by Anne Marsh
Anywhere works for me, but I stick to the revised plan. I set her on her feet and hold out my hand. I’m going to be a nice guy and her new best friend, even if it kills me. “Ice cream.”
Hindi
Ro and I are going on a date.
No. Misnomer.
We’re going for ice cream and it just happens to be together, because that’s what friends do. They go get a friendly ice cream together and share a friendly ride. Probably in the interest of reducing our carbon footprint or some such. If I don’t want to be married, I don’t want to date, either. I mean, sure I miss sex, but I don’t have to be in a long-term, committed relationship to have it. That’s what toys are for—toys and bars. Somehow, though, since I can’t work up the energy to add batteries to my shopping list, it’s hard to imagine popping into a bar and picking out a guy. It’s not like choosing a slice of cake. If I stick my fork in him, lick him a little, this hypothetical man will have expectations, and I can’t blame him. If I don’t like the way he tastes, if I’m too full… yeah. I can’t really stick him back.
Hook ups don’t work that way.
Instead, I’ll have ice cream. Lots and lots of calories and plenty of sex-free, totally safe licking. With Ro. My friend. I’m still having a hard time imagining that. Naked is easy, but friendly? Not so much. We’re not renting a chic New York apartment together and sharing zany adventures. In fact, the only things we’re sharing right now are this Jeep and a lawyer. Still. Friends? It seems more than a little insane, especially given our looming divorce.
I give him a sidelong look. This is made easier by the fact that he’s driving. We do seem to spend an awful lot of time in moving vehicles. He’s got his sunglasses on, and I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable, driving-related reason for him to hide behind those shades, but I still hate them. I can’t see his eyes and he feels so distant. Ro’s got gorgeous eyes, like really expensive chocolate, and yes, I want to see them.
But I probably shouldn’t just reach over and grab his glasses, not when the man’s driving and we’ve got ocean on either side of us. Somehow, when he said ice cream I thought we’d stay on Angel Cay. Instead, he seems determined to drive a bajillion miles. Much farther and we’ll run out of cays and end up halfway to Cuba. The view’s pretty, though. I squint toward the water, drinking in the heat and beauty that is Florida.
He gives me an assessing look. “You got sunglasses in that monster bag?”
My bag could double as checked luggage on some flights. It’s a cavernous pink crochet number and a surplus of pom-poms—which are so on-trend right now—bounces from the handles. As bags go, it’s absolutely ridiculous and so much fun. Of course I have sunglasses in there. Somewhere. I’m pretty much covered for every eventuality, from a hurricane to twelve hours in the baking sun (hello, sun protection) to scaling a glacier in Alaska.
This is clearly the reason why I lie to him. Sort of. At the very least, I commit the sin of omission. If I were Catholic, I’d have to take up permanent residence in the confessional. “Nope. Can I use yours?”
He pulls the glasses off without saying anything and hands them to me. I put them on. It’s not like they’re magic lenses, but the world looks a little different from this point of view. The metal frame is warm from his skin and the world goes just a little darker. Huh. I turn my head this way and that, working out what the world looks like if you’re Rohan MacCarthy.
“Let’s go over our objectives,” I tell him. This is the new, well-planned me—or maybe it’s due to the glasses. And since we’re not dating (which means that sex is absolutely not today’s end goal), I’d just like to make sure things are clear. I’m absolutely not thinking about Ro naked—or wiggle room.
Jesus. I am so thinking about Ro naked.
I grab my phone and text Lilah. Help. Imagining Ro nekkid.
She fires back immediately. Dibs on pics of his butt!
I love Lilah, but she’s not helping. Of course, she’s also unaware of our new plan.
Turning over new leaf. We’re friends.
Lilah turns out to be the queen of ideas. Friends with benefits!
So not helping. I shift my gaze from my phone to Ro’s legs. He has gorgeous legs—strong, muscled, and boot-wearing. God, I love a man in boots. It just advertises that he can and will kick ass and wade through shit if that’s what the job calls for.
A big hand reaches down and covers my screen. “You asked a question.”
Right. I so did. I put on my attentive listening face. Yes, that small gust of air is my husband sighing.
