Page 8 of The Bonds We Break
“Hey, Rose.” I think I’m one of the few who call her by her real name. “You guys looks so tanned, it’s annoying.”
“We’d look even better if you let me pay you back,” my brother mutters, and I roll my eyes.
“Quit grumbling. You’ll miss the sun once you come home.”
Rose shrugs. “I’m starting to look forward to getting back.”
Ryker tugs her close and kisses her cheek. “You regretting coming here with me?” His tone is playful.
Rose shakes her head. “No. I’m just getting itchy to start the next phase of our life. Fixing up the house, moving in. Having our own bed and own shower.”
“I like the sound of our own bed,” Ryker says as he nuzzles the side of her neck.
His happiness makes me smile. “Okay. Okay. There are some things your sister doesn’t need to see. Speaking of which, I have a date tonight. So, if you guys don’t need me, I’m going to go get dressed.”
Ryker makes pretend gagging noises, but Rose grins. “Have fun,” she says.
“You too,” I reply.
“Be safe,” Ryker warns.
“Always. Love you.”
After a few more goodbyes, I hang up the phone.
I didn’t really want to go on the date. My friend Mitchell arranged it. He swore that his former college roommate, Aaron, would be perfect. Somehow, I doubt it. I’ve always known I have a particular kink that most men don’t know how to handle. Non-consent is easier with strangers, but I have a hard enough time reaching orgasm with someone I’m familiar with. It’s almost impossible with someone I don’t know.
But I felt like I couldn’t say no to Mitchell. If I were my own client, I’d talk about boundaries, the power of saying no. How you don’t owe anybody access to you, even if someone you love requests it.
Outside of sexual situations, this is one of the few things I can’t take my own advice about.
I walk up the stairs to get ready and take a moment to appreciate my bathroom. It’s a living, breathing jungle.
As in I have about fifty plants in here. Tall ones stand in the corner, some hang from the ceiling. Others adorn the window ledge and drape near the shower. I’ve surrounded the bathtub with planters. One relationship ended prematurely when he took a bath and a spider crept out from beneath one of the leaves.
He called it grotesque. I called it Harry and let it coexist in my bathroom until I saw it crawl out of the bathroom window four weeks later.
My date is meeting me at the restaurant of my choosing. I refuse to be one of those women who sit back and wait for the man to make the arrangements. I’d end up at some fancy place, eating food I don’t love, at a time that is way too late in the evening. But this way, I’ll get mid-priced tacos that taste great at seven p.m. If the date goes well, we’ll go for drinks after, and I’ll still be in bed by eleven. If it sucks, I can be in bed by nine. Neither arrangement assumes my date will be joining me in bed.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to have a one-night stand. Sometimes the connection of sex is all I need.
But it’s rare.
I usually need more.
And how a guy talks to me over tacos tells me whether he can provide it or not.
Getting ready takes time, because I do it for me, not my date.
I like it when my skin is soft, when my makeup is just right. I like it when other women comment on the winged eyeliner I perfected a long time ago. I feel better about myself when my dark brown hair with highlights sits straight and shines. And when whatever clothes I pull on can slide over freshly shaved legs.
The fact my date might appreciate the effort is just a side benefit.
The doorbell rings as I pull on my heels. If Mitchell has given Aaron my home address, I’m going to kill him. Women rules 101 is not to let a new guy know exactly where you live until you’ve told someone else your plans.
I walk to the window and glance out onto the drive.
There’s a gray van.
