Page 70 of Tarek

Oh poor Tarek, now the girls will see what little you have.

Tarek

You know better than that. The problem was the other girls wanted me too.

Me

Now what do you send?

Tarek sends a pic. It’s pic of his palm facing upward, but unlike the rest of his hand, his middle finger and his ring are lifted, separated from the others. A clear wet substance coats them, from the tip to the base, it glistens under the light.

Instantly my pussy clenches, knowing that is my juices covering his fingers.

Tarek

I send them memories. Enjoy your fundraiser .

I smile, trying to think of something snazzy to say. A throat clears and I look up from my phone to see Archer, arching his eyebrows.

“New lover? Mom said you dumped Melvin,” he states. I was so wrapped up in the thought of Tarek that I didn’t see when my brother moved from the fireplace to the sofa that he is sitting on opposite me.

“No, he is not a new lover,” I was getting too comfortable with Tarek. Normally I would have men doing mental gymnastics. But with Tarek, everything feels so easy, and right. I don’t know how to deal with that.

“So, there is a ‘he.” Mischief covers my brother’s face, he folds his leg onto his lap and holds his ankle.

I need to get Archer off the topic of “my new lover” before he goes into investigating mode.

“Now about Roxy. She has a right to be what she wants to be,” I state. His face drops, and his leg has a slight shake to it.

“I told her not to wear anymore skirts. And to stop wearing color. Grey, beige or black.” He sighs like just realized how stupid he sounds.

“What did she say?” Poor Roxy has been in love with my brother for years and he never notices.

“She handed me her two weeks resignation,” he replies, his shoulders drop in defeat.

I place my phone back into my clutch and I begin to clap. “Good for her.”

“What the hell do you mean by that? Good for her? What about me?” he cries.

“What about you? She has been your right hand for years, pining away for your love and what do you do?”

Archer throws back his head and scratches his clean-shaven chin. “Love? Pining away? Pen really?”

“Who takes care of you when you’re sick?” I ask, feeling a need to smack him at the side of his head.

“Roxy,” he replies, with a hint of boredom.

“Who plans all your work trips for you?” I need him to see that there was more to Roxy than just a secretary.

“But Pen come on, that’s her job,” he replies.

“I’m trying hard not to slap you. Who flew to Greece with a new passport for you because yours was stolen?”

He slides down the chair slowly. “Roxy.”

“Who packs your fridge with all your favorite food?” Roxy’s love dawned on me months ago when I walked into Archer’s condo at 8 at night and Roxy was packing Archer’s fridge, talking to his chef about Archer and his dislike of Asiago cheese.

“Roxy,” he whispers.

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