Ro gives me a calm look and recaps. “We’re being nice.”
“Why?” This is need-to-know information.
With any other guy, I’d be getting more than just a look right now. Or my hypothetical ice cream not-date would take the opportunity to explain how he’d always liked me blah blah blah—and that would segue into Let’s go make crazy love! And that used to work. Sex was straightforward, life was straightforward. Cause and effect. Action and reaction. I know I’m not the top prize in the happily-ever-after sweepstakes. I’m a little too happy-go-lucky, a little too much of a fruitcake. I don’t settle and I’m probably not the kind of girl that’s easy to introduce to dear old mom and dad.
Wait. Back up. “I never met your parents. You know, when we were really married. Are you like Athena? Did you spring fully formed from some military guy’s head?”
My Greek mythology is more than a little rusty, but I think she’s the chick that popped out of Zeus’s head. If not, Rohan will set me straight. The man’s a walking encyclopedia—it’s like his brain has a direct connection to Google. Do his hands tighten on the wheel just a little as he processes my question? I can’t tell, so I fiddle with the radio while I wait for my answer. He has channels programmed. Huh. Okay—he has one channel. The country music station I sang along to on our way to meet Ava. The rest of it is real boring talk radio.
He levels another quick look at me. “Tangent much?”
Forget the parentage question. “No melodies, beats, or rhythms?”
He reaches over and taps the dial. “I gave you one.”
“Community property, big guy. I get half the channels.”
His reaction is not the one I expected. Instead of giving in and letting me pick the music (or insisting that I listen to his choice—honestly, it could go either way and he’s always been big on issuing orders), he pulls in. Over. Somewhere. The Jeep comes to an abrupt stop and I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open.
Jeez, for someone his size, he sure moves fast because in a nanosecond or less I’m straddling his lap. It’s a good thing I’ve got my choice of the seat or his shoulders to brace myself on, because I’m a little off-balance. Do friends sit on friends’ laps?
“We’re not divorced yet,” he growls against my mouth. Funny. It doesn’t sound like a complaint.
“Right.” I’m so close that we’re practically kissing, and when I exaggerate the word, I swear my lip brushes his. Not really, but almost. “So that means we can engage in some domestic terrorism. I’ll change the channels to something you hate, and then you change them back to something else.”
This is way more fun than needling him about his terrible choice in radio stations. My legs hug his hips and his dick presses up against me in a way that’s entirely happy-making if not friendly. Ro has an amazing dick and clearly it’s only gotten better—and bigger—in the years since I last got my hands and tongue on it. Ro’s package is proof that God really is a female, because only a woman could appreciate what he’s got. I may possibly rub myself against him once. Or twice. His dick is kind of like my new lucky charm.
He shakes his head. “Remember? We’re working on being nice to each other. Friends.”
Oh. Right.
“I didn’t meet your parents,” he points out. “And you didn’t meet mine parents,” he continues, as if I’m not doing my best to give him a lap dance in the front seat of his Jeep, “because I was deployed. And the
n you were working, and—”
Oh the endless fount of excuses. Clearly, I have had an influence on him (although my excuses would have been way more colorful).
“My dad’s a critical asshole and then we thought we were getting a divorce so need to torture you with him,” I add cheerfully. Really, the words just kind of fly out of my mouth. I should probably put more thought into them, but he feels good, and I’m feeling better, and—
“Hindi.” Does he know that when he says my name like that, all rough and growly, I get wet? He certainly ought to be able to feel how wet I am. I so need this—it’s been way too long since anyone touched me just for fun. Six long, dry, lonely years since anything but a toy penetrated me. I mean, I’m due. The universe totally owes me this.
“We’re still getting a divorce,” he whisper-growls against my mouth. “Just so we’re clear.”
“Crystal.”
“But—” He actually looks uncomfortable, and it might have something to do with my presence on his dick. Sure, there’s at least three layers of clothing between us (maybe he goes commando?), but we’re talking mere millimeters.
“Yes?” This Rohan’s lap, Rohan’s dick, and apparently I’ve missed him. “Maybe we could be friends with benefits.”
