Page 39 of Brazen Deceits

It doesn’t take long for Trips to answer this time.

Of course. Why?

I grin as I type.

Really? I didn’t know you had eyes that deep in your throat. Impressive.

(P.S.—I’m telling you that your foot is in your mouth. I’m not an idiot, Trips)

I tuck the phone back in my pocket and finish cleaning. It buzzes three times before I pull the dang thing out, annoyed. I type in 8925 to see what the fuss is about.

Smart mouth. Could get you in trouble.

I know one way I could shut it up.

(P.S.—I’m talking about my cock. Wouldn’t want you to be confused.)

Oh my God. Is Trips sexting me? On Jansen’s fucking phone?

I stare at the messages, not sure what to do. My heart is racing, and I lick my lips. But I can see it. I can practically feel the weight of his cock on my tongue. What is wrong with me?

The door jingles, saving me from having to answer. I jam the phone in my pocket, barely paying attention as I take the girl’s order and make her drink. Once she steps away, I pull out my phone from my jeans, opening an old text chat with Trips.

For shame. Trying to make Jansen jealous?

I wait, not sure if this was the right tact to take. Trips’ response pops up almost immediately.

Not my fault if he comes up short

I stifle a laugh. Jansen has nothing to worry about and nothing to prove.

I wouldn’t mind watching you two measure.

The dots of his response keep showing up and disappearing as I wait. I imagine him, his phone tiny in his huge hand, typing and deleting, deciding how hard he’s going to do this flirting thing. Because he is definitely flirting.

That moment on the porch Friday after Jansen and RJ drove off, where he just held my face, stroking my cheek—it was so unlike the gruff and demanding guy I’m used to that I decided it must be a fluke.

This changes things, though. He might be an asshole, but I have a feeling that if I keep nudging, he’ll bemyasshole. And that thought makes my insides light up like a freaking Christmas tree. Because I like the jerk more than I probably should. I mean, he packs me snacks when he drives me to West Bank for class on Monday mornings. That must mean something, right?

Finally, my phone buzzes in my hand.

This dick is for private viewing only. Want a sneak peek?

My buoyant heart sinks. If that wasn’t a rebuke of my tentative “all the dicks, no pricks” plan, I don’t know what is. I sigh, watching out the front of the shop, the late fall wind throwing leaves and trash down the street outside the plate-glass windows.

I debate how I want to answer, but after a good two minutes of staring at my phone, I tuck it back into my pocket.

My mind drifts to Walker, and I can’t help but feel like my no-mess, all-the-fun plan has already failed. Or maybe I’m just not what he wanted?

I hope that isn’t it. I bring the carton of half-and-half and the sugar boxes to the mixing station. Busyness is key. Otherwise, all I can think about is that sinking feeling in my gut when Walker pulled on his happy mask, his eyes cutting but his grin wide.

I can’t help but see him walking away and not coming back, over and over in my mind. And the guilt, so heavy in my heart. Who turns all that rage and hurt into fucking another guy? This girl, that’s who.

I might not be a good person.

Cleaning doesn’t make the guilt disappear.

Instead, my mind keeps going back to that early morning before we framed Bryce, wrapped up between Walker and Jansen, and the feeling of four hands focused on my pleasure. It was a moment so full of wonder, of care and joy and honest-to-God lust that I’d need a ten-mile run to spend more than a moment remembering it.

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