rides me, the better. Doggy style, the natural ones sway back and forth like pendulums, damn near hypnotizing me. And when I titty fuck her, I want the “give” of natural flesh to mold around my cock like a glove.

  “However you want,” she says in her best 900 number voice. “I’m Mariah, by the way.” She trails her finger along my forearm. “And you’re Sawyer Beckett.”

  I should probably be concerned with how she knows that and the way it’s screaming STALKER at me, but much like any other guy (you know, those brainless things with dicks), I’m not.

  “Well, Miss Mariah,” I run my gaze and fingertip from her neck down to the dip in her cleavage, lifting one brow and eye only, my head still dipped, “that’s an awful sweet offer.”

  Her breathing hitches and the once-ivory skin exposed by the low cut top flushes under my touch. She darts her eyes around and I watch them settle and come back to me when her plan’s decided. Taking my hand, she practically runs as she leads me across the gravel lot and in between two random buildings.

  Once we’re out of blatant sight, she’s on me, her frantic, seeking hands barely able to decide what to unzip or lift first, her mouth sloppy and unskilled on my chin, then my neck.

  “Hey, hey,” I chuckle, using slight force on her shoulders to still her. “You’re gonna hurt somebody, woman.” I lean in, letting the tip of my nose graze her neck up and down a few times in a soothing rhythm. “Little calmer?” I murmur.

  She whimpers, almost as if she’s in pain from being settled, but her touch is more controlled now as one hand sneaks into my open coveralls and under my sliders. “Ahhh,” she hums, like she found the prize without having to dig all the way to the bottom of the cereal box. In a flash, she’s on her knees in front of me, one hand moving clothing out of the way, the other gripping my dick like a vice.

  “Easy,” I soothe her, running one hand along her hair. I’m actually apprehensive of having her so excited…and so close to my dick. I’d like to leave this makeshift hideaway unscathed. “Slow, sugar,” I croon. “I want it sweet and slow.”

  That does the trick. Her eyes lock on me, seeking praise as she sucks as much as she possibly can down her throat.

  “There ya go, just like that,” I mumble.

  I’m about six licks away from the creamy center of my back alley blowjob when a sweet voice rings out, “Mariah?”

  Ahhh, fuck. I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out everything but the directive I’m mentally sending my cock to detonate before the owner of the voice calling out for my “new friend” finds us. I take over now, not usually one to force feed, but desperate times… I start face fucking her like a man with an hour left to live, cause I’m damn sure I’m gonna die coming. “Almost,” I pant, “don’t stop.”

  “MARIAH?” Shit, the voice is much louder this time. Friend found us.

  The first shot fires down her throat as my eyes fly open, head turning towards the sound of a surprised gasp. NO! No fucking way! This is an ejaculation hallucination, it’s gotta be. With odds like this, no one would bet on the races, the fortune to be had is in my bad fucking luck. I try to pull out, but Mariah latches on with a threatening hint of teeth. “I-I,” is all I manage, squeezing my eyes shut in humiliation.

  “Oh, by all means, finish.” She snickers.

  Shamefully, I do. In my defense, it’s not one of those things you can just stop. Mariah takes it all, an audible “pop” echoing against our surrounding walls when she pulls away and rises. I’d rather go blind, but I open my eyes, seeing her proudly beam as she wipes the corner of her mouth.

  “Good thing I got you a drink, huh?” She mocks, stepping forward and offering one of the drinks s
he’s holding to Mariah. Then she looks down at my dick and back up at me and winks. “Not bad.”

  I’m in shock, mentally willing my hand to stop shaking like a puss as I tuck myself back in, zipping up in embarrassment.

  There she stands, the apparition of my every recent dream come to life at the most inopportune time imaginable. In all the scenarios I made up in my head about how, when, and where we’d finally meet again, I assure you this was not one of them. She looks even more incredible than I remember, far more perfect in real life than my dreams. I’d remembered a dime; she’s a fucking quarter and I don’t need change.

  The purple streaks in her ebony hair are gone; she has long, deep brown locks with dark red tips now. She’s a bitty thing, maybe 5’3” tops, but her jean shorts, pockets hanging out, make her tan legs look deceptively longer than they are. On her feet are black cowboy boots that match a wide black belt that pulls my eyes to her rockin’ fucking hips.

  Badass hair, cowboy boots and the face of an angel… she’s fucking Skittles—one package, every fucking flavor!

  When I make it back up to her eyes, an almost unnatural dark green, like lush grass wet with morning dew, she’s got me locked in her crosshairs. She cocks her head at an angle and raises her eyebrows, silently and incredulously saying, “can I help you with something?” louder than actual words.

  “I gotta go.” I duck my head and start to move past her, feeling hands pulling me from behind.

  “Wait! Don’t you want my number?” Mariah calls out desperately.

  I turn around but continue my steps to the track backwards. “I’ll um…I’ll catch ya around later, okay?” I sling my thumb over my shoulder. “I gotta hurry. Race time.”

  Chapter 3

  Hope Sinks

  —Sawyer—

  She’s out there, somewhere in the crowd, watching the race. I can feel the grit in my eyes and between my teeth, the balmy heat and the motor’s vibration coursing through me, but I don’t feel her eyes on me. I know it, as sure as the sun will rise in the east and set in the west, that if her eyes were on me, I would feel it.