I really shouldn’t have said that. I can practically see the words hanging in the air between us, comic book style, decorated with tiny lethal kapows and ba-booms. I blame Lilah and my sad, lonely libido for the suggestion. The next thing, though? That’s all my fault.
I give into temptation and nip his bottom lip. He was never a fan of biting, and that hasn’t changed. He pulls his head back fast. Fortunately, I have him trapped. He’s too much of a gentleman to dump me off his lap, and the steering column and all the other driving doohickeys conspire to keep him pinned in place.
So he glares, quite impressively. The man has a gorgeous frowny face. “What are you doing?”
If he has to ask, I’m not doing it right.
“Having fun?” Okay, I’m actually killing two birds with one stone. It’s not something I’m proud of, but Lilah will be skulking about soon, snapping a few pictures because she’s tracking me with her Find My Friends app. I strongly suspect that the celebrity gossip sites also have us in their sights, pun intended. “And we haven’t even got to the ice cream yet.”
He points over my shoulder. “Then you should be ecstatic, because the ice cream is fifty feet away at twelve o’clock.”
“Not what I’m in the mood for at this precise second, but kudos on the excellent navigating job.”
See? He really is a miracle worker. Maybe it’s something they teach in the Navy? Because, God… he slides his hands down my back and I arch into his touch. Mmmm-hmmm, he still knows where all my best spots are, the places where I ache and where to touch me so I melt for him. Or maybe it’s just instinct on his part? Whatever woman gets him next is lucky. I feel like I should send her a congratulatory card. You’ve won the grand prize in the man lottery! Except… I kind of want to rip her hair out, too. I mean, I suspect that’s way harder to do (sans scissors) than I expect, but Ro feels fantastic and right now I’m not in a sharing mood. I’d kind of like him to retreat to a monastery after we formalize our break up, where he can brood in manly silence for the next fifty or sixty years. He doesn’t get to be friends with anyone else ever again. That’s my new rule.
Another car pulls in beside us, breaking the spell. Huh. Now that I’m not so distracted, I realize that we’re not stopped randomly on the side of the road. We are, in fact, at the ice cream place. Also? Minivans turn out to be really, really loud on gravel, especially when the mom behind the wheel is hauling half a kindergarten, or at least it sure sounds that way when the van door slides open.
He sighs. I’m sure he sounds far too much like the harried mom marshaling her troops next door. “Friends with benefits, huh?”
“Limited time offer and now off the table. Forget I said anything.” I slide off his lap. Today’s plan called for ice cream, not orgasms for two in the front seat of the Jeep. Plus, even if we both wanted to take friends to a whole new level, Ro needs to invest in a vehicle with more seat room.
By the time we get out, the ice cream place is mobbed. Literally. The newly arrived kindergarten horde swarms the counter, so we hang back for a moment while the mom-in-charge wrangles a seemingly endless number of cones. Ro gets in line just in time to catch a cone that slips from her grasp when she whirls around to repeat the verbal headcount she seems to call out every thirty seconds. Her words are like a lighthouse beam—steady, safe, and slightly annoying.
“Thanks.” She shoots him a grateful look as he hands the rescued cone off to the grubby five-year-old recipient.
He responds with that half-smile, the one that’s full of amusement and says he can handle all of her problems and that he won’t mind one teeny-tiny bit. He’s such a nice guy. So even though that’s my look he’s giving this other woman, I let her borrow him for a few minutes. I read somewhere that Karma keeps track of nice stuff like that, so I’m hoping I’m one up.
While Ro’s fixing the world’s problems (or at least one mom’s), I order for us. The ice cream shack has three choices: chocolate, vanilla, or swirl. Since Ro is otherwise occupied, I make a command decision and get us matching brown-and-white cones. This is like having the best of both worlds, ice cream for indecisive people, and yes—twist is my favorite flavor. No hard choices required.
The guy at the counter takes my order and then pauses. He recognizes me. His eyes kinda widen and then his gaze drops—wait for it—to my boobs. I’m not sure if he expects me to wear a name tag or just to prance around in the underwear I design, but then he whips his eyes back to my face.
