Page 70 of Wicked Pickle

I sit in the desk chair, anxiously rotating back and forth with my foot. It’s not that I think Jenna is going to judge me. I’m not up for questioning. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I can’t explain anything.

“At least tell me if it’s good banging. Or is he all leather and no snap?”

So many images of Diesel come at me that I have to physically bat them away to get my attention back. “I have never had so many orgasms in seventy-two hours.”

Or maybe in my life. I’d have to count them. He may very well have already surpassed the numbers of my long-term relationships.

“That’s something.” Jenna props herself up on her elbow, sinking a hand into her ashy blonde hair perfectly colored withintentional black roots. She had it done for the wedding, and nobody ever made that style work better than her.

I touch my chaotic post-teacher-desk hairdo self-consciously. I need to change clothes. Get underwear on before Jenna notices and I never live it down.

And think about what I’ve done by baiting Diesel to meet me tomorrow at an even riskier location.

I’ve officially lost it.

Jenna watches me go to the closet. “Is he going to wreck your GPA right before you start your thesis? You are a woman obsessed.”

I pull out a T-shirt and shorts. “No.”

“You sure? Because I don’t think you took a single note in class, and we all saw you zone out to la la land during the wedding and reception.”

I move to the dresser, then realize getting underwear will look suspicious. Damn it.

“I’m fine. I’m going to change.”

“You forgot to grab underwear.”

Damn it!

I throw a look at her, but if I’m busted, I’m busted, so I open the drawer and extract a pair.

As I head into the bathroom, she calls out, “It’s the lack of panty lines that gives you away. You might want to start getting underwear on sale if he’s going to keep ripping them off you.”

I firmly close the door. Jenna is killing me.

But is she right? I consider it as I lose the skirt and top and switch to clothes that weren’t chosen for a quickie in an empty classroom.

The full force of this hits me. Am I obsessed? Have I lost my judgment? My whole damn mind?

I toss my clothes in the hamper. It’s a wild fling. It’s new. This will wear off.

I’m not going to flunk my poli-sci coursework. Or mess up my GPA. Or harm my future.

He’s just … Mr. Now.

Nobody who meets you for nothing but high-risk hookups, who wears a damn skull chain like a fashion accessory, and who breaks up bar fights for a living is Mr. Right. Mr. Marrying Kind. Mr. Forever.

I’m okay with having a Mr. Fuckface. Mr. Cut-Your-Panties.

And I’ll figure out the balancing act. The distraction of seeing him, thinking about him, running off for wild times. And my degree. My plans. My career.

I can do this.

When I return to the bedroom, Jenna has spread out her laptop, the book we were supposed to have already read, and her hand-written notes.

“Let’s catch up today,” she says. “A few hours of work and then you can tell me all about your boyfriend’s mind-erasing sex.”

“Sounds like a perfect afternoon.” I heave my backpack onto the bed and dig out my iPad.

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