CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DANIKA
I found myself challenged with the issue of non-dressing up for his visit to my house. Obviously, by the time he showed up after his show, it would be late at night, and I’d look like I was trying too hard if I was still dressed up for work.
I changed my clothes four times in the hours I waited for him.
Also, I typed out three texts to him, canceling our plans, because what were we thinking? This wasn’t even dinner, which was bad enough.
This was straight-up booty call hours.
In the end, no texts were sent.
I was only human, and I wanted to see him.
Why did he have to be so much fun on top of everything else? It was just so unfair. And so addictive.
I put on a pair of gray sweatpants and a slouchy,
off
the
shoulder
gray
sweatshirt. This was outfit number one, my ‘It’s past my bedtime, and I’m not even trying to be sexy for you’ getup. I put my hair up in a messy ponytail, put on makeup that made it look like I wasn’t wearing makeup, and then stared at myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom for a solid five minutes.
I went into my home office and caught up on work for less than ten minutes before I headed back into my closet and changed.
I switched into some white cheer shorts, but left the sweatshirt on. This was outfit number two, my ‘I’m dressing down, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a little bit sexy’ getup.
That one lasted less than five minutes.
I changed into a half shirt that barely covered my breasts (I had to dig deep in my closet to find this one) and rolled the waistband of my white shorts up, making them miniscule. I took my bra off and my hair down. This was outfit number three, my ‘Let’s see how long you can last until we’re f*cking tonight’ getup.
That outfit lasted nearly an hour, and my vibrator got some serious attention just because of where my mind went when I thought of how he’d react to seeing me dressed in it.
I buried that outfit back into my closet after I took it off.
Next I changed into a loose, pale pink, lace edged camisole with a built in bra, and found (after much digging) my favorite old pair of shorts. The ones that read ‘sassy pants’ on the butt. I’d had them forever. Tristan loved them, I knew. This was outfit number four, my
‘Yes, it’s sexy, but at least I didn’t have to masturbate for a half hour after I put it on’ getup. This one ended up being the winner. I left my hair down, and glossed my lips up three times in the five-minute window when I was expecting Tristan, before he actually showed up.
I opened my door to him with trembling hands and a racing heart.
We smiled at each other, him looking too devastating, still dressed in his suit, me in my thoughtful loungewear that I could tell he appreciated at a glance.
He stepped inside without a word, heading straight into my living room, which was directly accessed from my small entry hall.
He shrugged off his jacket, his back to me, and tossed it on the back of one of a set of armchairs. He rolled up his sleeves as he turned back around, then, looking up at me, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt. It was baby blue today.
“How was your show?” I breathlessly asked.
He strode to me, hands going to my hips. It was so unexpected that it made me jump.
He smiled that heart-stopping smile.
“Relax. I’m just saying hi.” With that, he pulled me closer, putting his arms over my shoulders, and kissed the top of my head.
Since my face was already there, I let it rest against his chest, rubbing my cheek against the swollen flesh of his pectoral.
I kept my hands at my sides, attempting some form of restraint, no matter how feeble.
He pulled back, then stepped back, shoving his hands in his pocket. He watched me, keeping his expression neutral.
I wasn’t sure what to do.
“You
hungry?” I asked him.
“If you’re cooking, yes.”
I led him into my kitchen, and started pulling various items out of my fridge. I knew how much he ate, so I’d planned for feeding him, though I’d only prepped, not cooked, just in case.
He made an appreciative noise when he realized what I was planning. He went and preheated my oven without having to be asked.
He’d been the one, after all, that had taught me the recipe.
He helped me stuff several jalape?os and then wrap them in bacon. We didn’t talk much, I don’t know why, but I was just enjoying the company, even in silence.
After I’d put the appetizers in the oven and set the timer, we went into the living room.
He sprawled out on the couch, and I took an armchair.
We smiled at each other.
‘Tell me something’ was a game we’d played back in the day. It had started out as a game we’d played over the phone when we were doing the long distance thing, and evolved into a bullshit test, where we lied half the time, only admitting it was a lie when we thought we had the other convinced. The best get, though, was when you said something legit and got called bullshit on the truth. I’m not even sure why, but we’d both decided that was the win of all wins.
