by Kendall Ryan
Buzz.
Oh shit. I scramble for my phone, nearly elbowing the orange puffball dominating most of the bed.
You want me to teach you how to fuck?
Well, that settles it.
Forget it. I knew you’d make it a joke.
As soon as the message is delivered, my phone rings. He’s calling me. Time for some damage control. I pick up.
“Hey, Slate, look—”
“I’m not making a joke.” His voice sounds tight. Almost rigid. Which is so not Slate.
I can imagine him sitting on the edge of his couch with that look he gets on his face when he’s really focused. Admittedly, it’s not a bad look—his brow furrowed, gaze focused, thumb pressing against his bottom lip. It’s kind of sexy, to be honest.
I let out a nervous little laugh. “I mean, I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m saying. I know you’re probably not interested, anyway. Hell, you get more ass than a toilet seat at Taco Bell, and I’m not about to be sloppy seconds to your weekend plans. No offense—”
“Whoa, Keaton,” he says. “I don’t have any weekend plans.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my heart now galloping. Is this happening? Am I on the brink of making one of my best friendships totally, irrevocably weird?
“It means I could, well, take a break.”
“Wow, so honorable,” I say with a sneer.
“Come on, Keat, don’t be like that.” He sighs. I can imagine him running a hand through his hair, brushing it over the back of his neck.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m not even sure what I’m asking. I may not even remember this tomorrow.”
“It’s okay,” he says back. Softly.
What did I ever do to deserve such a good friend?
Just when I think he can’t surprise me anymore, he hits me with, “How about we talk tomorrow? We’ll both be sober. We can set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?”
“For . . .” He falters, only for a second. “Whatever this is. Or whatever this could be.”
“Okay. That sounds good.”
“Good. Talk to you tomorrow, Keat. Get some sleep.”
“You too,” I say, and we hang up.
Penny opens one eye, as if to say, What have you done now, human?
“I have no idea,” I mutter. This could be the most humiliating thing I’ve ever gotten myself into.
But then, without warning, I find myself grinning. Drunk grinning, which isn’t necessarily my best look, but I wonder if Slate is grinning too.
If anything, this is definitely going to be interesting.
For a moment after my alarm goes off, I wonder if last night’s conversation with Keaton was just some bizarre dream. But her words are right there in my text message history. How about you stop making jokes and help me become a better lover?
And then my not-so-eloquent response . . . You want me to teach you how to fuck?
I wince a little at the exchange, but then decide it doesn’t matter. I’ve always been 100 percent myself around Keaton, which includes my lack of filter, and I’m certainly not about to change now. Not after a solid ten years of friendship. She obviously accepts me as I am, crass and all.
I shave, shower, and dress on autopilot, trying not to overthink it. There’s no point jumping the gun here. We need to sit down and hash this out before we do anything else. But I still can’t stop myself from puzzling over her.
Keaton didn’t react well when I tried to confirm exactly what kind of help she was after. But I’m not crazy for interpreting things that way . . . right? Did she just want me to buy her a textbook or something? Draw her some X-rated diagrams? Demonstrate using a banana and a condom? No, I’m pretty sure she was talking about a more hands-on kind of instruction. Then again, maybe it was her liquid courage talking and she won’t remember a damn thing.
Yet I can’t deny that her indecent proposal excites me. She’s stunning, like a sexy librarian fantasy come to life. Let’s face it, I’m a red-blooded man with a functioning set of eyeballs who just so happens to have the equipment that can take care of whatever her needs require. No one could fault me for finding the idea of touching her appealing. If she wants me to be her personal love machine, let’s face it, I’ll jump at the chance.
But we’re just friends—always have been, and hopefully always will be. I know she’s married to her job, and she knows I’m not interested in settling down. Neither of us wants to fuck up all the good things we’ve got going on, especially not our friendship.
