Page 7 of Tips and Trysts

“There’s nothing to buy,” I reply, scooting back to my corner. “I don’t lie to him—or any of them.”

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. I literally heard you say, ‘I bet that big dick would feel so good inside me.’”

“It’s not a lie,” I insist. “Have you ever taken a big dick? It tends to feelsogood.”

Everett just stares at me—and he keeps staring.

I want to ignore him, but his stare is palpable. I can practically feel it on the surface of my skin like countless summer raindrops. “I made a thousand dollars in the last fifteen minutes. What did you do?” I counter while rubbing my knees and easing the red marks from kneeling.

Everett scoffs again. “Sore? I don’t have any ice, but I assume your heart is cold enough that you could press your knee to your chest, a little to the left, and stop the swelling before it starts.”

“Don’t you have better things to do than harass me?”

“You cammed in front of me.”

“Don’t you,” I repeat, folding my arms and refusing to let him deflect, “have better things to do than harass me?”

To my surprise, Everett rises and places his palms on the railing lining the elevator wall. He leans back, considering me.

Like the night we met, his eyes don’t settle. They peruse my features, collecting details like an arsenal, I’m sure. His gaze lingers on my nose, and it’s not the first time I’ve caught him studying it. Sometimes, I wonder if he likes it. I wouldn’t blamehim. After all, my nose is my favorite part of my body—round and petite, a near identical match to my Lola’s nose on my dad’s side. She was the original Cora Flores, but our similarities stopped at our names and noses. She was a sweet Filipina woman who birthed seven kids and raised them by herself while my Lolo was in the Navy—and I, conversely, fuck myself on the internet for a living.

I stand too, refusing to let Everett tower over me, but it doesn’t do much good. Everett’s tall, and I’m far from it. He has nearly a foot on me even when I’m wearing boots.

“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t hold my breath. You’re obviously not going to answer me.”

“There’s still time,” Everett replies, low and unemphatic as usual. “Go ahead and hold your breath. I can spend all eveningnotresponding.”

“Fine,” I say, tamping down the annoyance rising in my chest “If you’re not going to admit to harassing me, we’re done. Go back to whatever you were doing—researching the best millets for grinding bones to make your bread or whatever.”

“I’ve been a vegan since I was eleven. I’m not in the market for a bone grinder.” He crosses his arms…hismuscular arms.Veiny, actually. “Can I ask you something?”

“If you have to.”

“How did you figure out what he needed?”

I draw my head back. Everett and I rarely speak, and when we do, it’s cold enough to host a Winter Olympics. This is…cordial.

“I could tell,” I answer honestly. “It took a session or two, but it’s easy to figure out what turns people on. Our desires are a manifestation of how we perceive ourselves. Desire feeds us what we need.”

His expression doesn’t move, which is how I know my response hasn’t quite hit on what he’s asking.

I take him in. He’s asking because he wants to know how I clocked BigSpender’s kinks or because he wants to get better at reading reactions. The thought of Everett caring about kinks is ridiculous, so I figure it’s the second: He wants to read people.

“What are you writing?” I ask, taking my turn to cant my head.

“Who says I’m writing anything?” he responds, brow knotted.

It’s tedious explaining how I know the things I do, but I have to do it—otherwise it looks like I’m making assumptions instead of being perceptive. I let out a pointed sigh. “On a night you said was your last hurrah, you were typing like your life depended on it. Lander is out of the country and Dalton is, in all likelihood, hanging out with his mother like he does every Saturday since she filed for divorce from his father, so you weren’t texting them. You were trying to be productive—even while tipsy—which likely means something significant is happening with your campaign this week.”

His jaw squares before he exhales, slumping minutely. “Not bad, princess.”

“Stop calling me princess.”

He smirks. “But you clearly hate it.”

“So, stop saying it,” I snap before pausing and rolling my eyes. “And if you’re going to ask me for psych advice, at least tell me what you’re writing.”

“I need a few lines about my candidacy by tomorrow for a talk my father is doing at Georgetown.”

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