Private Prick

by Ember Cole

  After a few deep breaths, I do it. I turn to face her, plastering on the “don’t give a shit” look I perfected over years of being raised by the stoic colonel.

  “So this was fun.” I keep my voice flat, determined not to let her see I’m upset. I’m just a guy who lost his underwear in the home of a hot girl he’d started to dig, no big deal. “Let me know if you want to do it again sometime.”

  There’s no way in hell I’d put either of us through this again, but she doesn’t need to know that. Doesn’t need to hear how far I got down the happily-ever-after trail while she was still back in Grudge-Fuck City.

  Bekka’s eyes lock with mine, and they’re so conflicted I feel my heart stop. She looks down at her feet, which I’ve just realized are still clad in those deadly high heels.

  “Sure,” she says in a tone that confirms we’re never going to bang again. “I—I’ll call you.”

  She makes no move to get my personal number. I make no move to give it to her. If she calls me, looks like it’ll be on the office line.

  “I’ll get out of your hair then,” I tell her. “If you find my boxers, you can drop them off at 5E. Or burn them. It’s not like they’re my favorite pair.”

  Jesus, dude. Get out before you make a bigger fool of yourself.

  “I really appreciate everything,” she says. “Saving me in the elevator, and all the other stuff.”

  Other stuff. Jesus.

  “No problem.” I point to her kitchen. “Someone will be in touch about the repairs. It might not be me.”

  It sure as hell won’t. I’ll pay out of my own pocket to hire another maintenance guy before I show up here and watch Bekka sitting on her couch swiping left for her next Tinder date.

  “Adam—”

  “I’ve gotta run.”

  I consider kissing her. Isn’t that what a gentleman would do? She looks at me expectantly, like there’s something else we need to say.

  But everything’s been said already, and I know if I kiss her I won’t be able to stop.

  “Take care,” I manage.

  Then I turn and walk out of her apartment, kicking myself as I go.

  9

  BEKKA

  I don’t know how long I stare at the door after Adam walks out. Five minutes? Five hours?

  I’m shell-shocked and numb, and those not-so-hot feelings form a bitter brew in my belly. They’re blending with all the tingly stuff left over from the most amazing sex of my life, and the mixture leaves me nauseated and sad.

  Really sad.

  Which is stupid. I’ve had flings before. Tons of them, sometimes hookups where I didn’t even know the guy’s name.

  None of them left me feeling like this. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I gnaw on the edge of my thumbnail, barely noticing when the cuticle starts to bleed. My hand smells like Adam, so I drop it to the couch cushion again and pull the blanket tighter around me, trying to get a grip.

  Maybe I’m sad because I just broke up with what’s-his-name.

  CJ, that’s it.

  But I know douchebag has nothing to do with it. It has everything to do with Adam, though I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I only just met him. We had sex, we said goodbye. End of story, and it shouldn’t be a big deal.

  You did the right thing.

  I nod like an idiot, even though there’s no one in the room but me. I’m trying to convince myself, but it’s not working.

  Ripping off the Band-Aid fast was the smart thing to do, right? I mean, I had to make it clear I’m not ready to date. Not four freakin’ hours after a breakup, and not when we agreed up front that it was only sex. I can’t be the kind of flaky chick who goes hurling herself from one relationship to another each time a guy comes along with a big dick and great hands and kind heart and—

  A knock at the door has me bolting off the couch. I stumble in my stupid shoes, which I forgot I’m still wearing. I kick them off, sending one flying under the couch.

  The knock sounds again.

  “Just a minute!”

  I’m halfway to the door before I realize I’m still buck-ass naked and wrapped in a blanket.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” I hunt for my clothes, spotting them in the tidy pile Adam left on the back of the sofa.

  Adam.

  Whoever it is knocks a third time, and I realize it’s him. It has to be Adam. Kymber would use her key, and there’s no one else who’d just show up like this, let alone be so persistent.

  An unexpected burst of excitement shoots through my body, then flares to life in a great big bonfire. It’s Adam. He’s come back.

