Page 74 of Gin and Lava

Naomi:I do remember, but I fear that may be the only button up shirt you own.

Mason:About 95% of all Hawaiian shirts are button ups.

Naomi:A DRESS SHIRT with buttons.

Mason:Miraculously, I do own a few of those.

Mason:For the record, they’re ugly as sin: white, black, no phalluses, no beautiful flowers.

Naomi:Wear one of the boring ones and I’ll give you a massage later.

Mason:A cock-out massage?

Naomi:Technically, all massages are done naked.

Mason:You drive a hard bargain, Tate.

Naomi:I’ll see you at the restaurant at 7. I texted you the address.

Mason:I can’t guarantee my tie will be PG.

Naomi:I said we were bending the rules. You can still be yourself, just bring the classyversion. I don’t want you to insult the dress.

Mason:Dresses have feelings?

Naomi:*eye roll emoji*

Mason:Meet you at 7.

A loud whistle makes me spin on my heels, and I’m brought back to the present where I’m standing in front of the restaurant wearing that knock-out Andromeda dress. I already know the whistle is Mason. He’s the only one with the balls to cat-call me in front of a fancy restaurant like he’s a construction worker in a ditch.

I turn, coming face-to-face with a cleaned-up version of Mason Haas: hair combed, non-Hawaiian clothes, looking sleek and sophisticated. Either Mason has a sexy, suave, evil twin, or he can actually brush up his act if he wanted—which normally he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” I say, tossing him a sly smile, “but who is this dashing gentleman whistling at me and looking”—I lean in and pull him close with his tie—“downright fuckable.”

“You call me a dashing gentleman again,” Mason warns, “and I’m going to take you into the back ally and wash your mouth out with my cock.”

I laugh and step back. “You were bound to ruin the illusion with your potty mouth, weren’t you?”

He shrugs as I take in his full look:

Black dress shirt (no penises)

Black slacks (phallic-pattern free)

Black dress shoes (who knew he owned any?)

A simple grey tie (which is also missing anything indecent)

“Nothing naughty?” I ask, suspicious. “Are you Mason’s evil twin?”

“Why do you assume the Hawaiian-shirt version of me isn’t the evil one?”

“Because this one seems less trustworthy,” I throw back, snagging that tie again and stroking the fabric. “Seriously, no cocks hiding somewhere? Not even clever ones that are chickens?”

“There’s the giant cock in my underwear,” Mason tosses at me with a cheeky smile. “Plus, I’m not entirely innocent.” He flips his tie over and the back of his tie-pin sports a pewter design of two people going at it.

“Awwww,” I coo. “How sweet.”

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