Oh.
Fuck.
That wakes me up from this drunken haze I feel myself retreating into, a warm cocoon of nothingness. The perfect place to go when you’re wanting to escape reality. But seeing my two fingers together, envisioning what they could do to Cora . . . yeah, desire is building.
“Do you like to pleasure women, Pike?”
“What do you think?” I ask as I take a bite of the giant pretzel we ordered to share. She suggested it after shot number three. It was a good idea.
She sits back in her chair and I get a good view of her midsection from the movement. That fucking dress has been playing with my head all night. Showing off so much cleavage that I’m craving far more than shots and a soft pretzel.
I’m craving a show.
I want to see her peel that dress off for me.
I want to see her ride my lap as the fabric falls off her shoulders.
I want to see those goddamn nipples that keep getting hard with every pass of the air conditioner turning on and off above us.
“Basing my opinion off your appearance and accent alone, I would say you enjoy pleasuring the ladies. But you never stick around.”
I move my foot so it’s resting on the rung of her stool, my jean-clad leg rubbing against her bare one. “I stick around.”
“For how long?”
Flashes of my conversation with my pa pierce through me for a brief second. No. He’s not allowed in this space. He’s supposed to be forgotten.
“Long enough,” I answer.
“Long enough? Are you talking about your sticking power, or what you have to offer?” Her eyes flash to my crotch.
From that one glance, I know she’s looking for a lot more than just a few shots and a night out on the town. She’s looking for so much more.
“Long enough for sticking power. As for what I have to offer, more than plenty.”
“Hmm.” She takes a sip of her mojito. “I guess I’ll just have to trust you on that.”
I fill up the shot glasses one more time and hand her the glass. “Can you do one more?”
“Trust me, I’m barely feeling it.”
I give her a challenging stare. “Uh, are you sure about that? Because you’re swaying in your chair.”
“Because the music is so good,” she counters. “Don’t you just love Justin Bieber?”
“More of a classic rock fan.”
“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course, you are.”
“Why do you say that?”
She motions to my arm. “The tattoo—it screams bad boy. And to me, bad boys listen to rock, nothing else. They can’t be bothered with the sweet ministrations of Justin Bieber or Dua Lipa.”
“Dua what-a?”
She rolls her eyes again, this time more prominently. Leaning forward, she places her hand on my thigh, and her face moves close to mine, close enough for me to smell her sweet, tantalizing perfume. “You’re a high school teacher, right?”
“Correct,” I answer, keeping still.
“Then that means you should have to at least know some of the trends, some of the hip lingo, the music your students listen to.”
“And why should I know that?”
“Uh . . . because it’s how you can connect with them.”
“I connect with them through history.”
“Oh God.” She grimaces. “Eww, you’re just like my brother.”
I don’t take that as a compliment. Sure, Arlo is a good teacher—excellent, actually—but he’s a stuck-up snob too. Pretentious, an absolute arsehole at times. I don’t ever want to be compared to that cardigan-wearing dick.
“Do not compare me to him,” I say in a stern tone. Even in my drunken haze, I know when I don’t like something.
She sits back, a confused look on her face. Her brain is trying to process; if I wasn’t so irritated, I would find it comical. “Wait, do you . . . do you not like my brother?”
To tell the truth or to not tell the truth?
As if I’ve ever really cared.
“He’s a wanker,” I unapologetically say.
Her lips turn up in a smile. “Why, yes, he can be a wanker. But why do you think that?”
“Nothing you need to worry about. We just don’t get along, simple as that.”
“Fair enough.” She takes her shot, free of salt and lime this time. I follow along with her. “For the record, he does have good intentions. He can be . . . how would you say it . . . stodgy at times, but he’s also a good guy. He cares a lot about his students, the school, and the faculty.”