“Yes, Mickey,” I breathed.
He slammed the door, locked it and shoved me against the cinderblock wall.
Then, in his boxing trunks and shoes, upper body bare and still slicked with sweat, he dropped to his knees in front of me.
“Mickey,” I panted.
His hands taped from the fight he just lost to Jake, he pushed up my pencil skirt.
“Are you okay?” I asked, noting (in what I had to admit was a distracted way) the red welling on his cheek.
He didn’t answer.
He ripped down my panties.
I sucked in a breath.
He tipped his head back, sliding a hand up the side of my high-heeled Jimmy Choo boot.
“Like these boots, baby,” he whispered.
“I…good,” I mumbled.
He slid his hand back down, grasped my ankle, tossed it over his sweat-glistened shoulder and dove right in.
My head hit cinderblock and I buried my hands in his hair.
He ate me, hungry, voracious, no mercy until I came in his mouth (and again I had to admit, this didn’t take long).
Still soaring, he was up, I was up, and he was fucking me against cinderblock.
I came again while he was kissing me, moaning into his mouth, tasting me and Mickey.
He followed me while I was kissing him, groaning into my mouth, tasting only me.
When he was done, he stayed buried inside me, shoved his face in my neck and held me against the wall.
I stroked his hair and his back and stared unseeing at the locker room.
“I love fight night,” I whispered.
Mickey pulled his face out of my neck and looked at me.
Grinning.
*
“Babe.”
“This is not happening.”
“Amy.”
“No,” I snapped, pacing my bedroom and sliding my hand on the display of my phone.
I found what I wanted, tapped it and put the phone to my ear.
“Amy, this is not a good idea,” Mickey growled. “Shit like this, you don’t get involved.”
I glared at him just as Lawrie said in my ear, “Hey, MeeMee.”
“You’re dating someone who isn’t Robin?” I snapped.
He didn’t reply for a loaded moment before he asked, “How did you find out?”
“We have mutual friends, Lawrie, and I’ll add one of them is Robin.”
“She heard about Tara?” he asked, sounding concerned.
“Tara?’ I asked. “Tara?” I demanded peevishly.
“Did Robin hear about it?” he clipped.
“No.” I tossed a hand to the laptop on my nightstand that he couldn’t see. “I just read an email from Melly.”
Perhaps it was my fevered mind but I could swear I heard a sigh of relief before he told me, “Sweetheart, I can’t date your best friend.”
“Why not?” I queried sharply.
“What if it doesn’t work out?”
“Are you worried she’ll turn whackjob on you?” I returned, and before he could answer I went on, “Because if you are, don’t worry. That’s for cheaters. Everyone knows that. And if you could stay with Mariel for as long as you did and not stray, you have nothing to worry about.”
“That’s not it.”
“What is it?”
“You two are very close and if—”
“She makes you laugh.”
“She does, but—”
“She’s beautiful. Stylish. She has her own money.”
“This is true, but—”
“She thinks you’re handsome. She loves spending time with you. You make her laugh.”
“That means a lot, MeeMee, however—”
“However nothing,” I snapped. “We girls, we need it. We need the grand statement. We need to know that nothing else matters, nothing, not one thing but the shot you’re willing to take at you making us yours. You’d risk anything. You’d do anything. Logic and manners and her living right across the street and sisters as best friends don’t factor. Nothing does. Caution is thrown to the wind and you’d go against everything you believe in just for that one chance. That one chance to start building something. So if you do that in the beginning, when life happens, we know you’d do whatever you gotta do to keep us happy.” I paused before I finished, “This, of course, does not include if all this happens while you’re married. But that’s the only exception.”
Lawrie was silent.
“Lawrie,” I hissed. “Did you hear me?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“You are not,” I bit out.
“If I don’t, how can I call Robin?”
I rocked to solid then tore my phone from my ear and hung up on him.
“You need the grand statement?”
My eyes cut to Mickey who was standing on his side of my bed in his pajama bottoms, looking at me.
“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to, Mickey Donovan. You’re the king of the grand statement.”
His face got soft right before he stated, “Buckle up, baby.”
“I know,” I agreed. “Robin is a whackjob, just the good kind, but this isn’t going to go easy because Lawrie has his own baggage too.”
“Not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
He moved from his place by the bed across the room, past me, to his jacket he’d thrown over the arm of the daybed. He shifted it, dug into it, pulled out some tri-folded papers and walked to me.
He then held them out to me.