Chapter 7
Bunny
It wasn’t him.
It couldn’t have been.
Or even it was – because let’s be fucking real it probably was – it doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t know exactly where I am.
The GPS was found broken.
No longer tracking.
No longer informing him of my whereabouts.
I just wish I knew when it broke.
Maybe if I had that exact information or even a ballpark idea, I wouldn’t have run out of the store as if he were only two blocks away from finding me again.
Okay.
Honestly?
I probably would’ve still run out of the store like that.
It’s what I do.
Some people run for fun.
Some people run for pay.
I run for survival.
Always.
And you know what I’ve learned over these past few years?
It’s that self-preservation looks different for everyone. Part of me even believes that’s why he’ll never stop chasing me. Because my decision to end things with him defies his ability to have untouched power and legacy and prestige. Because someone in his position doesn’t get left. They get trophy wives. And mistresses. And escorts. They get whatever praise and approval and accolades they want.
They get everything they want.
Anything they want.
Whenever they want.
They definitely don’t get dumped.
And they damn sure don’t get dumped in a crowded four-star restaurant for other people to witness.
Observe.
Judge.
All of which was a ploy to make it out of the initial situation alive.
I didn’t even go back to my apartment that night.
No.
I hid for three days at an acquaintance’s apartment – jotting down her streaming passwords and pilfering anxiety medication – hoping and praying and lighting candles that everything was finally over. That he got the message.
And he had.
He just didn’t like it hence the hundreds of roses crammed inside my apartment alongside beheaded stuffed bunnies that spelled out “You Are Still Mine”.
God, there was so much stuffing everywhere.
And thorns.
And my blood from the attempting to clean it up.
His obsessive need to have “the one that got away” – literally – has created my compulsive need to fucking run.
Even if it is out of an adorable corner grocery store, away from someone who makes me feel safe and secure and seen in ways I didn’t think were possible anymore.
Not sure I ever really thought they were possible to begin with.
“Want help?” Kipp enthusiastically asks from beside me, near the sink area.
“You mean you want me to want help,” I sassily tease, eyes pulling themselves away from the ingredients I’ve just finished lining up.
“You want me to want to help,” he smoothly flirts and leans in a bit closer.
“You mean you want me to want you to help.”
“How about I want this stupid fucking conversation to stop?” Nolan grunts from the couch in the nearby living room.
It’s impossible not to shoot my attention over my shoulder in his direction. “Want an ice-cold beer instead?”
His salt and pepper scruff covered face threatens to reveal a smirk. “You bringin’ it to me, Rabbit?”
“Should I bring you your supper too? Be barefoot and pregnant while I’m at it?”
The corners of his lips slowly creep upward until the grin I hate myself for wanting to sit on is plastered on his face. “I wouldn’t mind you being one of those things.”
Unlike my grocery store hero, this man is far from friendly.
Hell, not even sure he could tow friendly, and Kipp says the man can tow just about anything.
While getting under his skin is fun – and easy – the last thing I really want is to wreck shit that doesn’t need it.
And I don’t mean his Mr. Congeniality personality.
I mean whatever they’ve got going on between them.
Ever since I’ve stepped into their lives, all I’ve done is unintentionally pit them against one another.
Divide.
Cause friendship deductions and depreciations that are easy to fucking see.
Gahhhhh, even a ninety-five-year-old blind man who could never have been that type of samurai could fucking see it.
What I don’t entirely get is why?
Is Nolan threatened by me?
Does he think there’s a whole Eve making Adam eat an apple situation about to happen?
Should I reassure him by casually mentioning they’re not even a fruit I fucking care for?
And even if there was a biblical twist about to happen – which there isn’t – why does it fucking matter to him so much? Does he not think Kipp can take care of himself? Does he still see him as some helpless kid who isn’t man enough to handle what the world throws at him? How would Nolan know if he can or can’t if he never lets him at least fucking try?
Assuming that he doesn’t.
But it feels like he doesn’t.
On the contrary, is that why Kipp pushes so hard to defy every order that his best friend hand delivers? Is he finally realizing that he wants to be his own man and stop living in the shadows of a protector? Is it his way of proving that he can? That he’s capable of thinking and feeling for himself?
I guess the more important question is why do I care?
Or better yet…why can’t I stop caring?
Why can’t I stop thinking about how their relationship works? What words define it? What word can undo it?
Why can’t I stop thinking about being the words that rewrite it?
The pen used to recalculate it.
I know I should stop.
I know I need to stop.
I know none of it fucking matters because being here is temporary.
They are temporary.
And me fucking up whatever don’t ask, don’t know shit they have will be over very momentarily.
Like as soon as those parts are in my car.
Maybe I’ll switch gears and hide out in Mexico instead of Arizona.
Reinvent myself starting with my name.
Take up residence at a resort in exchange for doing their accounting free of charge.
Get far away from him and them.
Just because I’m cursed doesn’t mean they have to spend the rest of what will probably be good lives being that way too.
