Page 84 of The Man Handler

I sigh. As tempting as his dick looked in that pic he sent, there’s a reason why I don’t recall who he is, and I’m sure an even better reason why I stopped fucking him. I have no interest in trying to figure it all out. No going back to dismissed dick, I think, hitting the reply button. I’ve broken enough rules already. ‘Sorry, boo, thanks for the offer. But, I’m not interested.’ I press send, then delete his message.

My cell rings. I pick it up and glance at the number flashing across the screen. It’s Wendell. I’m not in the mood for him, either. As matter of fact, I haven’t been in the mood for much of anything, particularly anything that has to do with a man. The only thing I am interested in at this moment is catching my plane in a few days. I press decline, then toss the phone on the sofa, deciding to go through my phonebook before the new year comes in, and delete useless numbers.

I go into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of ginger ale, then sit at the kitchen table, glancing up at the wooden wall clock. It’s almost seven o’clock in the evening. I hold my glass to my lips, pursing my lips before taking a slow, deliberate sip. I sigh. I will need to make some major changes in my life for the New Year. Of course, giving up dick definitely isn’t one of the things I plan on changing—or giving up. But, maybe, the number of men I’m fucking at one time does need changing. For now, at least, I think, getting up from the table, placing my half-empty glass in the sink, then heading upstairs to lie down. I stifle a yawn, realizing I’m extremely exhausted. I climb up into my bed with my clothes still on, then slowly drift off to sleep.

Two days later, I am running through the house like a raving lunatic, tossing shit into my suitcase, making sure I don’t forget anything, before zipping it up and placing it near the front door. My limo will be here in an hour. I run back upstairs to finish putting last minute items into my

carry-on, then bring it downstairs and place it beside my suitcase. My doorbell rings, and I think it is my driver to take me to the airport. I glance at my timepiece. It’s only one-thirty. My flight doesn’t leave until five. “You’re early,” I say, swinging the door open. “I—”

My jaw drops. “Garrett? What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

I take him in. He looks tired, and as if he’s lost some weight. But he is still as fine as ever. A part of me wants to slam the door in his face, curse him out for coming to my home unannounced, but, in all honesty, he hasn’t done anything, other than trying to wife me up, to warrant such disrespect. My thoughts temporarily slip back to the last time we were together, how he fucked me deliciously. Better than all the other times. How his dick fit perfectly inside of me; how my pussy saturated his dick with its love juices, causing pellets of lust to rapidly burst through me with every stroke. Then I remember, how being fucked down by him—without a damn condom—got me into all this mess in the first place, and shake the images out of my head.

I step back and allow him to enter. “What brings you here?”

“I was thinking about you,” he says as he walks through the door. He glances over at my luggage. “Going somewhere?”

I glance at my watch. “Actually, I am. I thought you were the limo driver when you rang the doorbell. You could have called.”

“You mind if I have a seat?” I extend my hand toward the sofa, gesturing for him to sit. He sits, and I find myself taking a seat on the other end of the sofa, keeping a safe distance between us. “Yeah, you’re right. I could have called, but I wanted to see you before the holidays.”

I smile. “That was thoughtful of you.” I remember what Tyler told me, and decide to ask, “How have you been?”

“I’ve had better days, but nothing I can’t shake.”

For some reason, him sitting here making small talk feels strange, and makes me uncomfortable. I shift in my seat, deciding to skip all the niceties. “Listen, Garrett, why are you reallyhere?”

He raises his brow. “I told you, I wanted to see you.”

“Okay, that sounds good, but…”

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” he says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Ohkaaay. And what do I have to do with that?”

He stares at me. The intensity in his eyes feels hot against my flesh. Oh my God, he knows.

Nonsense, I reason. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You look different.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you have this glow about you.” He knows, ho. He squints, forces himself to look deeper, then tilts his head. “I had a dream you were pregnant.”

“Whaat?!” I ask, letting out a nervous chuckle. “Pregnant, me? OhmyGod, what made you dream of something like that?”

I know what some of you bitches are thinking, “Well, you were, ho.” Well, so what? The fact, whether I was or wasn’t, isn’t up for discussion with him, not right now at least.

He shrugs, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I’ve had the same dream for the last two weeks. I’ve been real tired, lately, almost drained. I was talking to my sister about it the other day, and she jokingly asked me if I had gotten someone pregnant. At first I laughed it off, but later on I started wondering if…” he pauses, and allows the silence to fill the space around us. It is at this very moment, I wish I could blink him and what happened between us away. Wish I could rewind the clock and go back to the night he fucked me without a condom, and simply erase it from out of my life. I hold my breath. “You’d tell me if you were pregnant, wouldn’t you?”

Okay, now comes the moment of truth. I slowly exhale. “I probably wouldn’t. I don’t know.”

“You don’t think I would have the right to know.”

I slowly shake my head, diverting my eyes from his. “Not if I wasn’t going to keep it. But, that’s neither here nor there.”

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