“Joel? Did you, now?” I wait as three dots appear, indicating she’s still typing. “Did he do you behind the store shelves? Did J-Two join the party?”
“Don’t I wish!” I add a crying emoji. “He bought a book for him, though.”
“How thoughtful.” Jumping emoji. “Something like, How to Do your Sexy Roommate?”
“Actually… bananas.”
“He went bananas?”
“He bought a book about bananas.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I’m serious!”
“There’s something between them, I can feel it.”
“A banana.”
“Shut up, Candy.” Emoji sticking out its tongue and dancing. A banana emoji, no less, with legs and everything.
I crack up. “Go away. I need to appreciate the new pic in peace.”
Appreciate it a bit more. Maybe it’s time to break out my favorite dildo.
“Girl, what you need is a piece of them.”
“You have a specific piece in mind?”
She vanishes from online for a bit, and I lean closer, taking in Joel’s grin, the twinkle in his eyes, his messy hair. The taut abs, the shorts hanging way too low on his narrow hips. Jethro’s body is a shadow beside his, his biceps impressive enough to show through the blurriness.
The fantasy returns, the fantasy that torments me and delights me and accompanies me to bed every night. A dirty, dirty fantasy of Joel pushing into me as I lean back on the bed, while Jethro—always blurry, always mysterious and half-formed—claims his mouth in a filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth and a sexy growl that I feel in my bones, in my pussy, everywhere.
Then he moves behind Joel, runs his big hands over Joel’s taut ass, and he—
“You still there?” comes a message from Connie, and I blink, the image shattered beyond repair. “Tell me everything.”
“Everything?” I type back, baffled.
“About meeting Joel Kingsley, stoopid. What did he say, how did he smell, how did he speak? What did he say? Help me improve my sexual fantasies. Help a friend out.”
What can I say? In her shoes, I would have asked exactly the same.
Besides, I recall clearly the intense blue of Joel’s eyes, the faint scent of boy musk wafting from him as he took the book from my hand. This is no hardship at all…
“Hey,” she types after I tell her everything, “you going to the Indie concert tomorrow?”
Oh holy crap, not her, too. “No.”
“That’s a shame. I heard through the grapevine that J-Two will be there.”
“Yeah right.” Ha. “You’re worse than Bry. I bet you’re making this up to see if I swallow it. Shame on you.”
“Listen, biatch. My brother lives near Madison, you know that, right? So he’s best buddies with Mason Archer, owner of Archer’s Own, one of the sponsors of the concert. He will have a couple of stalls selling drinks there.”
“And?”
“And. He just hired a certain Jethro Connors to man one of them. I found out by chance.”
“You’re not serious.” Because, Holy Athlete Buns! “Are you serious?”
“I’m serious as a heart attack, woman. If I could go to this concert, trust me, I would, and I wouldn’t be taking you with. I’d have him all to myself to lick and wow with my mad tongue skillz.”
I can’t even. I’m snorting coffee through my nose. But through it all, one thought shines like a nuclear blast.
Holy shit, I could meet Jethro Connors!
Chapter Two
Joel
Jet comes at me with his fists raised, and I jump out of reach of his right hook. I know his style. And he knows mine. Years of doing this—dancing around each other, exchanging punches and kicks and insults, afterward showering and getting dressed in the gym lockers before heading out for a drink.
He kicks out. I knock his foot aside and grapple him. He grunts, his taped hands still curled into fists, thumping on my back. I twist us and throw him down on his back, locking my knees on either side of him to keep him down. He bucks against me, trying to get a hit in, but I pin his hands against the mat.
“Give up,” I tell him, wheezing. “You’re done here.”
“Get off me.”
“Not until you say you give up. I win. You owe me a drink.”
“You arrogant bastard,” he writhes like an eel, almost throwing me off, his face red with exertion, “just get off—”
“Say it.”
His gaze darkens, and he turns his face away. “Fuck you. You win.” Not for the first time I notice that he has ridiculously long lashes for a guy. Long and thick and dark.
“Good.” I blink, the heat pooling in my chest flowing lower, and I fling myself off him with a silent curse. “Race you to the showers.”
“Go ahead, J. Show off.”
Flipping him the bird, I stalk to the showers, shaking my head at myself. It’s just the thrill of winning over Jet, not an easy victory on any given day. And the exercise, all this rolling together and—
I turn on the cold water and hiss as it hits me, finally driving all these strange thoughts from my head.
“Jet!” I close the apartment door behind me and peek into the kitchen. Where the hell is that motherfucker? “Jethry-boy.”
“You called?”
A door inside the apartment bangs open, and a cloud of steam billows out of the bathroom. Haloed in that steam is my roommate and best buddy, Jethro the-Pain-in-the-Ass-crack Connors. Clad in a tiny black towel, he saunters past me and into his bedroom, giving me a very clear view of his muscular back and ass.
And why am I staring at Jethro’s ass?
Motherfucker.
“Where were you? I waited for you for ages.” I stomp after him and focus my gaze on his drawings decorating the wall instead. “Hey, assface.”
“Me? You were with a chick, in a fucking bookstore. And you were supposed to meet Ellen. Which I don’t really get. I thought the only thing you two shared was a scandal.”
Yeah, and he doesn’t know the details, thank fuck.
He doesn’t need to know how fucking scared I am that photo might be splashed all over the internet one day after all. If my parents ever found out…
He sniffs. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to get under Ellen’s skirt again? I thought you were over her.”
“We’re just friends.”
He nods. “You’ve never really cared about her, except for wanting to tap that sweet ass. However, you’ve been going on and on about that girl you saw on State Street a couple of times. Did you manage to find her? Is that where you were today?”
“Fuck you and your shrink degree, Tully.” I navigate between his bed and a chair piled up with clothes to stand in front of him.
“Uh oh, someone’s in a bad mood.” He picks up a T-shirt from the chair and sniffs it. Throws it into a corner. “Girl didn’t run after you, did she? Didn’t scrawl her phone number on your hand, as per usual?”
“No, fuckwit. That’s not it.”
Fuck, he’s totally right. I’m pissed because I finally found the girl who caught my eye, found out she works in this bookstore and nope, she didn’t run after me, or scrawl her number on my hand.