It was the most fun, I
supposed.
We were twisted, but it was so much more fun to be twisted when you had a partner.
“Tell me something,” he said fondly.
I propped my feet up on the coffee table, chewing on my lip. We hadn’t played in so long; I didn’t even know where to begin. I beamed as I thought of a good one. “I’m a huge Josh Groban fan now.”
He barked out a laugh. I’d known he’d get a kick out of that. That kind of music was so not his cup of tea. “You are shitting me. This one is easy. Lie.”
“I’m not joking. Bev got me hooked on him last year. I’m not a rock snob, like you. I like all kinds of music.” He shook his head. “I call bullshit.”
“Is that your final verdict?” I asked cheerfully.
He squinted his eyes at me.
I’d
stumped him now. “Well, hell, now I can’t tell if you’re lying.”
“The man can sing his heart out.
There’s so much power in his voice.
Gives me chills.”
“Fuuuuck. Okay, you stumped me. Let me think, let me think.” He started stretching his shoulders like he was prepping for a challenge.
I giggled.
He pointed at me. “Name one Josh Groban song.”
I pretended to have to think about it.
“Um, hmm. Oh, I know. Remember When it Rained.”
“Well, shit.”
I grinned. “You don’t know any of his songs, I presume.”
“No, of course not. But that song has to be a fake. It’s just the sort of thing that you’d come up with. It sounds made up.
You are lying. That is my final answer.” I clapped my hands. “Wrong!”
“Well, hell. Pick your prize.”
“I’ll pick after your turn, in case I lose, we can cancel each other out.”
He shook his head, both dimples out in full force. “Hell no. I’m picking a prize if you lose, regardless. You know I never mind paying up.”
“Well, I’ll have to think up something extra special for you, then.”
He winked at me. “I’m counting on it.
Okay, hmm, oh yeah, I’ve got one. I bought a painting of you, one of Bianca’s. It’s hanging in my bedroom.” That one did stump me.
“I call
bullshit.” It seemed too easy, because there was simply no way he had one of those paintings.
I’d put the show
together, had handled the sale of each one. There was no way I’d have missed it if he were a buyer.
“You’re wearing a vintage dress. I know it’s called that, because a card with a long description came with the piece. The dress has lots of beading.
It’s silver, the color of your eyes. It covers you up to your neck, but it shows off your shoulders, and if I weren’t a pervert, I wouldn’t have to point out that it shows off a bit of side boob too. The most spectacular side boob in the world, but your eyes in it were what slayed me.
You know which painting I’m talking about.”
I glared at him. There was no way he should even be able to describe that picture, let alone claim to have it in his home. “There’s just no way.”
“Is that your answer?”
I shook my head, back to glaring at him. “I believe you; I just don’t know how you did it.”
“Dammit, you always were better at this. You win that round. It was the truth.”
“How?”
“Second party buyer.
Cost me a
fortune.”
“That’s insane. You weren’t even at the show.”
“He texted me all of the pictures, and I picked it out the second I saw it. I picked out three, actually, but that was the only one he got before it sold to someone else. The a*shole was slow as hell, considering how much I was paying him to do it.”
“You do realize that’s insane, right?”
“Yes. Now ask me if I’d do it again.” His tone had gone from playful to so tender that I couldn’t look him in the eye for a long moment.
I looked down at my hands instead, wringing them restlessly.
I should have chewed him out, just on principle, but I didn’t seem to have it in me.
My heart ached. What was I going to do about him? About this?
“Your turn, boo.”
It took me a while, but I composed myself, reined in my reckless emotions.
“I think I’ll stick to my music theme tonight. Fun fact about me. I have three songs about eating p-ssy in my music library.”
I said it deadpan, and
surprised a throw your head back, let loose kind of laugh out of him.
It was official, I still loved to make him laugh.
“I bet you can’t even name three songs about eating p-ssy. In fact, that’s it: name three.”
“Hmm?” I played dumb.