I tell myself firmly that there’s no way any of the images playing through my mind are going to come true. Whatever she meant last night, she’s probably come to her senses by now. Or she might have been too drunk for the memory to stick in the first place. I have to prepare myself for anything, including politely pretending to have forgotten in case she’s embarrassed at what Drunk Keaton said. God knows she’s afforded me the same courtesy plenty of times when I said something stupid while drinking.
I text Keaton to let her know I’m on my way, and she answers with a thumbs-up emoji. Not exactly a “Roger that, I’m ready to talk about fucking,” but she’s probably still waking up. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t walk in on her naked . . . no, thinking about Naked Keaton is the absolute wrong way to go here.
Just turn off your brain, put away your phone, and get in the car, Slate.
On my way to her place, I swing by Keaton’s favorite breakfast spot to pick up a couple of their famous giant breakfast burritos with extra cheese. She’s not a big drinker, and knowing her, she’s probably not feeling great. So I need to get some food in her to soak up the after-effects of that bachelorette party.
I take the elevator up to her apartment and ring the doorbell. She answers my buzz in a pair of pink pajama pants, a T-shirt, and bare feet. Her long dark hair is bundled into a messy ponytail, but somehow she still looks put together.
I can’t help but wonder if the bright smile on her face is for me, and my lips twitch in amusement.
“Morning,” I say, holding out the paper bag to Keaton as I step inside. I can’t resist adding, “Nice outfit.”
“Thanks.” She takes my offering and inhales the spicy aroma with a rapturous sigh. “Oh God, I can smell the green chilis. So good.”
“I thought you might need a hangover cure.”
Her cat, Penny, glares down at the disturbance from her perch on top of the refrigerator.
I shut the door behind me before Penny can get out. Not that such an old, curmudgeonly cat can be bothered to move that fast, but Keaton would die if that damn cat ever escaped.
“I didn’t drink quite that much last night, but thank you.” She puts the bag on the kitchen table. “Let me make us some coffee. Can you get the plates?”
“Right after I greet Penny.” I walk to the fridge and reach up to stroke the grizzled orange tabby. “Hey there, girl, how’s Penny the Punisher?” She doesn’t move, barely tolerating my gesture of affection.
“It’s so weird how well she gets along with you,” Keaton comments from over by the coffee machine.
“Hey, that hurts. I like to think I’m a pretty likable guy.” I scratch Penny’s fluffy cheek, and she favors me with a slow blink of her half-lidded green eyes.
My focus is on Keaton, though, trying to decipher if she remembers any of our conversation last night. But she doesn’t let on, doesn’t give me any indication if I’m likable enough for the bedroom activities she wants help with. I still have no idea if I’m a candidate for the job.
“You know what I mean.” Keaton rolls her eyes. “She barely even lets me pet her. And whenever she’s on top of the fridge like this . . . well, just watch.”
Keaton leans past me to open the fridge—so close I can feel her body heat and catch a whiff of her lavender shampoo—and reaches for the milk carton. Lightning-fast, Penny swats the top of her head.
Keaton widens her eyes at me in exaggerated disbelief. “See?”
&nbs
p; I suppress a laugh. “I don’t call her Penny the Punisher for nothing.”
“Well, I know she’s just playing. Otherwise, she’d use her claws.”
She’s a little delusional about her cat, but I’m not going to correct her. That cat is a mean old thing who only needs humans for one thing: food.
Keaton pours us two steaming cups of coffee, one black for her, and another with a healthy splash of milk for me.
As I stir a spoonful of sugar into my coffee at the table, her open laptop catches my eye, and I do an involuntary double-take. A spreadsheet is on the screen . . . but not filled with dry financial data like I expected. It’s a long list of lewd acts, from blow-job basics and new positions to dirty talk and anal, all meticulously sorted with color-coded tabs.
Holy shit, it’s a sex syllabus. I almost choke on my scalding-hot drink.
Okay, well, um . . . she clearly hasn’t forgotten last night. And I guess that’s one way to go about learning. A very organized, very Keaton way. I’m caught between shock and laughter.
