Girl Crush(14)

“What world do you live in? Let me guess, he asked if you needed a lift?”

“Again with the semantics. You hear what you want. I heard I could drive the 911.”

“You seem to be awfully interested in her twin—brother.”

“Nah, just his ride. Look, tell Trish I’m sorry. And seriously, maybe it’d help her pull the stick out of her ass if she could enjoy my life the way you do. I’m totally down for sharing my comedic escapades with both of you if it will keep the peace.”

“I’ll talk to her. Just quit being a bitch when you call.”

“I’ll try. Let me know if I should stop by tomorrow after my date with Roxie to regale the two of you with what I’m sure will be an eventful story. Late-night entertainment…or hell, it could be early evening with my luck. What are your thoughts on just having her come to my place and having a plethora of sex toys out for her perusal?”

“Goodnight, Gizzy.”

“Yeah, yeah. Night, V.”





4





Roxie Porter. Holy hell, Roxie. Here’s a woman who knew how to show a girl a good time. She wasn’t much of a talker, and while dinner had been slightly awkward and spent primarily in silence, there was something about her that intrigued me. I found myself spending the idle time I had shoveling food in my mouth and taking in her exotic features. I’d been reading a lot online about how to connect with people. I’m not sure it was meant for the dating community, but I was applying the advice just the same, and researchers suggest the finite details—the ones most people miss—are what people value most about themselves. I doubted they were talking about the freckles on her nose or the way she tossed her long, thick, red hair over her shoulder, and I doubted any woman valued her breasts being noted as smaller—but it was sound advice I chose to apply in an unconventional manner.

Couple that with Ronnie’s recommendation to have a few drinks to loosen me up, and I was fast becoming a veritable cornucopia of stupidity. I was entranced by this woman sitting across from me, and alcohol intensified the stupor. Her lips were pleasantly pouty, and her skin was pristine porcelain with the exception of the sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of her perfect nose. Women paid thousands to have her complexion, but she didn’t seem to notice how stunning she truly was.

“Do you wear a push-up bra to get cleavage like that?” The question came out of left field, and I might have slurred the word “cleavage,” but she glanced up from her salad with a coquettish grin.

For the first time all evening, she engaged. “It’s a water bra.” She sipped her wine and raised her brow, likely wondering what my next asinine question would be.

“Does it feel real?” Probably not what she expected to hear, but I stopped myself from asking her if I could touch them, even though that request remained perched on the end of my tongue, waiting to be released from my intoxicated mouth.

Sitting there, at the table, in the middle of the restaurant, she cupped both breasts in her hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. While it didn’t turn me on, it intrigued me. I didn’t need a water bra, but I needed to see what one felt like. “Natural as can be. When we leave here, you can see for yourself.” She winked and returned to her salad.

I choked on my wine at her forwardness, and then it dawned on me…the first thing I’d said to her in fifteen minutes was about her boobs. She couldn’t think anything other than I was coming on to her. My brain currently moved at the speed of mud when it occurred to me that we were on a date, which often led to intimacy…and I’d just acknowledged I’d been staring at her perfect chest.

The conversation drifted in a sexual direction throughout the remainder of dinner. I couldn’t stop myself. It wasn’t intentional, but somehow, everything out of my mouth came off either raunchy or desperate. This girl likely thought I worked nights on the corner with the way the words flowed. But after shots at the house and three glasses of wine at dinner, there was no filter left, and I simply talked to her the way I would Ronnie—whom I’d known my entire life. But the more I stuck my foot in my mouth, the more she came out of her shell.

“I haven’t met a woman like you in a long time. Where have you been hiding?”

“Under a man.” Mentally I slapped myself, but she thought it was a joke.

“We’ve all been there. When did you realize men just didn’t do it for you?”

I didn’t know how to answer that question. My ex-husband had lost his appeal years before we divorced, but I hadn’t completely given up until a couple of months ago.

“When I had to ask him to clean his urine off my walls,” I said the words, and I took another sip of wine, and she promptly spit hers out…all over the table—thank God it was white.

She started to laugh in disbelief, but when my expression didn’t waver, she stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”

My brow raised, and I shook my head. “Wish I was, but no. And then the douchebag tried to hand me the dirty paper towels—like I was going to touch that.”

“I had just turned thirty when I admitted I’d been lying to myself. I grew up in a strict Catholic home with no acceptance for anything unbiblical…you know, except judgment. Judgment was perfectly pious. And condemnation was righteous.” She rolled her eyes in disgust.