“Ohhhh… Do tell! Give me all the juicy details, and I do mean juicy,” Valerie says, pushing Mer over and sitting down with us.
“There are no details! I keep telling Mer! I haven’t measured it! I have no idea.”
It’s a bold faced lie. I mean, I haven’t measured his dick. I did read the tabloids though and the general consensus from all the women in his harem is that Grayson Lucas, golf’s new young stud, is packing a very thick nine iron between his legs. I think they might be doing him a disservice. After experiencing him inside of me, I’d say he’s closer to ten--not that I’ve had that many, and certainly none to compare his size with.
“You flucking hooker! You’re holding back from us,” Mer says. Jesus! I hate that she knows me so well.
“Shit. If I tell you, will this conversation please drop?”
“Totally,” Mer says. “Absolutely,” Valerie joins in, and for some strange reason, I don’t trust either of them.
“I mean it, and Val, if this gets out, I will tell Elmer at Pro-Hardware you have a thing for him,” I warn her. Elmer is a fifty-year-old, never-been-married-before bachelor who goes cruising parking lots looking for women. Not just any women, however. No, Elmer wants women that are at least twenty years younger than him. Never mind that he’s got a beer belly, thinning hair that he combs over, and none of his own teeth. No, the real problem is that the man is as stingy as they come. He probably has more money in his checking account than even Grayson. But the reason it’s there is because he is a skin-flint. According to a very good source (Valerie), the man has only used one pack of light bulbs in two years. The reason for that is, he gets out one light bulb and uses it in whatever room he’s in. When he leaves that room, he unscrews it from the lamp and moves it into the next room with him. Rumor has it—again from Valerie—he also takes the time to separate every roll of two-ply toilet paper so he gets twice the use out of it.
“That’s just mean, C.”
“Promise.”
“Fine, I promise. I don’t see what the problem is. If I had a man with a big dick, I’d be shouting that shit near and far. Hell, I’d be so loud in the bedroom that the whole county would know it anyway,” Valerie says, and I flip her off.
“Spill,” they say together, and I take a breath. Did I mention this oversharing and girl-time isn’t easy for me? Yet another reason why other than Mer and, obviously sometimes by default, Valerie, I don’t have girlfriends. You wouldn’t catch Jackson asking me about the size of Gray’s dick.
“I honestly haven’t measured it. Though the tabloids say he is nine inches.”
“Sweet mother of… Wait. Hold the flucking presses and call Maury to find the baby daddy. Did you say tabloids?”
“Yeah.”
“C, you said he had money, but you didn’t say he was famous. Just who the hell are you dating?”
“Damn it! If you’re dating my man, I’m going to hate you for life!”
“Trust me when I tell you, Valerie, that I’m not dating the lead singer from that band.”
“His name is Adam and he’s mine. His wife is the only thing in my way, but that won’t last much longer. She doesn’t understand him like I do.”
My eyes go over to Mer, who’s pointing a finger at her head and spinning it in a circle to indicate that her sister’s whack-a-do. That’s a sentiment I wholeheartedly agree with.
“It’s Grayson Lucas,” I tell them, and they look at each other in question. It’s good to know I’m not the only one who doesn’t follow golf. “He plays golf,” I add.
Valerie is the first one to look him up on her phone. “Oh. My. God,” she whispers to her screen.
“Sweet Jesus,” Mer adds, yanking her phone over to look at it.
“Does he have a brother?” they both say together and I laugh—a real laugh, because just like that, I’m good. I feel really good. They aren’t saying Gray is out of my league. They aren’t telling me I’m crazy for seeing him. Just the opposite, and so I laugh and then proceed to tell them about his colorful (pun intended) family.
This might just work out after all.
“What do you mean we’re taking the boat out?” I grumble, trying to keep my game face on, but really just wanting to get the hell out of here. I feel like I’m in level three of hell. Three levels, because there are three major things fucking with my plans for the day. One, I’m on Riverton’s sea cruiser, which is most definitely not a sailboat. Secondly, Cammie has been flirting and pawing at me for the last hour, and finally, Riverton is M.I.A. “Your father’s not even here yet.”
“I told you, daddy said he may be held up at the office and for us not to wait for him,” Cammie says almost giddily. Hell, I’m a man, and I’m the first to admit men are usually clueless, but even I can see the calculating in her eyes.
“Honestly, Cammie, I have plans for this evening. We can just reschedule this and do it some other time.”