“Hey,” he starts, and I know what’s coming next. I’ve already pasted the appropriate smile on my face. “Aren’t you Hindi from Lingerie Stars?”
He pulls the handle to start our first cone while he asks, which means his gaze is pinned to my face and not watching the stream of frozen goodness.
“That’s me.” I beam him a smile. “Do you watch?”
“Team Hindi,” he gets out. “That’s me.”
You never want to assume that someone’s a fan. Sometimes, people just like to tell you what a lousy job you do and how they always change the channel as soon as you come on. I’m not going to lie—I prefer the viewers who think I walk on water. They’re the easiest to please, even if their requests can border on the bizarre. I’ve autographed more bras, tits, and asses than I care to remember. Cone Guy gapes and my cone channels the Leaning Tower of Pisa and lists abruptly to the left.
He hands off the lopsided cone and starts the next one. A minute later, I’m trying to sign the random scrap of paper he thrusts at me and my fingers are all sticky. Naturally, that’s when a wet napkin appears over my shoulder. Ro to the rescue yet again.
For a minute, I fantasize that it’s his mouth licking me clean—or dirty—but the napkin’s too cold and just a little scratchy, because this place isn’t of the spare-no-expense mindset when it comes to paper goods.
After we’ve got me cleaned up, we collect our cones and stroll over to a picnic table down by the water’s edge. Ice cream and a view—what more can you ask for? The water’s that gorgeous light aqua color and when I look left, all I see are palm trees and white sand. Look right, and it’s more of the same. It’s like we’re licking cones in paradise.
I don’t see Lilah, but I gave her the heads up about our outing and she thought it sounded promising. She claims the Find My Friends app will let her shadow me and get the shots we need. I ignore the twinge of guilt and make a production of licking my cone like it’s dick-flavored and I’m a porn star. I’m even sort of discreet, although the kindergarten mom still shoots me a dirty look as she herds her small tribe back to the minivan. I bet she has fantasies of keying the Jeep or catapulting me over the ocean from a cannon. At any rate, Lilah should have the shots she needs to start seeding the celebrity gossip sites.
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When my phone buzzes, I half expect it to be her. See me juggling the cone as I lunge for the device in my purse? Decorating myself and the table with half-melted ice cream because I’m smooth like that? Ro gets his rescue on for the third time in an hour and takes the cone from me so I can spelunk successfully inside my bag. He takes a gigantic, man-sized bite off the top of it too, rather than licking it down, which just goes to show he has no idea that ice cream is code for oral.
“Important call?” He takes another bite, sounding amused rather than suspicious and that makes me feel bad.
I look down at the screen, trying not to look too interested. And… bingo. We’ve got our first bite. The Internet officially knows that I’m in Florida “for personal reasons” and multiple gossip sites are speculating wildly about just what those reasons might be. Guesses include childbirth, a hot fling with a nubile eighteen-year-old model, and rehab. Later tonight Lilah will sow a few more seeds and upload some carefully vague pictures of me with a male companion. Stoke the fires. Make sure there are plenty of sexy dots to connect (and yeah, she’s totally putting a picture of Rohan’s ass out there).
“Google alert,” I tell him. See? That’s the truth.
He devours another inch of my cone and then hands it back to me. “You want to catch me up on what you’ve been doing the last few years?”
I look at him questioningly. “You don’t have a TV and the Internet?”
He assaults the other side of his cone. Firm strokes. A very nice nip and roll. And… yeah, fuck. He’s staring at me, because he’s already answered my question and I’ve been too focused on his ice-cream-eating abilities to pay attention.
“Say again?” I promptly go back to watching his tongue work. Fantasies are completely calorie-free, after all.
He shrugs. “I don’t Google you. I’ve watched a few of your episodes, but that’s a show and not personal.”
I try to remember if anyone else has understood the distinction. The Hindi you see on the small screen is a figment of my imagination. She’s cool and funny and really likes to have a good time—but she’s not actually the woman sitting here at a picnic table with an ice cream cone that’s melting all over her. I lick the back of my hand while I try to think of something to say. It’s certainly easier working from a script.
