by S London
Encore, please.
I spot Amanda and my brain shifts gears. Her custom blend red-colored hair makes her easy to spot at a table near the boardwalk. No more mental energy for Griffin. I made the best decision. He'll get over it. I know I—
"Fiona Cooper," My friend calls, "why are you late?"
Amanda is stunning. With her flowy bob cut, flawless toasted brown skin, ample curves, and dark doe eyes, men flock to her. But like most women born with 'good genes'—she knows not the power she wields. The woman is clueless with the opposite sex.
Standing to her feet she embraces me. Instantly, all the laughter and love of our days at Sinclair State University come flooding back. Amanda is in a category all her own. Even as an underclassman, she declared three majors within the first three semesters and evicted two of our four roommates during the same timeframe. Can you say, high maintain-nuts? Yes. She is that crazy. I make quick work of pulling my phone from my designer bag, snapping two pics, and uploading them to my Instagram page. I love selfies.
"Your flight landed hours ago. Heifer, where have you been?"
When I don't answer, she pulls back and regards me. My clothes are fresh, so is the makeup. There's not one outward sign of my rough ride with Griffin Phillips.
She smirks, then blurts out. "Your slut scent is pretty pungent."
My mouth gapes open. In all my thirty-nine years, never has anyone referred to me as a slut. What would the women at the non-profit where I used to work think of the heavy-weight now? Yeah, I know they clown about size eighteen curves, but every last one of those skinny witches could kiss both halves of my extra-extra-large ass.
"No you didn't just call me a whore?"
With an adamant shake of her glossy mane, Amanda gestures a negative. "Fi, whore implies discipline and a work ethic," she explains, using my nickname from college. "You're on a pussy pilgrimage.” She leans in conspiratorially. “So, whose dick did you discover?"
Not denying her accusation, I grab her hand.
"Shut up, Amanda,” I say giving her a playful shove. “Nice restaurant and it's great to see you too."
The table we occupy at the Double Decker Cafe gets plenty of sunlight. This is a plus for me after the nine-hour flight from “Sand Dog”. Stylish, contemporary decor gives the quaint shop a high-end feel, and the gourmet meal I eyed on the way to our table has my pink-painted toes curling in my sandals. A gentle breeze blows in across the Daytona Beach boardwalk through the open doors to stir the succulent scents of seasoned meats, grilled vegetables, and fresh-cut fruit. For the first time in months, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. I could get used to this.
"Who is he?"
She takes a seat, tossing a napkin over her white pantsuit. Shit, she looks fabulous. Better than Tyra Banks—the thick version. It's been three years since all six of us: Amanda, Deja, Lucy, Siah, Tynisha, and I have come together in the same location. I'm excited for Deja, Lucy, and Siah to join us tomorrow.
"Not answering.” I pick up the crisply printed menu, perusing the list of today’s specials. “Change the subject."
"Whatever, slut."
Amanda alternates sips from her Pina Colada glass and the steamy mug to the right of her plate. Who the hell orders black coffee and a tropical drink?
"Hmm, okay." Amanda nods. "How's your book coming?"
Her expression is one of genuine interest. I’ve been talking about writing a book for two decades. After the recent change in my relationship and employment status, I pulled out the fiction project.
I answer honestly, "A masterpiece of the uninspired.” I sigh, lifting a stemmed water glass in a mock toast. “Here’s hoping to get some words on the page this weekend."
Amanda smiles. "I bet if you added a chapter about how a lost little pussy found a downloadable ding-dong, the words would start coming, and coming, and coming."
Of course, she does this obscene rapid lick thingy with her tongue to drive home her point. I’m not lost. The opposite is true. I’ve uncovered this tiny spring I thought dried up since I’ve found Griffin.
We both burst out laughing, but not before I get out a, "Kiss my ass."
She raises her middle finger, aiming a cotton-candy-blue bird in my direction. "That's your man's job."
Do I have a man? I think about the wet trail I left all over Griffin’s body. His taste lingers on my tongue. The craving for a second helping rears its head, but that’s a big fat no-no. We had a good fuck. Nothing more.
