Page 34 of Dirty Dix

Being out with the boys has made me realize that I’m actually in a “sort of” relationship, without actually knowing I was in one. I don’t know how or when it happened, it just did. Although it is in no way normal, Juliet is the closest thing I’ve had to a girlfriend since Lily. And I don’t know how I feel about that.

“Hunter, when you meet the right girl, you’ll change your tune.” Finch nudges me in the ribs, egging me on to support his claim.

“Oh please, I’m more of a compatible partner for Dixon than Juliet is,” Hunter scoffs in disgust. “Once the novelty of Juliet’s hungry pussy wears off, Dixon will realize there’s plenty of pie out there.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” I ask, almost afraid to hear Hunter’s pie analogy.

This is the part where I should be defending Juliet’s honor, but for some reason, I can’t. Could it be because there’s some truth in Hunter’s uncouth but accurate statement?

“What happens when you eat the same ole apple pie, day in and day out?” he questions, raising a brow.

“You become a diabetic?” Finch says seriously.

“No, you moron,” Hunter scoffs, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “After a while, that apple pie loses its flavor, and before long, you begin to hate apple pie because all the apple pie wants to do is cuddle on the couch and watch reruns ofFriendswhile you question when the exact moment was when you handed the apple pie your nuts on a platter.”

This is, by far, the most ridiculous analogy, but in a weird, warped way, I totally get what he’s saying.

“So once you’re done satisfying the apple pie—missionary position, I might add,” Hunter says, scrunching up his face, “you begin to think about cherry pie and how much you’ve missed it. And suddenly, all you can think about is the plump, sugary cherries, and how good they taste compared to the bland, mushy apples, the ones you’ve been forced to eat for the past two months. Before long, you’ll hate apple pie, and you’ll move on to cherry pie, totally forgetting apple pie ever existed.” He takes a sip of beer, his food-inspired parallel over and done with.

Finch looks to be mulling over what Hunter just said, trying to figure out what the hell it means, while I almost choke on my beer because I’m laughing so hard.

“You’re an idiot.”

“No, I’m a genius. And tonight, we’re going to find you some cherry pie,” Hunter adds with a mischievous grin.

I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I would feel kind of bad screwing some random girl just because Juliet couldn’t see me tonight. But it’s not like we’re exclusive or anything.This “thing” with Juliet has crept up on me and yelled “pussy whipped,” and I suddenly don’t like it.

Although I’m not interested in eating “cherry pie,” I don’t see the harm in simply viewing what other pies are on display. Hunter tosses back his beer and hollers when he sees I’ve made my decision, while Finch looks to have finally understood the analogy.

“Holy shit, Hunter! You’re one messed-up bastard,” he says in disgust.

Hunter’s deep chuckle rumbles low, and he cocks a brow. “You think that’s messed up? You really don’t wanna know what happens when you eat pecan pie, day in and day out then.”

Finch takes the bait, and I bite back my smile.

“What happens?” Finch asks, totally falling for it.

“You become addicted to nuts,” Hunter explains with a grin. “And before long, all you can think about is nuts. You’ve got nuts in your mouth. Nuts on your face. Nuts on your tongue. Nuts at the back of your throat.” I burst out laughing, tears filling my eyes.

Finch blanches, finally understanding. He throws him an appalled look while I fist-bump my best friend.

We really are a bunch of nutjobs.

I didn’t realize how much I missed these assholes, but now that we three are out hitting the town, I know Fridays are back to being boys’ night only.

I’ve turned my phone off as I’m man enough to admit I have been tempted to check it once or twice. But Hunter’s idiotic apple pie analogy had me refusing to yield, so it’s just me, Finch,and Hunter—and a thousand-other people crammed into the club.

This club, ironically enough, is called Cherry Pop. It’s some new club that just opened up in Manhattan, and the “trendy” trash playing over the speakers really makes me wish they would play some good ole eighties rock ballads.

“Remind me why we’re here?” I gripe, looking over at Hunter, who is feasting on the smorgasbord of young flesh in front of him.

“Are you blind?” He scoffs, waving his hand out in front of him, indicating the barely legal girls dancing to this horrible music.

“I’m nowhere near blind enough to touch any of those little girls.” I take a swig of my drink and make a pained face. “Good grief, even their scotch is atrocious.”

“Oh, lighten up, Mr. Grumpy Pants. Not that long ago, I recall you not having any qualms touching a certain little girl,” Hunter says, referring to Madison.

“That was entirely different. First, she wasn’t jailbait, and second, she has a lot more sense than to come to a place like this.”

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