“Sure.” As we amble toward one of the concession stands, I speak in a conversational tone. “I got a BJ in that tunnel once, you know.”
Rather than look disgusted, her green eyes twinkle with delight. “Really? Tell me everything.”
We stand in line behind a woman who’s trying to wrangle three kids under the age of five. They’re like a litter of puppies, unable to stay still, bouncing around from the sugar highs they’re undoubtedly on.
I drag my tongue over my bottom lip and wink at Mac. “I’ll tell you later. In private.”
“Tease.”
We reach the counter, where I buy us two bags of cotton candy. Mac eagerly snatches one, peels off a huge, fluffy piece, and shoves the pink floss into her mouth.
“Soooo good.” Her words are garbled thanks to her completely full mouth.
X-rated images burn a hole in my brain as I watch her suck and slurp on the sugary treat.
My dick thickens against my zipper, making it difficult to concentrate on what she’s babbling about.
“Did you know that cotton candy was invented by a dentist?”
I blink back to reality. “Seriously? Talk about a proactive way to ensure a customer base.”
“Genius,” she agrees.
I reach into the bag and pinch off a piece. The cotton candy melts the moment it touches my tongue, the sweet flavor injecting a rush of nostalgia directly into my blood. I feel like a little kid again. Back when my parents were both around and still somewhat in love. They’d bring me and Evan to the boardwalk, stuff us full of junk food and sugar, and let us go wild. We’d drive home laughing and giddy and feeling like a real family.
By the time Evan and I turned six, their relationship turned combative. Dad started drinking more. Mom looked for attention and validation from other men. They separated, and Evan and I became afterthoughts to booze and sex.
“No,” Mac orders.
I blink again. “No what?”
“You have that look on your face. You’re brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Yes, you are. Your face is totally saying, I’m lost in my broody thoughts because I’m SUCH a tortured bad boy.” She gives me a stern look. “Snap out of it, Hartley. We were discussing some pretty insightful stuff.”
“We were talking about cotton candy.” My tone is dry.
“So? That can be insightful.” She raises one eyebrow, smug. “Did you know scientists are trying to use cotton candy to create artificial blood vessels?”
“That sounds like pure and total horseshit,” I say cheerfully.
“It’s not. I read about it once,” she insists. “Cotton candy fibers are, like, super small. They’re the same size as our blood vessels. I don’t remember the exact process, but the basic premise is—cotton candy equals medical breakthrough.”
“Junk science.”
“I swear.”
“Cite your sources.”
“Some magazine.”
“Ohhhh, of course! Some magazine—the most reputable of publications.”
She glares at me. “Why can’t you just accept I’m right?”
“Why can’t you accept you might be wrong?”
“I’m never wrong.”
I start laughing, which causes her to glower harder at me. “I’m convinced you argue just for the sake of arguing,” I inform her.
“I do not.”
I laugh harder. “See! You’re so damn stubborn.”
“Lies!”
A tall blonde holding hands with a small boy frowns as she passes by. Mac’s exclamation has brought a flicker of concern to the woman’s eyes.
“It’s okay,” Mac assures her. “We’re best friends.”
“We’re bitter rivals,” I correct. “She’s always yelling at me, ma’am. Please, help me out of this toxic relationship.”
The woman gives us one of those you’re incorrigible looks anyone over forty sports when they’re dealing with immature children. Joke’s on her. We’re both in our twenties.
We continue down the boardwalk, stopping to watch some sucker boyfriend hurl darts at a wall of balloons to try to win a massive stuffed animal for his girl. Forty bucks later, he still hasn’t secured the prized panda, and the girlfriend is now spending more time checking me out than cheering him on.
“Can you believe that chick?” Mac says when we walk off. “I swear she was picturing you naked in her mind while her poor boyfriend was bleeding money for her.”