Page 40 of Butterfly Effect

Gabe’s teeth grit. “It wasn’t a nu?—”

Paul quietly sets our drinks down. My date thanks him and lifts the glass to her lips. I stare, tracing the rim of my glass with my index finger, circling and circling and circling while imagining it’s that soft spot inside her pussy instead.

I almost knock it over when she notices and sputters, clearing her throat while a strawberry flush floods her cheeks. As if the same filthy thought is crossing her mind.

She likes me, after all.

“Anyway.” Gabe retrieves her phone from her coat pocket. “I brought notes and have questions.”

“You came prepared?”

“I’m a journalist. I do my research.”

My chin bobs in her direction. “Whatcha got so far?”

“Wade Boehner—full name, Walton Boehner—” Her lips wrinkle, a stifled smile teasing at their edges. “Twenty-four years old, 6’4, 210 pounds, first round, number five pick, draftedfrom Harvard to the Ottawa Regents in his sophomore year. Originally from Lac Ste. Anne. Only son of Naomie Boehner, former Olympic rower and fitness model.”

“Not bad.”

A hum buzzes against her curled finger. “Though I couldn’t find anything about your dad.”

A twinge in my chest burns, but I douse it. “I don’t have one.”

The last rays of dusk meet the copper hues of her eyes as she looks up from her screen. I can’t tell whether it’s pity or sympathy, but I don’t need either.

“He’s not around, okay? Any more questions, or is it my turn yet?”

The waiter serving our salads breaks the conversation.

My knee is bouncing again. I have no interest in talking about that son of a bitch. The tips of my ears heat, and I attempt to take a relaxed pull of the cranberry juice to cool down, but it’s so tart that my eye twitches. Gabe coughs out a laugh.

“Walton…what a name.”

I loathe the sound of my father’s name. Maman used the patronym to spite him.

A deep furrow forms between her brows. “Makes sense why you shortened it.‘Oh, Walton!’” she teases with a soft moan. “Doesn’t have any sort of sex appeal.”

She’s asking for it.

“Careful, Freckles.” My leg extends underneath the table to stroke the bare space between her sneakers and ankle with the tip of my shoe as a shit-eating grin splits my face. “I get hard when you make fun of me.”

She glowers and kicks me away before taking a large bite of greens, then chews until she can tuck it into one cheek. “Shocker. Whatdoesn’tget you hard?” Her swallow is audible. “You should give your little guy a breather sometime. You know, get some fresh air, touch grass.”

I try to resist. I do.

“Sounds like you want a reminder of my size. I did enjoy how loud you got last time.”

Gabe struggles as air goes down the wrong pipe. In slow motion, I mouth my first forkful of salad, content with her reaction.

Fist thumping her chest, she dislodges whatever was stuck in her throat with a hushed gagging sound.

“What a noise,” I coo through a sigh. “Brings back fond memories.”

Her cutlery clangs against the plate. “I wanna choke you.”

“Feeling’s mutual. But not in front of everyone,sweetheart. Unless you’re into exhibitionism?”

“Yeah, no,” she backpedals, her low tone turning into a whisper-yell. “I could kill you.”

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