“Name three songs about eating p-ssy off the top of your head.”
“Birthday Cake.”
“That’s one.”
“It’s a good one. You love it, too.
Admit it.”
“Eating your p-ssy? Absolutely. I f*cking love it.”
That got a giggle and an embarrassed blush out of me.
“Two more, boo.”
“I Love the p-ssy.”
“That’s not a real song.”
“It is. I Love the p-ssy by Alpa Chino.”
“Fake songs from movies don’t count.”
“They do. It’s a song. I know the words. I could sing it to you.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
“I’d have to lose a round for that.”
“Noted. Fine, I’ll give you that one.
One more p-ssy song.”
“p-ssy by Iggy Azalea.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well look it up.
Real song.
Definitely about eating p-ssy. So now we’ve established that I can name the songs. The question you have to ask yourself is. Do I have them on my iPod?”
He pursed his lips, but couldn’t hide his irrepressible grin, his irresistible dimples. “Okay, I believe you. I win this round.”
I tried to look innocent. “I can’t remember, does that mean that you get to pick a prize, too?”
“Ha! You’re full of it. You know the rules. There’s always a loser, which means I owe you two, you owe me one.” I threw my arms up. “Oh fine. How about we cancel out each other for one?
Win, win for both of us.”
“Hell no. We already covered that.
Quit backpedaling, and let’s negotiate.
I’ll go first. Mine is easy. You sing that Alpa Chino song for me. Here and now. Let’s hear it.”
I covered my face with my hands. “I’m not doing that,” I told him.
He was closer when he spoke. “And I get to record it. I want to use it as my ringtone.”
“Oh Lord. That’s messed up.”
I started giggling when he scooped me clean out of my chair, carrying me back to the couch with him. He perched me on his lap sideways, tilting my chin up with his finger, his eyes so warm they left their permanent brand on me.
“I won’t hold back on you, if you make me do this,” I warned him, reaching up to touch a beloved dimple.
“Promises, promises. Start singing, sweetheart. And sing it sexy.” I did sing it for him, but it was the opposite of sexy.
I couldn’t stop
giggling for the entire stupid song.
And he hadn’t been joking, he really did record it, though I doubted he’d be able to hear me singing on the playback, we were both laughing so hard.
“Okay, okay, your turn. Hit me with your best shot.”
“Only one appropriate prize comes to mind. You’re going to owe me a dick pic.”
He hooted with laughter, spilling me out of his lap and onto the couch, and standing up. “You don’t have to ask me twice.” His hands went to his fly.
I slapped his arm. “I’m not finished.
Not just any dick pic. I’m going to text you, it could happen at any time, and no matter when it does happen, you have to run somewhere private, take a dick pic, and send it to me.”
“That’s evil. What if I’m in the middle of a show?” He sat down again, pulling me back onto his lap.
“This will count for both of my wins, both of my prizes, so even if you’re in the middle of a show, you have to do it.
You’ll get a ten-minute window. And your face has to be in the photo. And there has to be something in the picture to timestamp it.”
“You are one diabolical woman, but I suppose I have to do it. You were a good sport about that song.”
His finger was tilting my chin up again, his warm smiling eyes making their mark on me. Again. I wished he would stop doing both. One was distracting, the other riveting.
More weapons in his endless arsenal.
“What am I going to do with you?” I asked him, voice breathless, lungs breathless.
He took the air right out of me. And the fight.
“It boggles the mind,” he said with a smile,
though
his
hoarse
voice
contradicted the playful line.
He ran his nose along my jaw, breathing on me. “We’re friends, right?
This is going well, don’t you think?” The man was demented. “By what criteria are we judging it? If going well means we’ve both lost our ever-loving minds, then yes, I guess it’s going well?! If we’re basing it on us being just friends, we’re failing epically.” He pulled back from me and grinned, just looking tickled by my answer, the stubborn man. “Don’t be so salty.
We’re getting along great, and we’re having so much fun. Tell me you didn’t miss this. I dare you.”
That I couldn’t do, unless I became a much better liar in the next five seconds, and as for the dare, psh, I wasn’t falling for it.