“On a Friday night?” I ask.
“Family’s still in town,” he says.
“And if they weren’t, where would you be tonight?” I ask.
“I feel like you’re looking for an exciting answer, but I don’t have one for you.” Kerouac sighs. “I just moved to a new place. Don’t really know anyone yet. I’d probably be drinking a glass of Macallan 18, enjoying the fuck out of a Cuban cigar, and reading James Joyce.”
“Sounds magical.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not.” I sit up, chin resting on my hand. I could listen to him talk forever, his voice worldly, experienced, confident. It’s deep but not too deep, relaxed yet cadenced. “It’s exactly the kind of answer I hoped you were going to give.”
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks.
“I’m at a party.”
“Having fun?”
“Not really. It’s a bunch of work people and people they know. Not sure why I thought it sounded like a good idea. Really not in the mood to be social.” I take another sip of my drink. It’s almost gone. There’s not an ice cube’s chance in hell I can get Gage to hook me up with another. “Kind of want to leave.”
Maybe in another version of our lives, he’d ask me to meet him somewhere. We’d walk around at night, under the cover of a moonless sky, discussing literature and basking in our insane chemistry. He’d kiss me. Then he’d take me home. Fuck my brains out—but not break my heart—and in the morning, I’d make him pancakes before going for round two.
In a perfect world, I suppose …
“Why don’t you want to be there?” he asks.
Dragging in a lungful of heavy, night air, I contemplate my response. “I don’t even have an answer for you. Didn’t feel like hanging out at home tonight but now that I’m here, it’s kind of lame.”
“Do you need a ride?” he asks.
My heart gallops. I was thinking of calling Emily a second ago.
“Why? You offering?” My response sounds more eager than I intended.
“I’m offering to call you a Lyft.” He chuckles. “I feel the need to remind you that we’re never going to meet. I have this idea of you, and it’s perfection. I want to keep it that way. Now get back to your party, Absinthe. Make some bad decisions for me. Try to have some fun. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Such a fucking tease,” I say with a smirk before hanging up.
Chapter 15
Ford
The Saturday morning news fills the silence of an empty, Arlo-less house as I unpack the last of my boxes. It’s kind of lonely without that little guy, but I’m glad to be done with Bree invading my space—literally and figuratively. Each day, her clothes would get progressively skimpier, her smile would get progressively sultrier, and her pathetic attempts at flirting would get progressively bolder.
Not to mention Arlo couldn’t stand her. He said she was on her phone the entire time and when she wasn’t, she was grilling him about me.
So much for the superintendent’s daughter being a safe choice.
Never. Again.
I’m mid-reach for my coffee when the Karma app on my phone begins to vibrate, telling me I have a call.
“Good morning, Absinthe,” I answer. “I was just thinking of you.”
“Liar.” God, I love her voice. Picturing this voice coming from those sultry lips in her photograph makes me hard as a rock.
“How was the rest of the party?”
“Fun,” she says. “I made some bad decisions, just like you told me to.”
“And what did you do?”
“I fucked a guy in the bathroom,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “He was big, and he fucked me so hard, Kerouac. I thought he was going to split me in two. And when we were finished, he ate my pussy until I came three times.”
“Bullshit.”
She laughs. “I know. You believed me for a second though.”
“I did.” So much so that it was beginning to make me envious of the faceless, big-cocked stranger who got to devour my Absinthe.
“I like your voice,” she says after a silent lull. “It’s sexy. You should read to me sometime.”
“That’s a strange request.”
“Just do it. Grab the nearest book and read to me,” she pleads. “Come on. My hand is down my pants right now, fingering my pussy. I want to cum to the sound of your voice, Kerouac. Please?”
My throat is tight, my cock straining against the fabric of my sweats. Grabbing a book from the coffee table beside me, I flip to an open page and begin to read, taking my time, keeping my voice steady and rhythmic. “And I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass, I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue, cut with a burnt stick at night. I know I am August …”
Absinthe exhales a sweet, soft moan, her breath quickening with each word I utter.
“Keep going,” she whispers, and so I do.
I turn to the next page, and I read another line, and another. Her breath grows forced and impatient and then quiet altogether.
“Walt Whitman.” Her breathy rasp mixed with her intelligence is like sexual napalm. “Very nice.”
For the first time in weeks, I find myself wanting to touch her—physically touch her. And knowing it’s an impossibility makes me want her even more.
The ache in my cock is a distraction that refuses to go away, and while I’d love nothing more than to lie around on this lazy Saturday, waxing poetic with Absinthe and getting lost in the sound of her sweet, sexy voice, I’ve got a little problem to take care of.
“I should shower. Work and all,” she says. The image of her in the shower does nothing to help my current situation. “Thanks for … that.”
Absinthe ends the call, and I close my eyes, slipping my hands down my shorts and jerking the length of my throbbing cock while a fantasy plays out in my head. In my mind’s eye, I’m punishing her for teasing me about fucking another guy at the party. And I’m showing her how good I can make her feel, how she’ll never need another man but me so long as she lives. I gift her with demanding kisses, animalistic thrusts, her ass cheeks red and warm from the slap of my palms.
And in my reverie, she gazes at me, her green eyes full, and she declares that it’s only me.
I’m the only thing she wants.
The only thing she’ll ever need.
Chapter 16
Halston
I count the weekends.
There are five.
Five more Saturdays, five more Sundays, then I’ll be done with Big Boulders. I’ll have saved around three grand, purchased my car, and burned my uniform.
My back and feet are throwing themselves a pity party, but at least I have tomorrow off. Mondays and Tuesdays are officially my off days now, though I’m not opposed to picking up a few shifts here and there. So far, no one’s asked. I think they know I hate working there, but no one’s actually come out and asked me yet.
That said, I think I do a pretty decent job at hiding my true feelings. I’ve learned to smile on command, walk with enough bounce in my step that my breasts bounce, and I’ve yet to screw up anyone’s order, which apparently puts me in the running for this month’s top server bonus.
Not to mention gratuities are getting better by the hour.
Who knew I was such a hustler?
Tugging my pajama drawer open, I reach for my vinyl makeup bag to add today’s tip money to my growing collection. Last week I asked Vic about my birth certificate so I could open a bank account, but he said he knew nothing about its whereabouts, that I’d have to request another copy from the state, so I submitted my request online and received an email stating it could take three to twelve weeks unless I paid two hundred bucks for a rushed copy.
But tonight the cherry red pouch feels lighter than usual …
Yanking the zipper, I’m seconds from throwing up when I see it’s empty.
Bree.
That fucking twat.
Marching toward my door, I pull it open so hard it slams against the wall. Storming down the hall, I burst into Bree’s room. She’s lying on her stomach on her bed, earbuds in her ear as she does homework, her feet bopping to the music.