by Xavier Neal
My own irrational fears force me to sigh, “Five minutes.”
“Ten.”
“What the hell, Dana? You said five.”
“I’m making it ten because I know you will sit there for five minutes in pure silent protest to prove a point.”
Okay. I may be a little stubborn…I may have also done something similar when it came to evening gown shopping for one of her birthday parties.
“Go.”
As soon as I stand up, the entire table’s attention lands on me. Unsure of how to make my exit graceful, I bluntly state, “Dana’s making me go talk to a stranger at the bar.”
To my surprise, Kellan nods with a charming smile. “Could go well. I talked to a stranger at an art gallery and she became my wife.”
His choice of words causes something in the pit of my stomach to flitter.
No. There’s no way. I don’t have that type of luck. I never have. I’ll consider myself lucky if I don’t pour a drink in his lap for saying something that sounded disgusting or belittling.
“He says it like I just fell all over him.” His wife gives me a snarky look. “I didn’t. He stalked me around the showing.”
“I didn’t stalk.”
“Like a creeper,” she adds.
“Brie has a point,” Hugh chuckles with a sip of his beer.
“Why do you always take my wife’s side?”
When the laughs begin again, Dana gives me a small head toss, to get going while the group is distracted.
Thankful the conversation has taken a turn down memory lane, I slip away and try to muster up a pleasant expression to greet him with.
During my approach, my face unconsciously begins to contort into a sneer at the sight of him taking a selfie with his beer.
Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more…juvenile. I cannot believe I have to spend ten minutes talking to someone who has the mentality they still need to showcase how hard they ‘party’ after thirty.
The man tucks his phone back into his pocket and glances over his shoulder as if impatient about my arrival. Our eyes connect and my heart unmistakably skips a beat. They’re breathtaking. They’re bright brown and filled with what feels like an irresistible happiness. Just staring into them floods my veins with the desire to smile. How is that possible? Why is that possible? There’s no logical explanation it should even be possible.
I have a seat on the bar stool beside him. “My name is Abby.”
His wide smirk forces my bottom lip between my teeth. “I’m Blake.”
“Great. We still have nine minutes and forty-five seconds before I can walk away from this conversation, so please make the remaining part of it as painless as possible.”
Blake lets out a loud, heartwarming laugh. The sound successfully steals a smile from my lips.
So what if he lets out a sound as beautiful as his eyes and sculpted body. Doesn’t mean I’m going to sit here longer than I already agreed to.
“I’ll tell you what, Angel, you agree to go out with me on a real date, and you don’t have to sit here the other nine minutes and thirty seconds.”
“Not even if it would cure herpes, which I am about 98% sure you have.”
While I am expecting his jaw to drop in shock or fury, he chuckles again. “You that terrified of how I make you feel?”
“Like vomiting? Like unprotected sex is a threat people should take more seriously?”
He wets his lips and my pussy pleads for me to play nicely. “The other feeling.”
Flustered on how he could possibly know what he’s causing to happen in parts of my body no one has the right to have an effect on, I swallow the snarky comeback I had originally planned.
Yes, I’m attracted to him. He’s over six feet tall, easily, smiles like a sinner, and probably has sex like a porn star’s understudy. Unfortunately for him, none of that matters once he opens his mouth and oozes cockiness. I don’t mind a man with confidence. I mind one whose ego is the size of a third world nation.
“I am not your type.”
Blake ignores my statement. “You didn’t seem interested in a beer. You want something else? Wine?”
“No.”
“Mixed drink?”
“No.”
“Shot of whiskey?”
“I don’t like alcohol.”
He tilts his head at me. “None of it?”
“No.”
A stunned expression appears on his face.
“Told you. Not your type.”
“Just because I like to drink and you don’t, Angel, doesn’t make you not my type.”
“Fine. It makes me less likely to be your type.”
“You’re just lookin’ for an excuse to get up and storm away, aren’t you?” His grin appears again and the unknown feeling that appeared when Kellan mentioned meeting his wife flutters again. “Lookin’ to pick a fight you know you can win, so I look like the asshole you think I am.”
My hands fold firmly together. “No.”
“Liar.”
Completely. I need a real reason to walk away since not pretending to not be interested in him wasn’t good enough. And I know I’m a grown woman who can make her own decisions and come to her own conclusions, but I have one friend. One friend who goes out of her way to include me even when it’s obvious she shouldn’t be within ten feet of someone who can’t have a long conversation without accidentally insulting the other person or bore them into an early grave. This is the win she needs, so I am going to give it to her. Lord knows, she’s given me plenty.
“You should know,” Blake begins again, this time preparing to have another sip of his light colored beer. “I’m not afraid of a challenge.”
“Shocking.”
“Or a fight.”
“With as oversized as you are, why would you be?”
He chuckles again and offers me another over confident smile. “I’m very persistent.”
