Page 107 of Smut

She shrugs and sips her drink. “Both were enjoyable. But you know what? I’m over men.”

“Again.”

“Yeah. I mean, what’s the point? What can they offer that my fingers can’t?”

“Fingers cramp up.”

“As do hands when they’re giving a hand job for the millionth time.”

I give her a look. “Hand job? Who have you been with lately, a sixteen-year-old?”

“Ugh. Even I wouldn’t do that. No, seriously. After I get my degree I’m blowing this popsicle stand?—”

“Too bad you’ve already blown everyone in it,” I mutter under my breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

She narrows her eyes at me. “I heard that.”

“Well, I said it loudly,” I retort.

“Don’t use Friends’ references at a time like this. I’m telling you my life plans. This is serious business. Once I’m out of here, I’m traveling the world and teaching English and I’m probably going to go stay at a yoga commune in India and learn to be one with myself, then go to Bali to surf and maybe fall in love.”

“That’s the plot of Eat, Pray, Love.”

“It was a good book.”

“Yeah.” My stomach growls even though I’m not hungry. Nothing like second-guessing your current quasi-relationship to kill your appetite. But I know drinking sangria on a hot day without food is asking for trouble.

I pick up the menu and start considering the options.

Olives?

Fried potatoes?

Rio taps me quickly on the hand. “Oh my god, Amanda,” she whispers harshly. “Look but don’t look.”

Of course I follow her gaze to the alley and look.

Walking on the sidewalk amongst the many people out for dinner and drinks is Blake.

He’s wearing black pants and that slate grey dress shirt he wore when we had sex in the library, the shirt that unbuttons just enough to see a hint of chest hair, that showcases those shoulders and large forearms on which I’ve memorized every freckle and hair. It’s one of my favorite shirts on him, and when he wore it the other day for the cover of the Billionaire book, I couldn’t help but throw myself at him. As usual.

His hair is shiny, disheveled, catching the evening light and he has this cagey look in his eyes, making him look brooding and intense and all the things I want to see in him.

He looks like mine.

I want him to be mine.

I swallow it down though, prepared to just sit there and watch him move past, his long legs taking easy, casual strides.

Then I realize there’s some guy with him. Shaggy hair to his shoulders, tanned, wearing skate shoes, board shorts, and a Quiksilver tank top. The guy probably smells like surfboard wax too.

The two of them look like men on the prowl, and a pang of horror runs through me when I imagine what their plans are. After all, Rio and I are out and I’m keeping an open mind about the guys I meet. Why would I expect less from Blake?

They’re almost gone, Blake’s gaze now directed at the bricks on the ground beneath them. I almost exhale the breath I’ve been holding when Rio stands up in her seat and yells.

“Hey, Blake!”

“Oh my god,” I hiss at her, grabbing her dress and trying to pull her back down. “What are you doing?”

---