Page 70 of The Tryst

“I will,” I say, then I hook a finger around the seam.

I’m so ready to please her. So ready to eat her, taste her, make her come ridiculously hard. But as I stroke her slickness, my phone buzzes.

Loud and insistent.

With my son’s ringtone.

22

OLD STANDARDS

Nick

I’m definitely not winning any parent of the year awards. Good dads don’t scramble to lift their son’s friend off the counter, then wash their hands while talking to their kid.

“What’s going on, kiddo?” Do I sound too chipper or what?

Layla doesn’t even look my way as she flies through the living room, toward the bathroom, presumably. Meanwhile, David says, “I got the sublet! I’m moving out.”

My first thought is embarrassing so I squash it. I won’t go there. I will not think that his absence will make it easier for my sex life.

You don’t have a sex life, man.

“That’s great. I’ll miss you, but I get that you want your own place,” I say, meaning it. I swear I mean it. I’m happy for my boy.

“I can move in tomorrow, but I don’t think I can get everything done tonight and still meet you guys. Can you ask Layla to swing by Kip’s home to get the golf clubs?”

Kip. Fucking Kip. Why does it always come back to the guy whogetsto date her?

“Sure. Does she know where he lives? Wait. Just text it to her,” I say, since I shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t care, shouldn’t be involved in Layla’s dating life.

What I should do is send her on her merry way and ask my son how I can help with his passion.

“I sent it to her,” David says. “He’s on Central Park West. Not too far from her place, so it should be easy. Maybe she can grab it and bring it over tomorrow?”

“Sure. We’ll sort it out. And listen, I’m done with all those calls to guests. We’ve got lots of people coming. Why don’t you let me know what else I can do while Layla’s getting the golf stuff? What do you want me to pick up? I’m at your service,” I say, like that exonerates me.

Like my willingness to play gopher will cover up my sins.

My lies.

My ferocious appetite for his friend.

I drop my head, shaking it in disgust.

David clucks his tongue. “Actually, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. But maybe just see if Layla wants help?” Then he lowers his voice, perhaps in case she’s nearby. “She might not want to drag golf clubs around the city. She doesn’t love to be alone at night.”

Alarm bells sound. “I’ll go with her.”

We say goodbye just as Layla emerges from the bathroom. She’s put together again, her skirt straightened perfectly, her hair smoothed neatly. Her lipstick reapplied.

The evidence of our brief tryst is mostly gone, but now she looks too poised, like she’s trying to cover us up.

Another reminder I can’t keep pursuing her. I can’t make her lie through her presto-chango routine.

I have to focus on the task—helping my son’s friend. I clear my throat. “David wants me to go with you to get the golf clubs. I can order a car service to make it easier to grab them. Then I can drop you off and bring them back here.”

There. That was businesslike. Not rip-her-clothes-off-like.

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