Wicked Sexy Liar
Page 45
“Work?”
“Yeah.”
He bends to lift his board. “My sister is seriously going to lose her shit when she finds out I went in the ocean.”
“I had fun.” I drag my board up the beach and begin to towel off. “You did so much better than I expected.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment,” he says, and pulls his T-shirt on. I almost whimper as all those muscles disappear beneath the cotton.
“Sorry, I just meant most first-timers aren’t great.”
He smirks, letting this opportunity roll. “I’ll text you and we can figure out Six Flags.”
My shoulders slump and I groan. “There has to be a loophole in there somewhere.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “I’m going to be a lawyer; you think I’d have made that deal if there was some way out? No way. But we can go this summer. Let you work up your nerve a little.”
I watch as he bends and straightens his flip-flops to step into them. He’s so sweet.
He’s so genuinely good.
“Are you even going to still be here this summer?” I ask. And with that realization, my heart pistons into my throat.
“Oh, right.” He shrugs, giving me his sweet, eye-crinkling smile. “I guess we’ll see.”
Chapter TWELVE
Luke
IT’S SAFE TO say the best way to start off a weekend is not by getting your dick swabbed. Any other way is better, trust me.
“These tests are very accurate,” the nurse assures me, oblivious to my panic as she glances at my chart. “We’ll take some blood, and do a quick sample so we can screen for syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia, genital herpes, and HIV.”
“Sounds good,” I croak. The dreaded swab remains wrapped in the sterile packaging on the tray near her elbow.
“Do you have any pain when you urinate?” she asks me.
“No.” I shift, trying to keep the man bits covered in the paper bathrobe they gave me; it barely reaches my thighs. I casually rest my hands over where my junk is totally visible, although I don’t know why I’m bothering; I’ve done this once before and know that this nurse and I will be rather intimately, if clinically, acquainted before we’re done here.
“No burning, no discharge?”
Instinctively, I cup my groin protectively. “No.”
“Well¸ that’s good.” She smiles at me as she stands, and moves to wash her hands. “I’ll do a brief visual exam and then we’ll collect some blood, okay?”
“No swab?” I ask.
She winces apologetically as she turns and dries her hands, opening the trash bin with a foot lever. “I’m very good; it will be quick.”
The nurse turns, snaps on a pair of gloves, and walks toward me. That snap rings through the room and I hear every one of her footfalls.
In the end—no pun intended—it is quick, although I could go an entire lifetime without having a dry cotton swab stuck up my dick or the awkwardness of having a nurse my mother’s age turn over and inspect every facet of my junk. But after giving a small vial of blood for testing, I’m off.
I feel lighter as I walk out of the clinic, checking one thing off my turning-over-a-new-leaf checklist. I’m not particularly worried. Even with Mia, I wore condoms.
It’s just the vague nausea that accompanies the possibility of STDs. I haven’t always been having sober sex, and many times the not-sober sex was also relatively acrobatic. What are the chances a condom broke and I have no idea? What are the chances I got head—never with condoms, I’m an idiot, I know—from a girl with herpes?
I grip the steering wheel tightly in one hand as I leave the clinic and turn up the music with the other, trying to drown out the spiral of panicky thoughts. I have an entire, unscheduled day ahead of me. Only a month ago this would have been my ideal situation, and easily solved: head to Andrew’s or Daniel’s for beers on the patio, some polo scrimmaging in the pool in the afternoon, and the bar later.
But nothing on that list sounds right today. Daniel is, in fact, a complete douche. He has a newborn son with a waitress he banged for a few weeks, and now has to work his ass off to cover child support, yet still manages to spend most of his free evenings at a bar, trolling for sex. Andrew is only marginally better, but he still tends to cycle through girlfriends every few weeks. Cody is enjoying a suddenly-single sex rampage, so I’m assuming he’s given up on reuniting with Jess. Only Dylan is a genuinely good guy, nice to women, deserves someone great . . . I just hope he’s not into London.
London. Fuck.
As soon as I think of her, my brain careens full bore into the idea of seeing her today. Surfing last weekend was more fun than I’ve had in recent memory, and after a week of insane hours at work, and not seeing her at all at Fred’s, I’m like a dog on a scent—unable to get past the thought of spending the day doing all of the best nothings with her.