"Change the subject," I squeal through peels of laughter.
She glances at me over the Colada rim. "Again?”
“Yes,” I say incredulously.
“Answer me this. How is it that a Masters-prepared financial analyst gets fired from a non-profit that you put on the social media map?"
An image of my ex burns the back of my retinas. Damn. Why can’t I forget what his trifling ass did to me? My career? I look at my best friend from college, not believing she broached this subject. I want to forget about the state of my life for the next three days. And I'm willing to ingest a lot of booze and balls to do it. "I told you. Budget cuts."
"Fiona. You made twenty dollars last for an entire semester in college." She curls two fingers on both hands into air quotes. "That a-hole you were living with did something to sabotage your job, didn’t he?"
I drop the menu, irritated. "You know what?” I breathe in, and then give a forcible exhale. “I'm in Daytona for a good time. So let's talk about your men, not smooth-talking dogs who lie and cheat." I could use some reckless abandon right about now. I thought about how Griffin had wrecked my mouth and pussy with his thick cock.
“Well, tell me how you really feel.”
"I know you're screwing some poor soul. Who is he?"
Amanda smirks. "I don't do broke, men or mountains. Now, back to this man who has you smiling and laughing after a cross country flight."
She's ordered lunch without me. I inhale the delicious scent of hot fries and Grade A beef dressed with crisp veggies and real cheese. Finally, my mouth waters for something other than my Teddy Bear.
"You are not Jada. And this is not a red table discussion. Sluts do not kiss and tell."
Amanda waves away my comment, "Stop lying. Give me the details. I need new gossip for the Lunchtime Dish column."
In college, the students in Clementine Hall dubbed Amanda the gourmet gossip. The girl could whip a few details into a fanatical story faster than Fox Entertainment Network™.
With a knife, she adds a thin layer of mayo to a hot buttered bun, and I remember I'm starving.
"Oh, can I have one of your fries?"
Amanda gives me a cursory nod, but when I reach for the wire basket with the white paper to drain the oil, she frowns.
"On second thought." She moves my first meal since five this morning out of reach. In a fit of outrage, my belly rumbles like my neighbor’s nineteen ninety-nine Chevrolet, "No."
"Amanda," I huff, dropping my hand. "You can't be serious?" I should be used to rejection. When your mother is the pastor's mistress, you hear the word “no” more than your name.
“No, I don't want her in my Sunday school class.”
“No, she can't play with my daughter.”
“No, she can't date my son.”
"As a three-hundred-dollar-light bill. I shared a dorm room with you. You just sexualized some random man."
Indignation flares inside me. I want to defend Griffin. Instead, I dig my nails into my palms, holding my tongue. What happened between Griffin and me was far from a coincidence.
Touching him. Feeling him move inside me. Rang with a clear note of truth—like he was mine. That's why I had to flee. Leave before I heard the word “no” from his lips. “No, I'm not the one.”
Giving my hair a nonchalant toss off my shoulder, I say, "Teddy's not some one-night bar bounce. We met on N2U."
She gives a wry grin and I see her interest is piqued. Amanda is an N2U super-user, her online dating resumé well known
throughout the cosmos.
"Are you talking about Griffin?"
"Yes." I feign calm, my eyes straying to the food plate between us when all I’m thinking about is the buzz between my legs because this was not some random man. For too many years, thirty-five to be exact, I tried to be the good girl, waiting for others to see my worth... I wasn’t a chip off of Felicia Cooper’s block. What did I get for my effort? A string of shitty men, a phone filled with vindictive women, and a gigantic “fuck them” chip on my off-the-shoulder dress.
"So, Mr. Army Ranger has Teddy-status now?"
Amanda gives me a sly grin and I know I'm busted.
"Nah, nah." Amanda uses her forearm as a barricade around my gourmet meal. "I know where your mouth has been."
Amanda's voice carries. Per the glares from some of the women, and the heated gaze of men with them, she's been overheard.
This is why you never answer a nosy bish's questions. She's using my fondness for giving blowjobs against me.
