Page 115 of Trying Sophie

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sophie

A couple of years ago, I had teased Katie mercilessly while she waited at the airport to board a flight from London to Stockholm for what essentially amounted to a six-hour booty call with the man she was now engaged to. At the time, I hadn’t understood what possessed her to do something so insensible, but as I watched the taxi fare climb higher and higher while I made my way to Declan’s neighborhood, I finally got it.

I was officially what my friend Lika called “dickmatized.” How did you know when you’d been dickmatized? It was really quite simple.

When the dick was so good that you got up at the crack of dawn to run to the grocery store for whole milk for his coffee even though you had a gallon of skim milk in your fridge? You were dickmatized.

When the dick was so good that you wore your shortest, tightest dress with a pair of shoes that doubled as torture devices because he said you looked good enough to eat in that particular outfit … and then he did? You were dickmatized.

When the dick was so good you called a taxi to drag your ass into Dublin in the pouring, freezing rain because you couldn’t stand another minute without his cock inside of you? Yup, I was dickmatized.

Sophie: Remember when I made fun of you for flying to Stockholm to see Jackson? Well, I’m sorry. I take it all back.

Katie: Why’s that?

Sophie: Because I was so overcome by lust that I threw on my sexiest outfit and am sitting in the back of a taxi on my way to my own booty call.

My phone rang two seconds later and when I answered, Katie screamed, “Who is he?”

“Remember that guy I told you about? Declan?”

“Oh yeah,” she answered, knowingly. “The guy from the hotel.”

“When you say it like that, you make me sound like a hooker,” I whispered back.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t whispered quietly enough because the cabbie—a man old enough to be my grandfather—glanced at me in the rearview mirror with an assessing once over.

I smiled tightly and shook my head. “Not a hooker,” I mouthed.

“If the over-the-knee boot fits,” Katie answered, a reference to Julia Roberts’s hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold character from Pretty Woman.

“Would you stop? He did not pay me afterward.”

The cabbie tossed another quick look over his shoulder and I shooed him back. “Keep your eyes on the road mister,” I scolded.

He shrugged and did as I asked, thank Christ.

It was bad enough I was doing this, I didn’t need to die for it as well when he ran us off the road.

I could just picture it. At my funeral everyone would be talking about what a tragedy my death had been and then some well-meaning person would ask why I’d been out on such a terrible night in the first place. To which Katie would somberly say, “It was so sad. She was so dickmatized she couldn’t wait another day for that schlong.” Instead of being scandalized, all the little old ladies would knowingly nod their heads, understanding in their eyes.

“Oh, I know. I just like teasing you. And saying hooker.”

She did. She really, really did. Katie called everyone a hooker, whether she liked them or not.

“Anyhow, I just wanted to apologize. Don’t ever say I can’t admit when I’m wrong.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t let you forget this.”

* * *

I steppedout of the taxi and stood in front of Declan’s house. None of the windows were lit which posed a bit of a problem. When I’d hung up on him, it hadn’t occurred to me that he’d go out. Shit. Had I just made a monumental mistake? I was already down €50 for the cab; I didn’t want to shell out another €250 for a hotel room.

I marched up the front walkway—slipping on the icy red-and-black Victorian tiles he’d warned me about before—and banged on the knocker and waited for him to answer. Seconds ticked by, but nothing.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I glanced at the time again, worried that maybe it was too late. Declan’s workout had been a hard one today so it was plausible he’d already fallen asleep.

---