  I tug the blanket around my shoulders and head for the door again. Yet another knock.

  “Keep your pants on!” I yell, sort of hoping he won’t.

  Can makeup sex and rebound sex happen in the same hour?

  It’s not just sex that’s exciting me, though. It’s the thought that he’s returning. That he saw past my crazy emotional yo-yo crap and came back to fight for me.

  My hand is shaking as I grip the doorknob, and I fling it open with an apology at the ready.

  “Adam, I’m so—oh.”

  A pimply-faced guy wearing a Domino’s Pizza uniform blinks at me in confusion. His eyes drop to my bare shoulders, then to the hand clutching the blanket between my breasts.

  His cheeks flush an interesting hue of hot pink, and there’s an audible glug sound as he tries to swallow. “Um, ma’am.” He shuffles his feet. “You called for delivery?”

  That’s when he lifts a red-and-blue insulated tote and fumbles with the Velcro closure. As I stare dumbly, he extracts a white box billowing with the scent of pepperoni.

  “Here’s the pizza you ordered.”

  “I ord—oh.” I blink. “Adam.”

  The kid seems confused for a second, then glances down at the receipt in his hand. “Right. Yes, it says here Adam Black paid in full. Even the tip.” He looks up at me and nods. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say automatically, forced to accept the box he thrusts at me. It’s warm and fragrant and so much nicer than anything I deserve.

  “I don’t understand,” I blurt, staring at the box like I’ve never seen pizza before.

  “Ma’am?”

  “The pizza.” My voice sounds thick and shaky. “Why would he still order me a pizza after I kicked him out of my house? What kind of guy does that?”

  A pair of frown lines appears between the kid’s brows. “I—I don’t know?”

  It comes out sounding like a question, but I’m the one who has questions here. “I don’t get it,” I say. “I mean, I thought we were on the same page. Just a fling, right?”

  That makes the kid’s ears go red, and he glances around like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “Maybe I should get back to—”

  “You’re a guy”—I glance at his name tag—“Charlie?”

  “Uh, right.” He looks relieved at the easy question.

  “So isn’t that every guy’s dream scenario? No-strings-attached sex with a total stranger, and no expectations afterward for anything more?”

  It dawns on me that I’ve just described the world’s most cliché porn plot to a teenager who’s surely seen one about the pizza delivery guy seducing the lonely widow after she answers the door naked. Did I just make that up? My brain is firing weirdly, and I’m not sure what the hell I’m thinking or saying or—

  “Sorry,” I mutter, pulling the blanket tighter around me. “I think I’m confused, Charlie.”

  He nods with remarkable vigor. “I know the feeling.”

  Emotion bubbles up in the center of my chest, and I wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake. Not with Charlie—though admittedly I’m acting like an idiot—but with Adam.

  “Maybe I got it all wrong,” I whisper. “Maybe I just don’t know what I want.”

  Charlie takes a step back and folds the insulated tote under his arm. “I hope you want pepperoni, sausage, mushroom, and olive. Extra cheese.
”

  I bite my lip, convinced I’m a grade A dummy. That I’ve made a fool of myself not only with Adam, but with this sweet young teenager who’s probably going to report me to the police.

  “Thank you,” I manage, gripping the pizza box tighter.

  He inches back some more, putting some distance between himself and the crazy naked redhead. “You’re welcome.”

  And with that, a pimply-faced teen becomes the second guy to flee my apartment in one day.

  …

  “Please tell me you’re kidding right now!”

  Kymber shouts her disapproval over the thump of dance music and the steady roar of the crowd. It’s Friday night at Edy’s Lair, our favorite dance club in the whole city.

  But I’m not feeling much like dancing. Or like doing anything but rolling myself in that green blanket and sniffing the hem of it for traces of Adam’s scent. How pathetic is that?

  “I’m not kidding about any of it,” I shout back as Kymber hoists her drink overhead to avoid the drunk sorority girls careening past in a cloud of perfume en route to the bar.