The instinct to gag makes a gracious appearance. “You’re pushy.”
“What can I say? I believe a good business man is a bit of both.”
“And what is it you exactly do for a living?”
“My brother owns a brewery, and I recently became head of promotional events. The primary company ‘face’ for social gatherings and our social media outlets.”
I cringe. “You drink beer, take selfies, and party for a living?”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“Is there?” my voice condescendingly counters.
Blake lightly chuckles, shakes his head, and says, “Why don’t I take you to dinner and explain it to you in…deeper detail?”
I roll my eyes at the horrid innuendo.
He really is consistent on asking, isn’t he? How could he possibly still have any interest? I’ve tried to repel him as best as possible for the entire conversation and the only thing it has made him do is laugh before basically begging for me to do it again. Is he a masochist? Is he one of those men with weird fetishes for people who put them in physical or mental anguish? Oh God. Does he have like a big woman fetish? Is that why he’s into me and didn’t even give Dana an extra glance? Is that why I’m ‘his type’? Because I carry more than the average woman in my boobs, tummy, thighs, and hips? Why is it the more time I spend thinking about him the more terrified I become about being something featured on the evening news?
“In fact,” he speaks again silencing my thoughts, “let me give you my number and you can use it whenever you’re ready for me to tell you all about it.”
I defiantly inform, “You’re not getting mine.”
Blake grabs the pen sitting on top of the receipt beside him. “Don’t need it.” He scribbles a few numbers on a bar napkin and slides it at me. “You’re gonna call or text me, Angel. I’m not worried about it.”
My eyes cut a glance at the object that will be going into the trash before I snip, “You’re awfully sure of yourself, party boy.”
He smirks widely, stands, and prepares to walk
past me yet stops to whisper beside my ear, “Or maybe I’m jus’ a man of faith, Angel…”
The closeness causes my entire body to burn with an unprecedented heat.
Faith? In me? Ha. He is obviously drunker than he realizes. I will not be calling or texting him. It doesn’t matter if he was…nothing but kind despite my reluctance to even want to speak to him. Men like Blake want one thing and one thing frequently. Unfortunately for him, it’s one thing I don’t do and damn sure don’t plan to do with him. Now or ever.
How could I be wrong? I’m never wrong when it comes to women. I’m not my obnoxious older brother, Oliver, who lacks the ability to pick up on any romantic cues. In comparison to him? I’m a goddamn love guru. In comparison to most men in general? I’m a fucking four time gold medalist. I get women. I understand the shit they’re spewing and more importantly the shit they’re not, but want to.
I slyly pull out my phone from my pocket at the dinner table.
Sixteen new IG likes from my pre-dinner pose at my apartment with Runt’s Beer, the beer the company brews. Six new comments on my Facebook photo from my post morning jog. Four new tweets about the beer tasting we’re hosting on Wednesday. As for anything regarding Abby? Nothing. Still. This is ridiculous. She should’ve texted last night or at the very latest this morning. I doubted she would call because it didn’t seem her style, but I didn’t think she would just throw away my number. I didn’t even consider it an actual possibility….No. She didn’t. There’s no way she did. She probably lost it. Damn, I hope she didn’t lose it. Fuck, now I don’t know what’s worse, her having my number and not using it or her having lost my number and wanting to use it.
“Blake Jenkins Shaw, I swear if you check that goddamn phone one more time, I will put it in the microwave to keep it warm while you finish your supper.”
My younger brother, Ford, and his girlfriend, Ollie, snicker.
Once it’s back in my pocket, I offer her an award winning smile. “My apologies, Mama. Expecting a call.”
“From the president?” Pop pokes the situation between bites of his pork chop. “Because this has to be the only time in history of dinners you have ever been this adamant about checking your phone.”
“It hasn’t been that bad.”
“Yes it has,” Ford argues, sliding his arm around the back of Ollie’s chair. “Pop’s point is true.”
He may be the brother I am closest too and without question my best friend, but sometimes I swear to God I could slug him for being a suck up.
His expression overflows with concern. “Never seen you this obsessed with missin’ a call.”
“Are you my secretary now?”
“Could you please refrain from any bent over the desk and dictation jokes you’re dyin’ to say?”
Pop chuckles to himself.
He’s thinking the same ones I am…It’s where I get it from. Truth be told, it really comes from both of my parents.
Ford doesn’t budge. “Who you waitin’ on a call from? Somethin’ for work?”
I stab at the asparagus on my plate. “No.”
He leans his face a little further down until I make eye contact with him. “Is that a real no or a no you just don’t wanna ruin Sunday dinner?”
“Don’t you dare ruin Sunday supper,” Mama fusses instantly. “We had years of that with the demon in cowgirl boots. We don’t need any more.”
Her reference to Ford’s ex fiancé causes him to cringe and Ollie to smirk.
