Page 37 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
He moans, and then snarls. “Now, Imogen. Right now. I’m coming.”
I hear him groan, a long sustained animal snarl, and I wrap my own breathy scream of release around his growls, and then there’s silence between us.
“Jesse?” I say. “Where—if you’re in your truck, where’d you…you know, put your…cum?”
He laughs, still out of breath. “Empty bottle.”
I laugh, somewhat hysterically. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“Yeah, me neither,” he says, chuckling nervously. “It’s a first for me.”
“Me too.” I hesitate. “Is this whole thing a little crazy?”
“Yeah, maybe a little. Or a lot.” I hear a knock on his window. “But I’m okay with crazy.” Another knock. “Look, that’s my buddies giving me shit for vanishing. If they see this bottle and what’s in it…”
I laugh. “Go. But…call me later, okay?”
“You bet your ass I will.”
He hangs up, and I promptly scream into my pillow in equal parts excitement, thrill, embarrassment, and euphoria.
And then several days go by, and I don’t hear from him.
Chapter 8
I refuse to call him or text him first, just to retain at least a sliver of my dignity.
Then I start my new job—and I love every second of it. It’s amazing. Challenging and intense and difficult and rewarding, and it pays really well, considering what I’m used to. I’m so busy that first week that I barely have time to turn around.
After my shift that first Friday, I go out with Audra. She immediately notices that I’m off, somehow, and demands an explanation, but I adamantly refuse to admit there’s anything weird going on with me. Audra being Audra—meaning a bloodhound for gossip—doesn’t believe a word of it.
Audra Donovan has been my best friend for twenty-five years. We met in a YMCA pool the summer we both turned fifteen, and have been inseparable since. We have a weird relationship, though—we don’t see each other every day, and we don’t even talk or text every day. We get together a few times a month, and get tipsy together, and catch up on what’s happened since we last saw one another. We’re both super busy, and Audra has a crazy social life on top of a demanding job, and it’s just the way we do things.
She’s five feet six (“and a half,” she insists on emphasizing, to this day), keeps her naturally platinum blonde hair in a pixie cut, and has a body a twenty-five-year-old would be jealous of—breasts most people wrongly assume are fake, an ass that doesn’t quit, and taut, toned, firm everything. But then, she’s a personal trainer at a national gym chain—she’s the top trainer for the region, so she travels from gym to gym, training clients and supervising the other trainers and working out like a fiend. It’s kind of an addiction for her, I think. But it clearly works, on a physical level, because at forty, she’s in better shape than most women—and men—half her age.
We’re at our usual place—the Mexican restaurant I went to by myself the other day; we’ve been coming here for burritos and margs for at least ten years, if not longer. We split a pitcher of margaritas and each of us orders the house special—an enormous burrito stuffed with beef and rice and cheese, smothered in sauce and sour cream and drowning in a sea of refried beans. After we eat, we drink more margaritas, and finally, after two hours of wheedling, Audra manages to get me to admit that there just may be something going on.
But that’s all she’s getting.
I’m not talking about Jesse.
Nope, nope, nope.
“Dammit all to hell, Imogen Catherine Irving!” Audra screeches, leaning over the table and gripping my forearm with clawed fingers. “Tell me what the hell is going on with you! You never keep secrets from me!”
I shake my head, sipping water. “Audra, please, just give it a rest. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
She sits back, sighing. “You’re no fun. You clearly have juicy gossip, but you’re not sharing.”
“It’s not gossip, it’s my life.” I meet her sky-blue gaze, trying to communicate assurance. “I’ll tell you everything, I swear. I just need a bit more time, that’s all.”
“It’s a man,” she mutters. “I know it’s something to do with a man. That’s the only thing you’d ever keep from me.”
If I say another word, she’ll have it all out of me. She’ll guess, correctly, and because I can’t ever lie to her, I’ll corroborate her guesses. And I’m really not ready to hear what Audra would have to say to me. Because I already know—she’d ask why I haven’t slept with him yet, and then ask if I’ve even seen his dick.
Yeah, she’s a little crazy, but I love her.
She narrows her eyes at me, and I can feel the guesses coming. “You’re all hung up on a guy, aren’t you? He’s got you flustered and confused, and you’re too stubborn to do anything about it, because of feelings.” She somehow manages to turn that last word into a swear word and a caustic mockery at the same time.
