Page 19 of Parker
“You’ve been out five minutes and you’re already throwing yourself at the first bloke who looks your way.” Her voice riseswith every word. “Don’t forget what happened the last time I trusted the wrong man. Look where it landed you.”
There it is. The sting. The reminder she can’t help but toss in, sharp and accusing.
“I’m not going back to prison because of a man,” I mumble. “Don’t worry.”
She scoffs. “You better not. Because if you screw this up, I won’t be here to clean up the mess.”
Sitting on the bed, I rerun the events of yesterday, breaking each part into tiny frames that I can lose myself in. His late entry to the AA meeting. How he swaggered in full of confidence, beholden to no one. Our stolen glances across the circle as other members driveled on about their lives. The café, where we talked for hours and consumed mountains of cake.
Then last night at his home, the way he fucked me. I felt alive. Female. Wanted. Like I’d stepped straight into someone’s fantasy. But the way he snuggled in behind me, planting kisses on my shoulder, had made it feel like so much more than sex. It felt like something I didn’t dare want.
He dropped me at the bottom of the street on his way to work this morning, promising to call later. If he doesn’t, then I know it was a one-night stand. I deleted his number as soon as I got home, not wanting to lose my nerve and call first. He is going to have to contact me. With dozens of AA meetings across the city, chances are I would never see him again unless he wanted to see me.
The day drags. I pick up books and put them down again, unable to focus. Nothing holds my attention, not when I’m already halfway lost in the fairytale building in my head. My wayward eyes constantly flick to my phone, lying mute on the floral bedspread. I keep picking it up, shaking it, and pressing the buttons to make sure it is working. The time hits two in the afternoon, and there is still no word.
Panic bubbles in my chest. Perhaps this is what the stunning Mr. Parker does on a weeknight. Picks up unsuspecting women at alcoholic meetings and takes them home to have his wicked way with them. Thoughts of his hands on my body cause my arousal to surface once more. Never have I felt so connected to someone. Perhaps my mother was right. I have fallen foul to the first man to look my way more than once.
Ten years in prison has meant I haven’t had a relationship with a man in a long time, not since my late teens. I’m not sure what a good relationship looks like. There was one woman in prison. We filled the void for each other while stuck inside, clinging together in our shared cell during sleepless nights.
Prior to being incarcerated, I had never had a relationship with a woman. Many were close friends, but never a physical, romantic friendship. It made me question my sexuality briefly, wondering if I had crossed a line that I could never return from. But now, I realize I was attracted to her, not the gender assigned at her birth.
My fingers twist the edge of the sheet as my thoughts spiral. Outside, a car backfires, dragging me back to the present.
My phone buzzes against the soft fabric. I recognize the final digits of the number. I smile to myself. He called. The screen lights up, and for a second, I just stare at it. My pulse spikes. He called.
Picking it up, I hit the green button, hardly able to contain the grin spreading across my face.
“Good afternoon, beautiful. How was your day?”
My words don’t come easy. I realize now I’d been bracing for disappointment.
“Nicky, are you there?” His voice is velvet on the line, smooth and warm, and I feel my heart quicken with each word that slips past his lips. “Are you just going to keep heavy breathing downthe phone? Because right now, you’re speaking directly to my cock.”
A giggle escapes. This man is filthy. And it’s a complete turn-on.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. I hope you’re not working too hard.”
He chuckles. “My mind’s elsewhere. I can assure you of that. Can I see you this evening?”
My breath hitches at his unexpected suggestion. Another soft laugh from him follows, like he already knows the effect he’s having.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” I admit.
“Is it a problem?”
I bite my lip, considering. To hell with it—of course it’s not a bloody problem. This man makes me feel alive. Like sparks in my veins.
“I’d love to.”
“Excellent. I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something sexy and bring your overnight bag.” His voice drops, thick with promise. “Prepare to be spoiled.”
The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at the blank screen. A date. A real date. He didn’t just call. Hewantsme.
***
Sophie sits on her bed; she’s casually swiping through outfit ideas on her phone. We’ve spent the past hour in her bedroom, tearing her wardrobe to shreds. Prison left me with limited options for sexy outfits, and any of my pre-jail dresses were too small or embarrassingly outdated.
Sophie, on the other hand, has a wardrobe the queen would envy. She loves shopping. Her dresses are crammed into thesmall space on her rail, and the overflow is stacked neatly at the bottom of the wardrobe.