I hit the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel. “Call London,” I say, and take a deep, calming breath while it dials.
* * *
“WANT SOMETHING TO drink?” I call out over my shoulder as she takes off her shoes and drops her bag near the door. “I’ve got beer, water . . . juice boxes . . .”
London comes up behind me in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder into the fridge. “You have juice boxes?”
I shrug, trying to lean back without her noticing so I can get closer. She smells like the beach, and coconut oil. I let myself enjoy the five-second fantasy of us sitting on the beach, London sitting between my legs while I rub oil all over her back. Then she relaxes into me and I rub oil all over her ti—
“Luke? Juice boxes?”
I blink, looking back down into the fridge, focusing on the cold air against my front. “I took Grams grocery shopping last night and she always insists on stocking my fridge, too.”
“And she got you juice boxes?” she says, voice softer now. “That’s extremely adorable. I want to meet this woman.”
“She’ll be at our wedding.”
London laughs, stepping away. “Right.”
Closing the fridge, I tell her, “She also got me Ritz crackers and string cheese.”
“Does she think you run a day care?”
I laugh. “She likes me to have my snacks,” I tell her. When she backs up to let me grab some crackers from the pantry, I catch another whiff of her. “Did you go surfing this morning?”
“Yeah. Just went to Black’s for a couple hours.”
Black’s Beach is probably the best surfing in San Diego County. I know this not because I’ve spent any time swimming there, but because it was one of Dad’s favorite spots back in the day—and I try not to think too much about it also being a nude beach back in the day, too.
“It was pretty busy,” she adds. “Entitled surfer dudes everywhere.”
My body reacts to her as if she’s a girlfriend, and I need to tell my brain to cut that shit out. Grabbing two juice boxes from the fridge and the sleeve of Ritz crackers, I point to the living room. “I believe we have a date with some Titans.”
London follows me into the living room. “You sound pretty confident.”
“I’ve been practicing since the night you spanked me.”
“Probably a good idea,” she says, and bends to grab a controller off the coffee table. “You sucked pretty hard.”
“Yeah.”
He bends to lift his board. “My sister is seriously going to lose her shit when she finds out I went in the ocean.”
“I had fun.” I drag my board up the beach and begin to towel off. “You did so much better than I expected.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment,” he says, and pulls his T-shirt on. I almost whimper as all those muscles disappear beneath the cotton.
“Sorry, I just meant most first-timers aren’t great.”
He smirks, letting this opportunity roll. “I’ll text you and we can figure out Six Flags.”
My shoulders slump and I groan. “There has to be a loophole in there somewhere.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “I’m going to be a lawyer; you think I’d have made that deal if there was some way out? No way. But we can go this summer. Let you work up your nerve a little.”
I watch as he bends and straightens his flip-flops to step into them. He’s so sweet.
He’s so genuinely good.
“Are you even going to still be here this summer?” I ask. And with that realization, my heart pistons into my throat.
“Oh, right.” He shrugs, giving me his sweet, eye-crinkling smile. “I guess we’ll see.”
Chapter TWELVE
Luke
IT’S SAFE TO say the best way to start off a weekend is not by getting your dick swabbed. Any other way is better, trust me.
“These tests are very accurate,” the nurse assures me, oblivious to my panic as she glances at my chart. “We’ll take some blood, and do a quick sample so we can screen for syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia, genital herpes, and HIV.”
“Sounds good,” I croak. The dreaded swab remains wrapped in the sterile packaging on the tray near her elbow.
“Do you have any pain when you urinate?” she asks me.
“No.” I shift, trying to keep the man bits covered in the paper bathrobe they gave me; it barely reaches my thighs. I casually rest my hands over where my junk is totally visible, although I don’t know why I’m bothering; I’ve done this once before and know that this nurse and I will be rather intimately, if clinically, acquainted before we’re done here.
“No burning, no discharge?”
Instinctively, I cup my groin protectively. “No.”
“Well¸ that’s good.” She smiles at me as she stands, and moves to wash her hands. “I’ll do a brief visual exam and then we’ll collect some blood, okay?”
“No swab?” I ask.
