Folsom (End of Men, #1)(8)

She says my name like she’s known me for years. A little chill runs down my neck. Familiarity is something I crave, a grown man looking for a security blanket. I admitted it once to Jackal when we were both drunk, and he laughed so hard he fell off the couch he was lying on.

“How do you know you’ll get pregnant?” I challenge. It’s a ridiculous question, but I want to hear her answer. There’s nothing wrong with women’s fertility, there’s just nothing to fertilize them with.

“I just know,” she says. “Ready?”

She opens the door before I can answer either way, and we stand at the threshold of a large bedroom, its walls painted white. I’m surprised right away. The room is minimalistic and modern compared to the rest of the house. A simple bed faces us, low to the ground, with a white, rectangular headboard. On each side of the bed are two simple nightstands, also in white. A large oil painting of tree trunks hangs on one wall, the leaves and branches not visible, and on the opposite wall is a simple gas-burning fireplace. The only cozy thing in the room is the rug, which is plush and royal blue.

“Not what you were expecting?” she asks. She’s studying my face.

“Not what I’m used to.”

I stride into the room and she follows, shutting the door quietly behind us.

“My mother hates it,” she says. “But I find clutter distracting.” She scrunches up her nose.

“I agree,” I say.

She smiles and I notice there’s a dimple in her cheek.

She touches a space on the wall and two panels move away to reveal a bar. “What can I get you to drink, Folsom?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at me.

This is not uncommon, a woman I’m about to fuck asking if I’d like a drink. They offer the type of things they drink: champagne, wine, vodka, and soda.

“Bourbon,” I try.

She smiles her biggest smile yet and pulls out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. She shakes it at me.

“You drink bourbon?” I ask, my eyebrows raised.

“Yes, and I like your boots.” She uncorks the bourbon and pours two generous portions into glasses. “Are all the women you meet the same?”

She hands me a glass and drinks hers down in seconds, flinching when she comes up for air.

“Nervous?”

She shrugs. “I’ve heard that it hurts—the first time.”

“Many women prepare for this with toys to avoid the pain.”

She scrunches up her nose. “I didn’t.”

“Then have another drink,” I suggest. She moves back to the bar hiccupping.

To the left of the bed and near the large bay window are three armchairs set in a semicircle around a table. I take a seat in one, sipping my drink slowly while I watch her. In every other woman’s bedroom I’ve been inside there have been fresh flowers in vases. The absence of them gives the room a stark, cold feel.

“You don’t like flowers?” I ask.

She laughs as she comes to sit in a chair near me, shaking her head.

“What makes you think that?”

I motion around the room. She sits forward in her seat suddenly fascinated.

“Tell me about the other women,” she says. “Do they give you gifts, do they all have flowers in their bedrooms? What are they like?”

I laugh. “Don’t you have friends?”

She slumps back in her chair. “No, I don’t. I’m busy with work mostly. My sister does, but I hate her friends.”

“What do you do for work?” I ask. The bourbon is relaxing me. I lean my head back against the chair as I watch her, my free hand drumming my knee. This is the first time I’ve accepted a drink for an early appointment. I like to be in control of myself, my mind clear, unlike Jackal who drinks both his breakfast and dinner. I save liquor for my free time, nights when I’m alone and I tend to think too much.

“I work for Genome Y,” she says, plucking a stray hair from her dress. “We do research to find out—”

“—Why there is a lack of the Y chromosome in male sperm.”

“Yes,” she says, glancing up at me.

I take a sip of my drink. Normally women in her social position don’t work. Not until they’re past their childbearing age. “How’s research going?” I’m goading her and she knows it. She looks at me, tight-lipped, an annoyed expression on her face.

“I’m sure you’d be the first to know if there were any breakthroughs,” she says curtly. “You keep asking me questions, but you haven’t answered any.”

“I get a shit ton of gifts,” I say. “Clothes, watches, money clips, money…and flowers—women love flowers. They’re everywhere. Once a woman even wove them into her pubic hair before I fucked her.”

“Do you keep the gifts?”

I shrug. “Some.”

“You sound bored,” she says, surprised. “It’s an honor to do what you do. You’re helping society. You’re—”

“A sex slave,” I answer for her. She looks away.

“I’m sure not all of you think that way,” she says, uncertain. “Men have always been known to seek out sex above everything else.”

“Maybe I’m not like them.” I set my empty glass on the table and begin unbuttoning my shirt. Gwen’s eyes move to my hands as they work at the buttons.