Page 38 of Kiss My Glass
“Okay, but no whips and chains,” I say. “City-boy wimp, remember?”
Frankie reaches up and pushes a wayward curl off my brow.
“No whips and chains,” she promises. “But I’ve still got my eye on that workshop bench.”
ChapterTwenty-One
FRANKIE
Just because I have some self-consciousness doesn’t mean I avoid sex. Nor am I short of opportunities to have it. In the immortal words of Amy Schumer, I can catch dick whenever I want. And yes, there are a lot of jackasses online, but if you’re willing to sift, you’ll find decent guys. Most of the men I’ve hooked up with, though, I’ve met by chance, at community events, through pickleball and dancing, even once at the dog park when I was minding my neighbor’s dog, Murray.
What I have avoided up till now is a relationship. I’ve invited men into my bed and then I’ve politely (mostly) shown them the door and declined any future requests to meet. This can get a little tricky if you know you’ll see them again, for example, when you’re paired up on the dance floor, but I’m a skilled communicator. I make my position crystal clear, leaving no room for the slightest misinterpretation. And I never change my mind.
That’s why this whole thing with Danny has got me so flustered. Despite my considerable initial misgivings, I’ve found myself falling for him. Only not falling as in a pleasant floating sensation, but more like that sudden anxious jolt when you misstep. Or those hypnic jerks you have when you’re drifting off to sleep, that cause your eyes to fly open and your brain to go,What the fuck?
I thought I’d been smart and in control when I came up with my get-to-know-each-other plan. But we’ve barely ticked off one item and here I am naked in his bed. Or to be accurate, Cam’s old bed, but let’s not go there.
And it was good. Ridiculously good, even though it wasn’t my style at all. Normally, no surprises here, I like to take charge. I don’t mean to make it sound like I treat the guy like a programmable sex robot; I’m as fond of being carried away by passion as the next person. But I like to set an expectation of “my bed, my rules”. And most guys have no problem with that. In fact, I think they find it kind of a relief.
I don’t know why I expected it to be the same with Danny. Nothing else with him has gone as it should. It’s like Flora Valley is Wonderland and I’m Alice, and I’m now trying to work out a whole new set of rules in a place where everything is topsy-turvy.
Thing is, I don’t hate it. It’s new and confusing and part of me still wants to run away screaming, but overall, I’m willing to see where this leads. I’m willing to see if this couldturn into my first real relationship.
However, I’m also going to ensure we stick to the get-to-know-each-other plan. This means ignoring the fact that we jumped the gun by having sex. Because now that line has been crossed, I am not going back, so we’ll have to run the plan in parallel. I guess it’ll be like straddling two trains, one foot on each roof as they rattle along, and hoping like hell that the tracks don’t suddenly diverge.
From downstairs, I hear a muted, “Ow, fuck!”
I’m lying here in bed trying to get my thoughts in order (spoiler: I haven’t) while Danny’s on a mission to dispose of the condom and fetch us water. Important to stay hydrated.
His footfall sounds on the stairs and then he appears, a glass of water in each hand, scowling.
“How the fuck did Cam the Giant survive in this place?” He hands me a water glass and slides back into bed. “Every time I turn around, I smack some part of me on a hard wooden edge.”
“Evolution moves faster than Cam,” I say. “That probably helps.”
“And who doesn’t build some kind of closet?”
“A man who doesn’t have clothes that need hanging,” I point out.
“I guess I can be thankful that the bathroom isn’t a long drop,” Danny mutters.
He senses my side-eye and screws up his mouth.
“I know, I know – city-boy,” he says. “Though technically,I grew up in a semi-rural area. But in a ten-bedroom house. With a tennis court. And a mile-long tree-lined driveway. So … yeah.”
Right. Sometimes I forget that the Durants have money. Well, Nate doesn’t right now; he and Shelby are teetering on broke. But unlike us Armstrongs, he did grow up with money. And so did Danny. It grates a little, but I have to admit, I’m curious about how the other half lives.
“What was it like, being a rich kid?” I ask.
“We hung out mainly with other rich kids,” he says with a shrug. “We went to private schools, and Mom and Dad’s friends all have money, too. So, I guess I’m saying that while I knew we were wealthy, it seemed normal.” He frowns at me. “Does that sound super arrogant?”
The fact that he’s worried about that makes me consider my answer with more care.
“Not arrogant exactly,” is my reply. “But a little narrow and entitled.”
“I guess that’s true,” says Danny, with a grimace. “Though unlike most of our friends’ parents, Dad made it clear that he and Mom would never bail us out. We’d have to build our lives and careers ourselves. And if we failed, too bad. We’d have to suck it up and deal.”
“You haven’t failed, though, have you,” I say.
