Page 28 of Where We Found Our Home
She jokingly tries to pull her finger from my grasp, but she barely puts up any fight so I know she doesn’t mind. “Okay, but the sweet potato fries were speaking to me at the time, and you didn’t sell the garlic fries correctly! When you said they were really good and I should get them, you neglected to say they were like an orgasm in my mouth. You can’t possibly deny me now.”
“Oh, I think I can.” Especially when you talk about orgasms in your mouth and my dick is fighting against the seams of my jeans.
“Lincoln, I’m gonna get a fry. That’s just the bottom line. So we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Your choice.”
“I gotta say I’m tempted to find out what this hard way is.”
“Impossible man,” she says with a shake of her head.
I shove my fry basket in her direction because I would gladly give her all my fries, and that thought is fucking wild.
The next day, she’s still on my mind when I’m on shift. We just got back from putting out a structure fire, and I’m bone tired but seeing her text perks me right up.
Ciara: Drums or flats?
Me: You take me for some kind of amateur? Drums all day baby
Ciara: *inserts a gif of James Hardin rolling his eyes and walking away*
Ciara: Welp it was nice knowing you buddy
Me: lol WHO THE FUCK LIKES THE FLATS BEST??
Ciara: I do, Linc. I do. It’s the only correct answer. You heathen. At least tell me what you dip your wings in
Me: A wing that’s made correctly needs no dipping sauce. But I can fuck with some lemon pepper or hot sauce.
Ciara: Okay you have my attention again
Me: Let’s be real I never lost it
Ciara: Impossible man
Me: That’s me. This works though, if we ever get wings I’ll eat the drums like a proper American and you can have my pitiful flats
Ciara: *eye roll emoji* Trash
Ciara: Don’t you have fires to put out? Go back to work sir
Me: Yes ma’am
I try to wipe the smile off my face, but it’s impossible.
Eddie
Your place is pitiful. You barely have any furniture. Are you trying to live modestly now? How cute.
Your house back East, before you stupidly moved in with your mother, had a lot more stuff, so if you tell me you’re a minimalist you’re a liar. Your mom’s house was full of pictures of you. There was one on the wall above the TV in the living room that always caught my eye. It was you and her on a balcony with trees behind you. You looked happy, whole, and blissfully unaware. But that’s not how I like you. I much prefer you battered and broken.
I bet when you took that picture you never imagined you’d go on to ruin my life one day. So selfish.
These security measures, if you want to call them that, that you put in place were a valiant effort. But really, a coffee table in front of the door? Was I supposed to bump into it to alert you to my presence? I’m nothing if not patient, Ciara. You should know this by now, and it’s really pathetic that you don’t. It was nothing to slide that shitty ass coffee table backward from the small slit in your door. Child’s play.
Your bedroom is slightly better than the rest of this place. Not much though. And look at you. You look uncomfortable. Your brow is furrowed. Your face is turned up in a scowl. You’re shivering. Is it me you’re dreaming about? You can’t even escape me when you sleep. How fitting.
The urge to reach out and touch you is strong. Just a whisper. But I resist. I can’t let you know I’m in town just yet. The games have just begun.
I’ll see you around, doll. Don’t worry—I’ll make sure to put the coffee table back where I found it.
