“Look, I’m not going to say anything other than I wish you’d give it some thought, Sam. Please don’t wait too long,” she pleads.
“I promise I’m not. I have time.”
Lauren offers me a weak smile. “Now Berkeley, tell us all about the guy in the band you practically dry humped on stage. I was worried you’d end up hooking up with him tonight.”
I mentally thank her for the segue as everyone’s focus shifts to Berkeley. Mine has shifted from Trevor to my looming health issue and then I force it quickly back to the image of the produce dude. I’ll be praying to the dating gods he calls me real soon. Because I sure would like to taste a little sample of him. Okay, maybe a big sample.
My phone goes off on Saturday morning like there’s a nuclear crisis with texts from Karen. Love me then hate me is the theme. Warning bells from the sheer number of texts send me from Whole Foods straight for Home Depot wondering if she’s stolen a key to my house.
When I make it back, I find my father sitting in my living room watching the U.S. Open, forever the golf fan. I’d forgotten I’d given him a key. Clearly, I was worried about the wrong person having one.
“Dad?”
He mutes the TV. “Surprised you’re up early. I knocked. You didn’t answer. I figured you might be sleeping somewhere else.”
Stories I’ve heard about Dad from my grandmother suggest he was a lady killer, so the annoyance in his tone has to be because of something else he sees I’ve done wrong. Then again, he always seems annoyed with me.
“Actually, I made a run to Home Depot.” I show him the bag.
“What could you possibly need at this time?”
I hate getting up early in the morning and only do it because Dad expects it. On the weekends, I try my best to sleep in. But lately, sleep eludes me.
“You don’t want to know.” I wave a hand to dismiss this line of conversation.
“Does it have something to do with that girl showing up at the house this morning and your mom kicking me out?”
I groan. “Karen?” I wish like hell I’d never introduced her to my parents.
“Yes,” he says, holding up his coffee mug in my direction.
My tools are in the garage and that’s where I go. I get what I need and make for the door to work on changing the lock.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve had to give you advice about women since you were in high school,” he says upon my return.
“You don’t have to start now,” I mutter, struggling to open the child-proof package everything is sealed in these days.
What Dad thinks won’t change how I act. He already rules my career, and the fact that he holds it by my balls doesn’t sit well with me. I won’t give him power over my dick too. Part of me wants to go back to New York, but even I know that’s fruitless. I’m not a big city guy.
“I think it’s warranted considering I got kicked out of my own house on a Saturday morning because your mom feels sorry for this girl.”
My glare does nothing to stop him from giving me a piece of his mind.
“Don’t bring home just a piece of ass to meet your mother.” I open my mouth, but his words fill the space before I can. “You’re a grown man. I can’t punish you like I did when you were a kid. But fair is fair. Every woman you bring home, your mother sees as a possible wife. Keep that in mind because I’m the one who has to deal with the fallout. She’s going to give me hell as it is. And I know what’s she’s going to suggest. Monday night we have a business dinner with potential clients. Your attendance is required. Your mom is going to come as our clients need to know we have the same values. You need to bring a date to keep the balance. And I’m sure your mother would love for you to bring Karen.”
I don’t bother answering. I finish changing the lock and head to my bedroom where I toss clean clothes in a bag. With gym clothes on, I head back to the living room. I hand my father one of the keys that came in the set continuing to ignore his suggestion about Karen.
“Lock the door when you leave.”
At the gym, I punch the heavy bag until my knuckles are bruised and sore despite being taped up. With the aggression I feel, I could kill a man. So I use my time to burn that off. The shower runs hot and when I step out of the locker room, one of my former drunken moments stands there with hands across tits that look great under her shirt. Too bad they feel as fake as they are.
“Ben,” she announces my name as if it were a curse.
“Britney,” I drawl.
Seeing her makes my dick shrivel. She likes it rough in the sack. And when I say rough, I mean clawing and fighting like wrestling a dude. I should have picked up on the signs. Guys snickered when I agreed to take her out. She’d bragged she could outdrink me and all my frat buddies. I’d taken the bait and lost.
“Don’t ‘Britney’ me. You don’t call, text, or fucking acknowledge my presence.”