Thankful for the attention to be on another subject, I add, “Remember how much she hated to be here?”
Ford gives me a shake of his head in warning.
With a playful smile, I inform my mother, “You know she always said you overcooked your meatloaf.”
“And may she burn in hell for that and the other fifteen commandments she broke,” Mama says, swiftly swiping her beer from its place in front of her.
My little brother diverts his attention her direction. “Mama, you know there are only ten.”
“Yeah, but she’s such an abomination they had to make five more so the world would know the true depths of hell she truly came from.”
Under his breath, he mutters at me, “You see what you did? Happy now?”
Mama’s rambling of hatred for his ex-fiancé begins at the rapid rate it always does.
I immediately nod. “Extremely.”
His fault. This is what he gets for his pursuit of more information about the phone call or text message that apparently is never going to happen. No…She’ll call. She has to call. Or text. She feels more likely to text me. If she texts than I can’t hear the way her voice tries not to quiver when I’ve turned her on. Man…Talk about an unusually sexy sound. I know I’m not wrong about Abby. I’d stake my career on it. Despite the extremely hard exterior she wears, most likely from being hurt by an ex, she was interested. Highly. And while I have no plans on offering to put a ring on her finger, or giving her ex the ass beating he deserves for breaking her heart, I can at least show her a good time. A damn good time. Put a smile back on that beautiful, dark skinned face. She needs one. I could tell. I’m good at reading women. Been doin’ it over half my life. I even tried to warn Ford to let his no good ex go hundreds of times because I knew what kind of person she was when they first met at sixteen. She had money sucking slut written in her bright pen to match her bright ass red tube top my little brother couldn’t see past. I may not be great at many things, but reading people? That I do amazingly well. Oh and Ollie? The adorable, curly haired, nerdy woman he brought home? Well, let’s just say they’re a perfect match that makes his years of touch and go with Carol Ann actually worth it since it’s what led to their paths to crossing.
“So, who is she?” Mama’s question lands back on me.
“Yeah,” Pop joins in on the interrogation. “Daughter of an oil billionaire?”
“Daughter of a stock market billionaire?”
“Daughter of a Duke?”
“Daughter of a Prime Minister?” Mama tosses out. “Perhaps Swedish?”
“He does like them blonde!” Ollie squeaks out.
I lean around my chuckling brother to scold her. “Not helpin’.”
“Is that a yes?” Mama eagerly asks. “Tell me it’s a yes and I win the weekly datin’ pool.”
Bewilderment jumps onto my face. “You’re bettin’ on me?”
“I get better odds on you than I ever did at the horse races.”
“Is that supposed to make him feel better?” Ollie meekly questions.
Mama innocently shrugs. “It should.”
The horror on my face deepens.
While most people would probably be in serious shock to hear their parents talk or behave like this, I’m grateful to say, I’m not most people. I have the best family in the whole world. Mama’s got a crass mouth, a kickass conqueror of anything that stands in her way attitude and Pop has an equally filthy conversation tendency along with a short temper for bullshit. But what matters most is the welcoming heart of gold they both possess. They’re oddly enough very open minded individuals who would rather give people several chances to be better than leave them out in the cold to get worse. They’ve always drilled the importance of allowing people a chance to show you who they really are on the inside without caring about what’s on the outside. They’re probably the reason I’m good at understanding people or, more accurately women, the way I do…
Pop reaches for his beer, eyes seated on me. “Is there a problem, Blake?”
“With you bettin’ on me like the ponies?”
“Yeah.”
“Pop.”
My father cracks a crooked grin. “Is that…wrong?”
“You’re seriously askin’ me if it’s wrong to bet on your son’s love life?”
“Love life?” Mama sarcastically says. “Blake you haven’t been in love with anything other than tits and beer your entire existence.”
She’s not wrong. Never really stuck around women long eno
ugh to do the ‘love’ thing. Never understood the point either. You both wanna hop in bed and hop out as soon as possible to do shit with people you like more anyways. I’ve always been honest. I’m good for one night, maybe a week if I don’t have other shit going on. But long term? I’m never what a woman’s looking for. Truth be told, they’re never what I’m looking for either. I’m a pretty basic guy. I wanna drink with my family, laugh when I should be working, and get off at a consistent rate. Not looking to be anyone’s saving grace or hero. A companion for the night is really what most women need. Just a few hours to be free, let loose, and remember how great it is to have someone worship them between their thighs. Most people think that makes me some sort of disgusting asshole. Honestly? I don’t care. We were raised not to give a shit what other’s thought about us so much as what we thought about ourselves. I think I’m a pretty decent man, even if the one woman I want to text me has her pretty little mind wrapped around me being just another jackass looking to get off. Huh. I mean I do wanna get off with her. But there’s more to it than that…even if I never admit it for longer than a split second.
