Is it immature? Yes.
Am I too old to act like this at twenty-eight? Yep.
Do I care?
Nope.
There’s something about the fact that I’ve never had to work this hard in my life. Usually, I just have to show up and girls are down. But now, I have to reignite the flame. How the fuck do I do that?
It’s like we’re real married people. I should have a dad bod and a penchant for fixing shit that doesn’t need fixing. Still, I’m in it to win it. Her pussy is my Super Bowl, and I want that ring. So fucking bad.
I just have to figure out how to drive her crazy. I can’t call the guys…they don’t know how to woo women any more than I do. But then a thought strikes, making me sit up and grab my phone to text the only person I know who will be brutally honest and answer me without asking for context. Because she won’t care.
Me: You’re single, right?
Claire: Not interested.
Me: Same…I need someone on the dating ground floor.
Claire: Are you drunk again?
Me: Claire. I need help. I’m trying to get this girl.
Claire: Agreed. You do need help. But don’t the girls you like usually tell you how much up front?
Me: Come on. I need to know what girls like. What do they find irresistible? Help me. You’re the only girl I know who owns stock in Bumble.
Claire: I hate you.
Me: I won’t complain all week. Not a peep. Especially when I wear the weighted vest during the sprints.
Claire: Two weeks.
Me: Done.
Claire: I’d say be yourself…but the objective is for her to like you, right?
Me: Forget I asked.
Claire: Omg. Stop being such a baby. Truth? We like guys who listen to us. Guys who are funny. Kindness. You know, the basics.
Me: I want her to like me enough to want to sleep with me, Claire. Not want to marry me.
Because we already did that.
Claire: Oh. Then—stay shirtless, add gray sweats. And stretch in front of her…specifically, the quad roll-out. We love that.
Me: Seriously?
Claire: Seriously. Godspeed, Matthews.
I toss my phone on the table and look at my bedroom door. Shirtless, gray sweatpants, and quad rolls. Check.
Damn. Women are no better than men.
But if objectifying me gets me in her pants, then I’ll let her slap my ass and call me pretty all day long. A win’s a win.
Get ready, Wild Card. I’m about to make you feral.
twelve
“I don’t know if there’s such a thing as being dickmotized, but I think I’m that.”
eleanor
Jesus, what is wrong with me.
How am I the main character in my own life and simultaneously completely unreliable? I can’t be trusted with my thoughts. Case in point: I already had to take a cold shower. Because all I could think about in the car was Crew’s cock. The whole time.
And there wasn’t even a fucking detachable showerhead.
This place is amateur hour. Two stars. Also, how am I surviving this bet? I will though…for the sisterhood.
But I swear I feel like it’s been imprinted on me.
Like I’m Jacob and his cock is my Renesmee.
I have to stop watching Twilight before I go to bed.
Why can’t I want a guy who’s into charity and like helps old people across the street? Not one who fucked me with his friends and only speaks caveman. All I know is Millie better hurry up and get here with my shit because I am not walking out in this towel or my failed divorce clothes.
My fingers brush back and forth on the soft comforter on the bed. A soft exhale leaves my chest as I stare up at the ceiling from where I’ve been lying. It feels like a week has passed, but it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since we met. Jesus.
I close my eyes, trying to relax, until a ruckus clammers on the other side of the door.
“Crew” is bellowed before another equally deep voice says, “Where’s our girl?”
Oh fuck. I snap to sitting, clutching the towel, eyes growing wider by the minute.
Our girl? Oh my god.
“The Tweedles,” I whisper to myself conspiratorially.
My head swings side to side, looking for my clothes, because I’m suddenly filled with the urge to put them back on just so I can run out of this room and see these two.
It’s not every day a girl gets to re-meet two one-night-simultaneous stands.
Laughter bleeds through the walls, and I hold my own in because Crew’s voice rumbles with irritation.
“Shut the fuck up, Nate.”
My fingers find my lips, amused. What is he mad about? I don’t have to wonder long because he adds, “TJ, you open that door and I’ll break your fucking arm.”
Wait. Door! Fuck.
I scramble off the bed, turning in circles, looking for anything to cover me. For fuck’s sake, I look like a drowned rat with unbrushed hair. Can someone, for the love of god, just re-meet me when I’m hot?
Now that we have a new bet, the Tweedles are fair game. And if I have to be here for a month, I’d really like them to play with me.
The handle turns, and I hit full panic, grabbing the comforter and yanking it hard. But it’s not tucked in like on a normal hotel bed. It’s loose. And now, so am I from where I was just standing.
My feet kick up into the air as I squeal, making me drop my towel as I fall, spinning and wrapping myself up in the blanket. The thud my ass makes is followed by a “Fuck” from my mouth as laughter rings out.
“She’s covered,” I hear yelled out, followed by a different voice saying, “And on her ass.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
I’m sitting on the damn floor, butt-ass naked, covered in a blanket.
Like a dog rubbing on a rug, I scooch around underneath my fluffy little tent, gathering the material around me before I carve out a little opening for my face to peek out.
A piece of my hair flies off my forehead, landing back in the same spot as I blow it before unsuccessfully hiding my smile.
“Hi.”
Two incredibly handsome behemoths stare back, and I instantly like them…again.
What’s not to like?
Nate is built like a brick shithouse with black hair, brown eyes, and a decent amount of stubble on his face. He’s wearing shorts that must be custom-made because his tattooed thighs are thicker than sexy intended. Yum.
And TJ is an extra-dirty, auburn-bearded god. He’s a little shorter and leaner than Nate but just as sexy because his hazel eyes make you want to melt in them. The showstopper is his insanely well-defined forearms. The veins alone could make a nun sweat.
Suddenly, the memory of TJ pulling the front of the Elvis jumpsuit open and pretending to lick his nipple during our complimentary wedding photos blesses my mind.
“Hey, Elvis.”
TJ chuckles and walks over to me, staring down before he squats.
“Girl, you look like a real cute version of ET.” He winks and points to himself. “Not Elvis, TJ.” He then hooks a thumb over his shoulder to the brick shithouse. “Nate.”
Oh, I’m a little swoony because I’d forgotten about TJ’s twinge of a Southern drawl. It’s enough to make my panties wet…if I had any on.
“I know…I remember you. I wasn’t that drunk. But it’s nice to meet you again.”
In fact, I remember everything way too acutely right now.
TJ smirks, staring into my eyes.