She winces apologetically as she turns and dries her hands, opening the trash bin with a foot lever. “I’m very good; it will be quick.”
The nurse turns, snaps on a pair of gloves, and walks toward me. That snap rings through the room and I hear every one of her footfalls.
In the end—no pun intended—it is quick, although I could go an entire lifetime without having a dry cotton swab stuck up my dick or the awkwardness of having a nurse my mother’s age turn over and inspect every facet of my junk. But after giving a small vial of blood for testing, I’m off.
I feel lighter as I walk out of the clinic, checking one thing off my turning-over-a-new-leaf checklist. I’m not particularly worried. Even with Mia, I wore condoms.
It’s just the vague nausea that accompanies the possibility of STDs. I haven’t always been having sober sex, and many times the not-sober sex was also relatively acrobatic. What are the chances a condom broke and I have no idea? What are the chances I got head—never with condoms, I’m an idiot, I know—from a girl with herpes?
I grip the steering wheel tightly in one hand as I leave the clinic and turn up the music with the other, trying to drown out the spiral of panicky thoughts. I have an entire, unscheduled day ahead of me. Only a month ago this would have been my ideal situation, and easily solved: head to Andrew’s or Daniel’s for beers on the patio, some polo scrimmaging in the pool in the afternoon, and the bar later.
But nothing on that list sounds right today. Daniel is, in fact, a complete douche. He has a newborn son with a waitress he banged for a few weeks, and now has to work his ass off to cover child support, yet still manages to spend most of his free evenings at a bar, trolling for sex. Andrew is only marginally better, but he still tends to cycle through girlfriends every few weeks. Cody is enjoying a suddenly-single sex rampage, so I’m assuming he’s given up on reuniting with Jess. Only Dylan is a genuinely good guy, nice to women, deserves someone great . . . I just hope he’s not into London.
London. Fuck.
As soon as I think of her, my brain careens full bore into the idea of seeing her today. Surfing last weekend was more fun than I’ve had in recent memory, and after a week of insane hours at work, and not seeing her at all at Fred’s, I’m like a dog on a scent—unable to get past the thought of spending the day doing all of the best nothings with her.
I hit the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel. “Call London,” I say, and take a deep, calming breath while it dials.
* * *
“WANT SOMETHING TO drink?” I call out over my shoulder as she takes off her shoes and drops her bag near the door. “I’ve got beer, water . . . juice boxes . . .”
London comes up behind me in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder into the fridge. “You have juice boxes?”
I shrug, trying to lean back without her noticing so I can get closer. She smells like the beach, and coconut oil. I let myself enjoy the five-second fantasy of us sitting on the beach, London sitting between my legs while I rub oil all over her back. Then she relaxes into me and I rub oil all over her ti—
“Luke? Juice boxes?”
I blink, looking back down into the fridge, focusing on the cold air against my front. “I took Grams grocery shopping last night and she always insists on stocking my fridge, too.”
“And she got you juice boxes?” she says, voice softer now. “That’s extremely adorable. I want to meet this woman.”
“She’ll be at our wedding.”
London laughs, stepping away. “Right.”
Closing the fridge, I tell her, “She also got me Ritz crackers and string cheese.”
“Does she think you run a day care?”
I laugh. “She likes me to have my snacks,” I tell her. When she backs up to let me grab some crackers from the pantry, I catch another whiff of her. “Did you go surfing this morning?”
“Yeah. Just went to Black’s for a couple hours.”
Black’s Beach is probably the best surfing in San Diego County. I know this not because I’ve spent any time swimming there, but because it was one of Dad’s favorite spots back in the day—and I try not to think too much about it also being a nude beach back in the day, too.
“It was pretty busy,” she adds. “Entitled surfer dudes everywhere.”
My body reacts to her as if she’s a girlfriend, and I need to tell my brain to cut that shit out. Grabbing two juice boxes from the fridge and the sleeve of Ritz crackers, I point to the living room. “I believe we have a date with some Titans.”
London follows me into the living room. “You sound pretty confident.”
“I’ve been practicing since the night you spanked me.”
“Probably a good idea,” she says, and bends to grab a controller off the coffee table. “You sucked pretty hard.”