What should I do? Sure, I came over here so we could talk about Keaton’s sex life, but I don’t know if this spreadsheet is something I was supposed to see. Maybe she made it for her, uh, private use. Trying to pretend I didn’t read the screen, I turn the laptop away and scoot it aside to make room for our plates, and almost knock it off the table in guilty surprise when the doorbell buzzes.
Keaton answers the door to a tiny white-haired old Indian woman. She holds out a plastic measuring cup.
“Sorry to bother you so early, dear. I just wanted to borrow some sugar.” Her voice is soft and heavily accented.
Smiling, Keaton waves her hand. “It’s no trouble at all. I’ll grab the canister and you can take as much as you need.”
This must be her neighbor she’s told me about, but I’ve never met.
As Keaton goes to rummage around in her pantry, the old woman spots me and touches her cheek in consternation. “Oh dear, I’m interrupting. I didn’t realize you had a . . . guest. Who is this handsome gentleman?”
“This is my friend Slate. He just brought over some breakfast for us to share.” Keaton emerges with a small canister of sugar and starts pouring it into the old woman’s cup, maybe a little faster than necessary.
Is it just me, or did she emphasize the word friend? And make extra effort to imply that I didn’t spend the night?
“How sweet of him.” The woman’s wrinkles crease deeper in a fond smile. “You two would make a cute couple.”
“’Bye, Meera.” Keaton’s reply is gentle but firm. “I’ll see you for tea on Sunday at two.”
Once the door is shut, Keaton sits down at the kitchen table and unwraps her burrito with a sigh. “Sorry about that. Meera’s always after me to ‘find a nice man and settle down.’ Her kids don’t call or visit much, so I guess I get the brunt of her hovering.”
“No problem. She seems like a nice lady.”
I take a bite of my burrito, and for a while, we just concentrate on eating in comfortable silence.
When my plate is half-empty, I say, “So, about the . . .” I search for the right word, then decide fuck it, just cut to the chase. “The sex thing. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Keaton stops chewing for a second, then swallows. “Right. Well,” she says slowly, “it’s like I said last night. I don’t have sex skills, and I want to change that.”
“But why is this bothering you so much? I don’t get what the big deal is. I’m sure you’re just fine in bed—”
“Because I feel like I’ve missed out, Slate. There’s all this fun everyone else got to have while I was concentrating on climbing the corporate ladder. It’s like I’ve sacrificed a huge part of my life to the gods of software sales.” She looks aside, down at the linoleum.
Shit, I didn’t realize how sensitive she was about this. Usually Keaton is so no-nonsense, so rarely ashamed of anything . . . No, this isn’t quite like shame. It’s more like bitterness. Sadness. Coupled with the no-nonsense confidence she has about tackling any problem in her path.
I put down my burrito to show her she has my full attention. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply your feelings were wrong; I was just trying to understand why you were so upset. And I really hope you don’t think less of yourself just because you didn’t suck off some stupid cucumber the right way at a party while everyone was watching. You’re an amazing person, Keaton, and you’ve accomplished so much.”
She snorts. “When you put it that way, my problem sounds even dumber. And I did suck it off, just really crappily.”
Man, I’m really hitting it out of the park here. “Never mind. Let’s start over.” I fold my hands on the table. “Let’s get back to your goals. What exactly do you want to learn, and how are you going to approach it?”
Maybe if I put things in more of a business-language way, it’ll make it easier for her to get her thoughts together.
She nods to herself, then glances at her laptop. “Well, I was working on something last night, just to try organizing . . .” Before I can figure out what to say about the dirty list, she trails off into hesitation, chewing her lip. “But first—listen, I don’t want to put you in an impossible situation. I know we’re friends, and I’d never want to ruin that, so please don’t think you have to do anything with me just because I got drunk and whiny.”