  We’re on the first floor of the three-story club, and Kymber is looking at me like she’s seriously considering dragging me upstairs and tossing me over the balcony. She’s wearing a tight red skirt that I’d totally borrow if we were anywhere close to the same size, and her blond hair is soft and wavy around her shoulders. She’s studying me with a mix of compassion and what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you concern.

  I swallow hard, wondering the same thing.

  “Beks?” she asks. “You want to talk?”

  As I start to nod, a burly no-neck football player type bumps her from behind, sloshing the drink onto her shoes.

  “Hey!” I shout, furious on her behalf.

  No-Neck spins around. “Sorry—oh, hey.”

  He looks at Kymber, then me, then grins like he’s picturing us as two slices of bread in a beefcake sandwich.

  “No,” Kymber says before he can get a word out. She grabs my arm and tows me toward the stairs. “Come on,” she shouts over the thump of club music.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere quieter so you can tell me what the hell has gotten into you.”

  She yanks me up the stairs to the second level, where the screaming pulse of music is more of a dull throb. We find a table toward the back, and I wave down a waitress. “Vodka Collins and a whiskey sour,” I say. “And whatever she wants.”

  “Water,” Kymber says, rolling her eyes. She looks back at me. “Explain it to me again. All of it.”

  “Do I start with dumping CJ?” I ask. “Or getting stuck in the elevator?”

  “You can fast-forward to the part where you had crazy-stupid-hot sex with my boyfriend’s son, then kicked him out of our apartment for some reason I’m struggling to understand.”

  I fiddle with my earring, not liking how stupid it all sounds when she puts it that way. “He sent me a pizza,” I say, like that makes any sense at all. “I kicked him out and he sent me a goddamn pizza.”

  “Because he’s a good guy.”

  Jesus. That makes me feel worse. There’s a tight lump in my throat, and I swallow hard to get it down. “I couldn’t even eat the pizza,” I say forlornly.

  “Who does that?” she asks. “Abandons an innocent pizza.”

  “Or abandons a nice guy like Adam.” Okay, this isn’t helping. I sound glummer than I did five minutes ago.

  “Look,” she says, yanking my hand away from my earring. “We all do stupid stuff after a breakup, right?”

  “Like sleeping with a stranger?”

  She shakes her head and gives me a sad little look. “No. Like sending the stranger packing. Were you seriously that broken up about CJ?”

  I think about it a minute. “I guess not.” Shit. She has a point. A point I’d already considered on my own, but it stings more to have someone else call me on it. “But I should be.”

  “The hell you should,” she snaps. “CJ was a no-good cheating prick you’d only known a couple weeks. This isn’t about CJ. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

  She’s right, dammit. CJ was hardly a blip on my radar. Even that day in the elevator, it’s not like I was torn up missing him. I was pissed off that he’d lied, sure, and mad at myself for another round of shitty judgment.

  But in the grand scheme of things, it’s not like the breakup really floored me. I close my eyes, feeling like a moron all over again.

  Adam’s face floats on the back of my eyelids like a hologram. I picture his smile and those dark, serious eyes, and my stomach clenches into a tight fist.

  “Adam.” His name comes out of my mouth like the answer to a question she hasn’t asked. Saying it out loud doesn’t help, and neither does opening my eyes to see pity on my best friend’s face.

  She puts her hand on mine and gives a soft squeeze. “So what freaked you out, exactly?”

  “I don’t know.” Okay, so maybe I do. I take a deep breath. “I guess I started thinking—”

  “There’s your first mistake.”

  I ignore her and reach up to take my drink from our harried-looking waitress. She sets down the other glasses and a small stack of cocktail napkins before hurrying away. Kymber turns back to me and gestures for me to keep going.

  I take a shaky breath and try to recall what I was saying. Something about overthinking things, which—hello—I do all the fucking time.

  “I guess I set out to have meaningless rebound sex,” I say slowly. “And the next thing I knew, I was considering dinner dates with the nicest guy I’ve ever met.”

  “The horror,” Kymber says drily, and knocks back a slug of the whiskey sour she’s apparently decided to claim for herself.