"Lower your voice." I grin more from the added attention than true embarrassment. I'm a talented “head master”, and proud of it. The power that surges through me when I reduce a man to begging when I’m the one on my knees is award-worthy.
Ignoring me, Amanda barks. "Sit back before your cock-a-licious breath curls this silk press."
"Cock-a-licious is right."
Amanda pops a fry in her mouth before taking a bite of her made-to-order burger. An exaggerated groan falls from her ruby red-stained lips. She licks the salt from her fingers then points at me.
"This food is so good my nipples are beading."
"Ew." I grimace. "Words matter, Amanda."
"As do actions. I know you’re a freak, so just in case my moans have you daydreaming about Teddy Bear taming your African Jungle Booty, keep your hands where I can see them."
She’s right. Thoughts of Griffin could have a girl touching herself.
"Who you calling, Jungle? This is one hundred percent Southern California ass meat and I showered it before departing the hotel."
Griffin had chosen to relax in bed, watching me, his bulging forearms disappearing behind that thick mane of ginger hair. I'd been a tad bit reluctant to wash Griffin's musk from my skin. But, I live in the real world. Lingering after sex with a man is poor form. Why expect more at the finish, when I started with low expectations at the start?
"I still don't want your dicky hands on my food."
I pointed one buffed nail at my friend. "You wrong. And my inner child is wounded."
"So?" Amanda swallows. "Besides, I got Band-Aids™ in my Chanel© bag for your sensitive inner heifer."
Chanel bag? Who the hell is she bending over for? I make a mental note to ask Lucy.
"One fry," I hiss.
She shakes her head adamant in her refusal. Twenty years later and she's just as obstinate as the skinny eighteen-year-old freshmen standing on the hood of her car typing everything she heard into a black Nextel™ pager.
"In Messy Mandy's world, ‘no’ is a complete sentence."
I roll my eyes. "You know it sounds crazy to talk about yourself in the third person."
"There you go with all your writer lingo."
My laughter bubbles out. "That's English 101, Amanda."
"Instead of getting orgasms, you should've had your Teddy Bear buy you a sammich."
Just then a new and distinct voice joins the conversation.
"I'll buy Fiona anything she wants."
At the masculine timbre, my pulse quickens.
Griffin.
He’s here?
He’s here.
The skin along my arms begins to tingle. A fire ignites in my body and my pussy, the one that only speaks his two-syllabled name, lights up brighter than Rockefeller Center at Christmas. I look up into heated blue eyes, and everything I’ve ever wanted from a man is reflected in his gaze.
Passion. Protectiveness. Possessiveness. Vulnerability.
His scent: potent, woodsy, and sexy as hell, overpowers Amanda’s food. Ginger locks, damp from a recent shower, are brushed back from his high forehead. The top of his hair is longer than the buzzed sides; a former soldier reminding himself he no longer has to adhere to regulation. I notice his brows are drawn low, as if in deep concentration, the nostrils of his upturned nose are flared.
He’s upset.
Of their own volition, my eyes drop to his mouth. Bruised lips remind me of how he worshipped every inch of my flesh. The dense ginger beard, with its waves of curls, it an added bonus. Did I mention, I’m a sucker for facial hair? Thick arms wrinkle the blue t-shirt covering his broad chest, the inked tattoo on his left forearm on display. Damn, his arms are beautiful and strong. I’m struggling to keep my eyes off him. Losing the battle, I bite my lip at his massive jean-clad thighs, built like tanks, braced apart. Boots, dark brown, and well-worn, cover his big feet.
“Ah hey, Griffin,” I blurt, my brain swimming in a soupy lust-filled haze. “How you doing?”
“How—how the hell...” he stammers. His eyes narrow, and his face turns this really concerning shade of red. “Fi,” he breathes, “Get your shit. Let’s go.”
How did he find me and how much of our conversation has he heard?
CHAPTER THREE
Fiona's wide eyes say she's surprised to see me, but the plump lower lip trapped between her teeth tells me she's not disappointed. Will she want to talk in front of her friend? Personally, I don't give a charging fuck who hears what I have to say. When she walked out the door, the discomfort that gripped me was reminiscent of the first piece of shrapnel slicing through my left femoral artery. The Walter Reed National Military Medical Center staff said I could have lost my leg. The physical therapy, the pain, the twelve months in a wheelchair or hobbling around on crutches was a bitch.