I put up my hands to stop her. “Hey, it’s all good. We’re cool.” I knew this backpedaling was coming, but I still can’t help feeling slightly disappointed. “How about this—what if I could be your wingman? Help you find the right guy to practice with?”
She blinks. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. You’re my friend.” I reach across the table to squeeze her shoulder. “Besides, you’ve helped me get laid tons of times. Even if this wasn’t so important to you, it’d be only fair for me to return the favor.”
“First, you’ve never needed help getting laid, Slate. You walk into a room and girls practically throw their panties at you. And second, I think this could be a great idea.” She grins at me, her deep blue eyes sparkling. “Thank you so much. When can we start?”
“I’m free tonight if you are. We can hit up the new nightclub that just opened up on Butler Street.” I find their website on my phone and show it to her.
She studies the photos of featured DJs and neon-lit, scantily clad crowds, her eyes narrowing as she assesses the scene. “That soon?”
I shrug. “Why not? No time like the present.”
A familiar determination comes over her heart-shaped face. I know that look well. Once Keaton has set her mind to something, she never backs down.
I smile, amused at her resolve. “Then I’ll meet you there at nine.”
“Thanks, Slate.” She grins at me again.
“Oh, and Keaton—wear something sexy.”
Her eyes widen, and then she bites her lip and gives me a determined nod like the good little student she is.
The dress I’m wearing is one Karina picked out for me on our last retail-therapy binge. In the reflection of the bar window, I quickly examine the curves the little raspberry-colored dress shows off.
The silken material of the bodice climbs all the way up to my collarbone, but a slit down the center reveals just enough cleavage to say, “Hello!” The sleeves are three-quarter length, made of a tight, stretchy lace material. With the slight elevation of shoulder pads hidden under the seams, I look like I stepped off a women’s fashion magazine boasting, “Darling or dangerous?”
“Oh, Mama!” Karina said, doing her best husky man-voice as I twirled in front of her in the dressing room several weeks ago.
“You sure it’s not too . . . I don’t know, CEO?” I asked, poking at the slight padding on my shoulder.
“It’s CE-Oh, Mama! There’s a difference.” Karina smirked, and I bought it immediately.
Now, standing outside the bar where I’ll be putting this little outfit to the test, I feel slightly less confident. I c
rack open my clutch purse—black, simple, with small studs embellishing the corners—and pull out my phone.
I’m outside the bar. Where are you?
I press SEND, my fingers clumsy with nervous energy. I don’t know if Slate has arrived and is already inside. I don’t want to walk in alone. How is it possible that I can be so confident walking in the office every morning but then completely lose my shit outside a run-of-the-mill bar? I squint through the window, trying to make out Slate’s familiar silhouette against the dozens of people moving around inside, but I don’t spot him.
Almost there. The driver got turned around. Just go in.
I groan. Of course Slate would say that. He’s so cool and confident; he probably thinks this is no big deal.
Nervous, I lick my lips. Instantly regretting it, I unclick my clutch purse again and fish around for my lipstick. If there’s one thing I’ve gotten good at as a highly ambitious woman in a predominantly male field, it’s knowing my lipsticks. Colors matter, if not within the mess of stupid gender politics, then for my own level of confidence. The typical nudes and blushes I wear to work are tucked safely away in my vanity back at home. Tonight, Blood Berry is my weapon of choice.
The sweet and sexy color glides over my lips with ease. As I lean into the reflection of the window to make sure my lips are perfect, I spot a man on the other side of the glass watching me from the bar. He smiles, giving me a thumbs-up. I blush but smile back. His face is suddenly obscured by another reflection. I nearly jump out of my skin at the closeness of Slate’s voice in my ear.
“Looks like you’ve started without me. You sure you need a wingman?”
The deep, rich voice almost seems to vibrate through me. I turn and punch him on the arm, but he doesn’t even flinch. Admittedly, I’m more grateful that he’s here than I am pissed that he startled me.
“You freaking scared me.” I laugh, catching my breath.
