The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)(25)

I look up, side-eyeing everyone around us to see if they are paying attention to Mer. Thankfully, they don’t seem to be. “Mer!” I grumble.

“You did, didn’t you? You hooker!”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, almost afraid of what she’ll say next.

“The three-peater.”

“The what?” I ask, having no idea what she’s talking about. Though he usually does give me three orgasms before he’s done—that I’m not going to discuss with her at the diner.

“Here ya go, ladies,” the waitress says, thankfully interrupting our conversation. We spend the next few minutes arranging our food, and just when I think we’ve finished this whole conversation, Mer starts back up.

“A three-peater. That means he has brains,” she says, holding a finger up. I nod because Gray is extremely smart and witty, it’s one of the things I really like about him. “He has money, or at least a steady job so you don’t have to keep his ass up,” she continues, holding a second finger up. I don’t respond because I figure she knows that. “And finally, he has at least seven inches when you take a ride on the man train.”

“You did not just say that,” I gasp, knowing I’m blushing from head to toe now. I look all around us, just knowing everyone has heard what she said.

“I did, and from your reaction, I can tell the answer is affirmative. So how much are we talking here?”

“Will you stop? Honestly, Mer, I am not answering that at all. No way.”

“So more than seven?”

“Oh my God! Who are you and what have you done with my quiet, kindergarten school teaching friend?”

“Answer the question and I’ll let it drop.”

“I will not.”

“Fine, I’ll just ask him when I see you two out together.”

“You would not!”

“Try me. Now are you going to give the deets or what?”

“I have no idea!”

“Bullshit!”

“It’s true! I haven’t exactly taken the time to measure it.”

“Measure what?”

I look up at the question to see Mer’s sister Valerie standing at our table. Christ! That’s all I need. Crosstown has three methods of communication: telephone, telegraph, and tell Valerie. Seriously, when you need something spread around town, all you have to do is let Valerie know and it’s all over this town and two counties over by nightfall.

“C here has got hold of the mythical bigfoot.”

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“Mythical bigfoot?”

“Her new boy toy is big.”

“Ohhhh… Do tell! Give me all the juicy details, and I do mean juicy,” Valerie says, pushing Mer over and sitting down with us.

“There are no details! I keep telling Mer! I haven’t measured it! I have no idea.”

It’s a bold faced lie. I mean, I haven’t measured his dick. I did read the tabloids though and the general consensus from all the women in his harem is that Grayson Lucas, golf’s new young stud, is packing a very thick nine iron between his legs. I think they might be doing him a disservice. After experiencing him inside of me, I’d say he’s closer to ten--not that I’ve had that many, and certainly none to compare his size with.

“You flucking hooker! You’re holding back from us,” Mer says. Jesus! I hate that she knows me so well.

“Shit. If I tell you, will this conversation please drop?”

“Totally,” Mer says. “Absolutely,” Valerie joins in, and for some strange reason, I don’t trust either of them.

“I mean it, and Val, if this gets out, I will tell Elmer at Pro-Hardware you have a thing for him,” I warn her. Elmer is a fifty-year-old, never-been-married-before bachelor who goes cruising parking lots looking for women. Not just any women, however. No, Elmer wants women that are at least twenty years younger than him. Never mind that he’s got a beer belly, thinning hair that he combs over, and none of his own teeth. No, the real problem is that the man is as stingy as they come. He probably has more money in his checking account than even Grayson. But the reason it’s there is because he is a skin-flint. According to a very good source (Valerie), the man has only used one pack of light bulbs in two years. The reason for that is, he gets out one light bulb and uses it in whatever room he’s in. When he leaves that room, he unscrews it from the lamp and moves it into the next room with him. Rumor has it—again from Valerie—he also takes the time to separate every roll of two-ply toilet paper so he gets twice the use out of it.

“That’s just mean, C.”

“Promise.”

“Fine, I promise. I don’t see what the problem is. If I had a man with a big dick, I’d be shouting that shit near and far. Hell, I’d be so loud in the bedroom that the whole county would know it anyway,” Valerie says, and I flip her off.

“Spill,” they say together, and I take a breath. Did I mention this oversharing and girl-time isn’t easy for me? Yet another reason why other than Mer and, obviously sometimes by default, Valerie, I don’t have girlfriends. You wouldn’t catch Jackson asking me about the size of Gray’s dick.

“I honestly haven’t measured it. Though the tabloids say he is nine inches.”