Page 32 of Sexy Bad Escort

Don’tget me wrong; I’m not opposed to love and forever and everythingthat comes with it.Obviously, considering helping women reach that point iswhat I now do for a living.

It’sjust I neverconsideredit something that would happen to me. I mean, come on. I’m atwo-bit loser. I can’t play sports to save my life, I’ve never beengood at anything except being the funny guy, the friend you want atparties because he knows how to work the room, how to makeeverybody laugh. I have no other redeeming qualities. I’m not theguy any woman wants to spend forever with.

“Why doyou get so down on yourself whenever someone—namely me—tries to compliment you?” Ronnieasks, pulling me out of my own head.

“Huh?”

We’recurrently in that scenario I had in my head. It’s lateevening, and the bird issleeping under the blanket we’ve learned to drape over his cagewhen we want him to shut the hell up—that’s a phrase heactuallyhasclampedonto, by the way. We’re sprawled on the couch, me in a pair of gymshorts and a T-shirt, her in sweats and a camisole, her hair piledon top of her head in a messy bun, no makeup on her face. There’s abowl of popcorn and a couple of beer bottles on the coffee tableand some action flick on the TV. No idea which show, because I’vebeen so caught up in our conversation—and my own daydreams,apparently—I haven’t paid it any attention.

It’sfucking perfect, and sodamn weird.

“You’reafraid to be happy,” shesays.

I furrow mybrow. “I’m always happy. Especially lately. Sex makes me quitecheerful, especially when it’s with another person. Scratchthat—when it’s with you.”

“Rightthere.” She flapsherhand at me. I pretend to try to bite it, and she gently smacks theback of it against my chest. “You’re almost never serious, but whenyou are, all you do is trash yourself. Why is that?”

I pushher legsoff my lap so Ican roll off the couch and head into the kitchen for another brew.And maybe to avoid answering her question. What did I just think,that this was perfect?

Justkidding.

When Ireturn to the living room with two cold beers, she shifts herposition so I can sit exactly where I was, and then she crawls back into my lap, like shemissed me in the forty-five seconds I stepped away.

“What aboutyou?” I say, handing her one of the bottles and pointing at herwith the other. “What are you afraid of? Or rather, why are youafraid of it?”

“Whatdo youmean?” She takes a cautious sip, her gaze locked on myface.

“Have you everhad a serious, meaningful relationship? Ever?”

Sheshakes her head. “Uh-uh. I’m not one of your clients. You don’t getto psychoanalyze me, mister. Not unless it’s tit fortat.”

“I likeyour tits.” I rub the chilled bottle along the front of her shirt, dampening it andbringing her nipples alive. They press against the fabric,unabashedly calling out to me.Lick me, Danny. Suckle me. Biteme.

“And Ilike your dick. We havethe perfect relationship right now. Why muck it up withother people’s ideas of what’s meaningful and serious?”

“You mean yourmother’s ideas?”

She glancesover the back of the couch at the silent birdcage and the windowbeyond. “Maybe.”

I pushher pant leg up so I canstroke her calf. “Your parents are pretty damn cool. And seem to behappy. Everybody in your family is well adjusted and turned outokay. But the idea of having that scares the crap out of you. Howcome?”

Shepurses her lips and stays silentfor so long, I suspect she isn’t going to answerme. But then she sighs and says, “My mother’s entire existencerevolves around the lot of us. Have you not noticed that? Hell,she’s pulled you into the fold just because you’re Erin’s bestfriend.”

“I’mpretty sure she pulledme into the fold because I’m like an adorable homeless puppy and Ilove her cooking and tell her so at every available opportunity.But that aside, I still don’t get it. Are you afraid you’ll turninto her? Because I’m not seeing that as a bad thing. Your mom’sactually pretty hot for a sixty-ish woman.”

She lifts ahand to me, palm out. “Stop. Do not talk about my mom likethat.”

“I’mjust sayin’, ifyoufollow in her footsteps, I’ll still be lusting after you in thirtyyears.”

“That’snot whatI want. I don’t think, anyway.”

“Tohave me lusting afteryou? Too late, sweetheart.”

Rollingher eyes, she says, “No. To revolve my life around otherpeople.But that soundsso selfish.”

“Notreally. More like you want to have your own identitythat isn’t connected to anyoneelse.”

“Exactly.” Her face lights up, and she grins at me like I’ve just presented herwith first prize in a contest she thought she’d neverwin.

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