Just My Type(30)

“He’s still my boss,” I remind Brooklyn. “For now, I have a job to do. When that’s finished… who knows?”

It’s fine. I can do this. Who cares if I’m so fucking starved for affection that humping the washing machine on the spin cycle sounds like a stellar way to spend a Wednesday afternoon? Get the job done, and then… maybe.

Turning back around, I squeeze back into my closet and shove the boring, long-sleeved, black funeral dress I’d grabbed back on the cluttered hanging rod. Swiping a few things out of the way, I grab another hanger and walk back out into my room.

“Your brother and I dry humped for the first time when I wore that dress,” Brooklyn muses, as the red-and-black flannel T-shirt dress slips from my grip and my arm slowly lowers from holding it up in front of me. “He gives great dry humping orgasms.”

“Shut up right now before I grab a pair of scissors and cut it up into tiny pieces,” I tell her, pressing my hand over my mouth to stop the dry heaves. “There will be no dry humping in this dress. There will be no humping of any kind until these interviews are finished. Just because I want to look nice means nothing.”

Tossing the dress on the end of my bed, I walk over to the dresser and pick up the phone.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Wear the black suede ankle boots with the tall, skinny heel so your legs look sexy as fuck, and—”

I end the call before she finishes that sentence.

And march back into my closet to grab the black suede ankle boots with the tall, skinny heel.



“I’m coming! Hold on a second!” I shout to my ringing doorbell.

I’m in the middle of securing a big, silver hoop earring to my ear as I hustle across the living room, assuming it must be the stupid car service Baker ordered. I try to drum up some irritation that he took it upon himself to do that, but I can’t. It was thoughtful. Right after I graduated high school, I got a flat tire. I called Jake, the guy I was dating and whose dorm room I was on the way to when I got said flat tire, a mile away from the dorm. He told me that by the time I walked there, it would be time for dinner. And then asked me what I wanted for dinner. By the time I walked to his dorm, he did in fact have the Taco Bell I requested. That he’d already eaten. Because he got hungrier the longer he waited. For me to walk to his fucking dorm. I gave that boy the best blowjobs of his life, and he made me walk.

Baker didn’t want me taking a train and a bus to meet him, to do my job he is paying me for. Ne’er a blowjob in sight.

Goddammit.

Double goddammit. Not only am I thinking about how fucking perfect Baker is, but I’m also thinking about putting his dick in my mouth.

And the sounds he would make.

And what he would taste like.

And how hard he’d grip my hair in his fist.

And if he’d moan Ember or Tink when he came.

MOTHERFUCKING GODDAMMIT.

The ankle boots that really do make my legs look sexy as fuck click-clack loudly against the wood floor as I move to the door and look through the peephole. My dirty thoughts die a quick death, and with a muttered curse, I quickly unlock the deadbolt, unlatch the chain, and fling the door open.

“What’s going on? What happened? Lincoln, are you okay?”

I look back and forth between Brandon and Lincoln standing on the top step of my tiny, concrete porch before squatting down to my son’s eye level, checking him for injuries.

Even though I should technically get him back tonight since it’s Sunday, Lincoln doesn’t have school tomorrow. Brandon and I agreed he could keep him until tomorrow night. He’s never just shown up out of the blue, a day earlier than he was supposed to.

“I just need to get my iPad. Dad tried texting you,” Lincoln explains, before moving around me and running into the house.

Once his pounding footsteps disappear into his bedroom, I stand back up.

“Sorry about that. I was on the phone with Brooklyn and I must have missed your—”

“Are you okay?” Brandon cuts me off. “You’re quite flushed.”

Okay, so not all the dirty thoughts died a quick death.

Some clung on for dear life and put up a good fight. A fight that is currently splotched on my chest and my cheeks. This is what happens when you take a country girl who spent all her time out in the sun, and threw her into a metal prison where she became pale, and now the entire world knows when she’s sexually frustrated. Or embarrassed. Both of which I am currently experiencing.

“According to a recent study in Pharmaceutical Weekly, women approaching thirty-five are showing signs of—”

“I’m thirty-two,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

You dickhole. Say it. Tell him he’s a dickhole!

“Are you… going out? Like, on a date?” Brandon suddenly asks, forgetting all about whatever fucking study he was going to bore me with to look me up and down.

I squirm under his scrutiny, my bright porchlight illuminating everything I did to get ready. To what I am firmly denying is a date, because it’s not. It’s business. It is a business interview in a public place.

With a man who almost made you orgasm just by thinking about him a few minutes ago.

Brandon has seen me plenty of times when I would put in a little more effort for date night. He knows all about short dresses to show off a lot of leg; he knows about the heels to make all that leg look longer and sexier. He’s banged his head against the wall while I lathered my body up with my favorite pumpkin spice body lotion, and spritzed myself with the matching body spray. He’s stared at his watch in annoyance when I took more time to pull up my high ponytail by adding a few more waves to it with my heating wand, and French-braiding my long bangs back and up into the ponytail. He’s huffed in irritation when I added a smoky eye and took my time covering my lips in a red, twenty-four-hour lip stain that won’t come off no matter what you rub your lips against.