They’re not that invested in me despite the fact I am becoming that way in them.
“So, um…” Kipp casually attempts to reclaim the conversation causing me to turn away from his best friend, “what exactly do you need me to do?”
“Start by opening those.” A small gesture is delivered to the cheeses. “And I’ll open these.” My finger whirls around the remaining ingredients. “And then we combine them all in that big ass bowl.” Our eyes connect again. “Normally, you would then use a mixer to stir everything together, but I get the feeling you don’t have one-”
“That’s what Kipp’s for.”
“-meaning we’ll have to use our hands.”
“It’s a good thing I’m great with those,” he teasingly winks.
“Lots of practice?” Nolan playfully pokes prompting me to press my lips together to stop from snickering.
“Yeah.” He picks up the cream cheese packet to tear open. “I’ve built up amazing grip strength over the years.”
“By yourself?” his couch partner in crime impishly prods.
“With my tool.”
There’s no stopping me from shooting Kipp an amused expression.
“Between me and my tool.”
Mirth-filled cringes can’t be helped.
“Such crass language, young man,” Nolan laughs loudly, pulling my attention once more over my shoulder to see it.
To admire the openness, he allows himself to have here.
In their home.
With his person.
His person I don’t wanna take away from him.
Maybe just…share?
For a night?
For a…moment?
“You know what…” Kipp lightly chuckles upon realizing his poor choice of wording. “Why don’t you get your ass up, wash your hands, old man, and I’ll prove the shit to you. Right here. Right now.”
“In our kitchen?” Nolan juvenilely continues to taunt yet rises to his feet to join us, igniting unexpected butterflies to flitter in the pit of my stomach. “That’s really bathroom and bedroom behavior.”
“Keep talkin’ shit,” the man now opening the bag of shredded cheese insists, beam so bright it damn near burns my soul. “I’m about to destroy you.”
“Please,” his roommate sneers at the same time he turns on the hot water. “I’ve been using my hands a lot rougher and a lot longer than you, Kid.”
His choice of phrasing pulls a small, thoughtless whimper out of me.
Forfuckssake, if they keep this shit up, I’ll throw myself in a bowl for them to really prove themselves with.
The meek sound, which I swear isn’t loud enough to be heard, evidently is.
And given the fact that I not only see two sets of hunger filled eyes but hear two different pitched growls, I think it’s safe to guess that they wouldn’t mind the idea of mixing me instead, either.
Rather than pitch that idea – that deliciously terrible idea – or acknowledge how their bodies are now gravitating towards mine, boxing me in from each side, trapping me in a small space like two hunters willing to share the same prey, I slowly add the contents into the dish.
Allow them to open the remaining ingredients I initially said I would, but now can’t fathom the idea of picking up let alone being responsible for freeing.
By the time we’ve got everything inside the container, my body as well as my breathing are steady again. Thankfully. “Hands in fellas.”
“Yes, ma’am,” is spoken in unison.
All at once, the three of us sink our fingers into the cold mixture. While I’m expecting exactly what I get – after all, it’s not my first time doing this – the two of them are obviously surprised.
“Fuck, this feels weird,” Nolan grumbles, large fingers scooping underneath mine.
“Yeah, not what I expected,” Kipp echoes, his slightly thinner ones gracing them from on top.
“I don’t know,” I coyishly flirt, leaving my hands to be caressed versus actually assisting in the process, “I kinda dig it.”
Both men grunt a chuckle.
Knead another handful.
Purposely grip my fingers through the thick mixture.
Nolan continuously gathers the largest amounts he possibly can in between squeezing my entire palm, locking it in his possession, demonstrating he can dominate any situation, in any space, in any moment, yet Kipp executes more agile movements. Slips between my fingers. Between his best friend’s. Collects and strokes and diligently leaves no area untouched. No ingredient unmixed. No component unincluded. Over and over and over again, two unmatched but undeniably irresistible motions work in tandem to create something almost unrecognizable leaving me with an inability to do anything other than shut my eyes.
Inwardly moan.
Outwardly whimper.
Fight against the wobbling in my knees and swallow the begging that’s on the very tip of my tongue.
Wetness doesn’t waste time soaking my lacy, thin panties nor does my pussy entertain the idea that this shouldn’t be happening.
That it shouldn’t be aching for their touches and tightening in anticipation of being explored next.
That it shouldn’t be ready to be split and spread and stroked while my lungs burn from pleading and moaning and screaming.
Hot air unexpectedly feathers one side of my face; however, before I know it, the sensation is swiftly mirrored on the other as if it’s impossible for one of them to have more of me than the other.
“Is this good?” Kipp practically pants, forcing me to open my eyes to momentarily meet his.
I choke down another whimper, quickly examine the mess, and mindlessly nod.
“Good,” Nolan wolfishly groans, commanding my gaze to his. “Now, what do you want us to do next, little rabbit?”
Me is the answer I wanna give and watching his tongue inch towards mine tells me it’s the one he wants to hear.