  “That’s not what I mean,” I argue, not entirely sure what I do mean. “I just—I thought we were just hooking up, you know? And then I started feeling things. Or worrying that maybe he was feeling things and then—”

  “You know, emotion and sex aren’t the worst bedfellows.”

  I sigh. I’m making a mess of this, but maybe that means something. If I can’t explain what I’m feeling to my best friend, then maybe I’m missing something here.

  “I wasn’t looking for that,” I say. “Not then, anyway. I didn’t look at Adam in the elevator and immediately think, ‘hello, future boyfriend.’”

  “Okay,” Kymber says slowly. “You’re aware that things can change sometimes, right? That stuff doesn’t always turn out how you think it will, and that’s totally okay?”

  “I don’t know,” I say miserably, not sure of anything anymore. “I just—have you ever thought you wanted one thing, and realized maybe you wanted something totally different?”

  “Yes,” Kymber says without hesitation. “All the damn time. It’s part of growing up.”

  Growing up. God, it sounds so afterschool-special when she puts it like that.

  “I can’t stop picturing that look on his face,” I tell her. “One second we’re gushing about how it was the best sex of our lives, and the next he’s got this look like I’ve just told him he had a tiny penis.”

  Her eyebrows lift. “Did he?” She waves a hand, looking disgusted. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “No,” I answer. “His dick was perfect. The whole guy is perfect, actually. That’s the problem.”

  Kymber stares at me like I’ve gone nuts. I probably have. “A perfect guy is a problem? The best sex of your life is a problem?”

  I sigh, knowing I’m not making any sense.

  “I know I’m crazy,” I tell her. “What did you say that one time? ‘You’re the emotional equivalent of a carnival ride’?”

  “I meant it with the utmost affection.” Kymber lifts her drink and takes a healthy sip. “Anyway, it sounds like maybe you started out wanting a fling, but freaked out when you changed your mind.”

  “But that’s just it—I can’t change my mind. It’s not the right time. There needs to be space between these things.”
<
br />   “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  That’s such a lame argument that Kymber doesn’t dignify it with a response. She just picks up the water and takes a long drink while I sit here wondering why I’m being such a hard-ass about this rule. A rule I made up in the first place, thank you very much.

  Why was that again?

  “It’s like I told Charlie,” I begin, but Kymber cuts me off.

  “Charlie? Who the hell is Charlie?”

  “Never mind.” I grab one of the cocktails, not even caring which one it is. I’m just grateful for the sharp burn all the way down my throat. “Look, I’m hard to deal with. Why would he want that in his life anyway?”

  “Charlie or Adam? Seriously, who the fuck is Charlie?”

  “Never mind Charlie.” I wave my hand between us, wishing I’d never brought up the stupid pizza delivery kid. “Adam. Adam is the only one I care about.”

  Good God, did I just say that out loud? Kymber stares at me like I’ve just blurted something profound, and I wonder if maybe I have. I look down at my hands, afraid to say more.

  But that doesn’t stop me. “Seriously, though—what if I’m too crazy for a guy like Adam?”

  I glance up to see Kymber giving me that look again. The one you’d give a senile aunt who showed up to Christmas dinner wearing underwear on her head.

  Bless her heart.

  “Don’t you think Adam would be the best judge of what he can and can’t handle?” she asks. “Who does and doesn’t belong in his life?”

  Maybe. I don’t know what to think, actually.

  I twist one of the cocktail napkins into a weird paper snake. “You know he said the same thing about himself? That he’s not the easiest guy to be around.”

  “Adam?” She scrunches up her nose. “He’s like the nicest guy in the world. Really intense and hot as hell, but nice. I mean, has he met his father?”

  “Right?” I bang my fist on the table, earning an alarmed look from a passing waitress. “I just—I was looking for a grudge fuck, not a relationship with a nice guy. I’m not ready.”

  “You’ve been after a relationship with a nice guy forever,” she says. “Just because it comes along at the wrong time, you’re going to freak out about it?”