"You planning to sojourn on another man’s cock, little Fiona?"
Does she have dude number two waiting in line to feast on her gorgeous body? I’m barely holding my shit together, so I’m thinking she might want to take her time answering this bonus question.
Her eyes harden. "Griffin," she snaps.
I throw my arms wide. "In the flesh, Fi."
"Hi, Teddy. I'm Amanda Murphy."
I look at the other woman occupying the table. At first glance, she looks expensive on the wallet and deadly on my patience. Fiona’s gaze darts from me to Amanda. For some reason, she’s nervous about my reaction to her friend. There’s no question some men would be instantly attracted to the gorgeous redhead. Not only is she exotically beautiful, but there's also an edgy mischievous vibe to her. I could envision her blowing shit up... and then laughing about it. Angelina Jolie’s Mrs. Smith meets Bridget Jones.
"Hey, Amanda.” My words are cordial but dismissive. I’m not interested in her. I see the pulse in Fiona’s neck, slows to a more comfortable rhythm. Okay. This is a reaction I can deal with. Never would I backdoor my woman’s friend. That’s for little boys playing at the man game.
Amanda laughs. "Mandy for short," she offers. "Messy for sure."
"Messy Mandy," I chuckle. It’s weird, but appropriate.
She snaps her fingers. "All day, every day. Follow me on Facebook, Teddy."
"Call me Griffin," I grumble.
She cocks a brow. "Not Griff? Or Teddy?"
"No," I growl, my glare a definitive hell no. I sigh and turn to the woman I came for. "Let's go, Fi. We need to hash out some details about us."
“What?” Her shock is carried forward in her tone. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"You already have," I say, a little too cocky.
I learned to read women real fast after my accident. Women, even the ones hunting online, don’t stick around when you’re pushing two wheels. Fiona knows my leg was fractured on that God-forsaken battlefield, but she still gave herself to me. I know she’s not thinking forever, but I see something in us beyond our physical connection. Don’t get me wrong, I can fuck her sideways every day of the week, but what’s got m
e twisted up inside is—I can’t hold back with her.
I can tell she’s not used to a man pursuing her, so she reverts back to what she knows. A good defense.
"I'm rooming with Amanda."
The way she says it, she assumes this settles everything between us.
Amanda looks between the two of us and I give her a wry grin, warning her to sit this round out. Fiona’s already fucked with my little head, any attempt to stay anywhere other than with me will push me to kick out all the patrons and shut this shit down until she arrives at the correct answer. That being me.
Mandy opens her mouth and I smile. I clearly see the love, friendship, and mutual respect between these two women. When this sisterhood comes together to convince me to walk away, it’s already on the tip of my tongue... hell no.
"Nope, she's not."
Me first, and then Fiona gasps in surprise. Messy indeed.
Fiona slaps both palms down on the table, staring at her friend. I don’t even try to hide the gleam of triumph in my eye.
"Mandy," she mutters, through gritted teeth. "Yes, I am.”
I lean back, rubbing my chin, and enjoying the fireworks.
"You and Teddy are not going to be doing no late-night stuffing while I'm pretending to be sleep. Get your own damn room."
"Mandy, we about to fight," Fiona hisses. "You know there's not a room available in this town."
"No need," I offer. "You're coming home with me."
Fiona’s eyes are narrowed and her lips have flattened to a delicious slice in the middle of her face. She’s pissed. Before this progresses and I miss out on slipping inside of her, I straighten, grab her weekender bag and stride away.
"Hey," she yells, catching up to me. "Griffin. Stop."
"Teddy," I mutter loud enough for her to hear.
"You mad?" she teases.
I glance back for the briefest moment, desire deepening my voice to a velvety jazz. "I'm going to spank your ass for this, Fi."
"You ain't going to beat shit,” she shot back, “maybe your Johnson."
