CHAPTER 3 #3
Her eyes widen in shock as she flips her ponytail away from me. “Ew, don’t be disgusting.”
“There’s nothing disgusting about pulling on a woman’s hair. Especially when done correctly.”
Chin held high, she counters, “Well I can tell you right now, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that you know how to do it correctly.” Leaning in a touch closer and lowering her voice, she adds, “Instead of arousal and excitement, all I feel is animosity and exasperation.”
That response grates on my nerves, because I know how to pull on a woman’s hair. I know how to wrap it around my fist and tug just right to make her back dip and her head arch back. I know how to make a woman scream my name while I hold on to her tightly and fuck her until she comes.
I know what the hell I’m doing…Maple. “Anyone ever tell you there’s a thin line between love and hate?”
She scoffs. “Ugh, get over yourself.” Straightening up, she brings her attention back to the zoo, clears her throat, and says, “This is the Exploration Zone. It’s a family-friendly area of the zoo where kids can roam and explore our more human-friendly animals such as chickens and goats.
” So she’s just going to act like she didn’t almost send me flying off the golf cart?
Okay. “Be grateful this is not where you were assigned. You could have been assisting with coop revitalization, cleaning the kid disease off every touchable surface, and battling it out with the goats for superiority.”
“Yeah, but does the family farm come with an irritable shrew?” I ask under my breath as I gaze out toward a carousel.
“No, but it’s surrounded by booger-eating children.”
“Can’t decide what’s worse.”
She huffs something under her breath and slams her foot down on the pedal.
“Whoa.” I grip the roof again. “Can you rein in the crazy-ass driving?”
“Just attempting to get this done so I don’t have to sit close to you anymore.”
“I would prefer the same, but if you run down a child licking an ice cream cone, it’s not on me.”
I feel her glance in my direction and then, to my surprise, she slows down while driving us past a small theater before she pauses in front of the Flamingo Lagoon.
“This is where you’ll be spending all of your time. As you can see, there’s room to expand the exhibit, but as discussed before, we need to find the funds first. That’s something we can discuss later.”
She continues to drive to the left side of the park, taking her time now and pointing out sections of the zoo, rattling off facts, and attempting to keep me interested as I scan the exhibits, watching kids pointing their sticky fingers, parents scolding children for licking ropes that section off areas of the zoo, and trash being tossed toward a trash can and not quite making it. Jesus, it’s not that hard.
When we reach the African region, I spot OC on a golf cart as well, chatting it up with his zookeeper. The man is animated, using his hands as he speaks, clearly entertaining the zookeeper as he dips his head back and laughs.
“Shame he wasn’t assigned to me,” Maple mumbles.
“Yeah, shame. You would have had to learn how to fake laugh to deal with his company.”
Her eyes fall on me right before she lets out a roar of a laugh, one so obnoxious that it rattles the windshield of the golf cart, only for her to quiet down within an instant. With zero emotion on her face, she deadpans, “I think I could have handled it.”
Fucking cheeky smart-ass.
Continuing with the tour, she says, “This is the African savanna, one of our most notable exhibits because of its size. It allows animals like our giraffes, zebras, and ostriches to live in a more natural setting. I’m unsure why it’s included in the fundraising race, since they have so much more space and better resources, but I’m not running the zoo. ”
Sensing some bitterness toward the savanna.
Noted.
In silence, she drives back to the flamingo building and puts the golf cart in park. “Any questions?”
“Nope,” I answer as she gets out of the cart while I unfold myself and stretch out, letting my body twist from side to side so my back doesn’t cramp up on me.
“This way.” She brings me to the lagoon and a tall fence lined with chicken wire.
It’s an odd addition that seems to have been erected temporarily to create distance between the flamingos and the visitors.
The barrier feels out of sorts, haphazard, like an afterthought rather than a planned feature. “We house just over—”
“What’s with the fence?”
“What?”
“This fence.” I give it a little shake, wondering if the entire thing will collapse under my grasp. “What’s with it?”
“Oh. It was added during the outbreak of the avian flu. We were trying to protect our birds, and it hasn’t been dealt with since.”
Well, it’s a fucking eyesore.
And if they want visitors to be more in tune with the flamingos, this is one way not to do it.
Then again, what do I know?
Absolutely nothing, nor do I care.
“As I was saying, we house just over twenty-five flamingos here.”
“Just over? Why not just say twenty-six or twenty-seven, or whatever the exact amount is?”
Her nostrils flare and Jesus, even angry she’s fucking gorgeous. Not that I’m paying attention to that. “Why does it matter?”
I shrug. “Just seems weird to put it that way.”
She looks up toward the sky as if she’s begging for patience, then continues, “We house twenty-six flamingos here. We use bands on their legs to help track them so we can perform medical checkups much easier, as we keep a detailed log of their daily health. The guy with the lime-green band in the back, patting the water—that’s Big Hermy.
He’s the oldest in our flamboyance and also my favorite.
He’s missing an eye, but that doesn’t stop him from loving shiny things, so make sure to never wear jewelry around him unless you want him pecking at you. ”
“That won’t be a problem,” I say.
“The one off to the right with the red band and the number eleven, that’s Dinkle. He was one of our first-born flamingos here at the zoo.”
“Dinkle?” I ask. “Couldn’t have picked a better name for him?”
“The public voted for it.”
“Why was it even an option?”
She shrugs. “I like it. Think it fits him perfectly because he’s just…
always been off.” She points toward the back of the lagoon, her attitude gentling as she speaks about the creatures she cares for.
I’m not sure I’ve seen anyone light up the way she does, especially about birds.
“And the one back there, that’s Gwendalyn the Great.
When the krill come out, she makes it known that she gets first dibs, and even though Big Hermy is clearly the king of the flamboyance, he allows it.
But I think it’s because he has an eye for her. ”
Okay, so…she’s writing flamingo fan fiction in her spare time. Got it.
“And number four over there by the big rock, that’s Kevin Malone, because the team is convinced that if he had to carry a pot of chili, he’d definitely spill it.
Such a clumsy bird.” She chuckles to herself, now leaning against the fence, admiring her…
I want to say friends? Because that’s what it seems like.
“Oh, and the one over there standing on one leg, that’s Tribbs.”
“Tribbs?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She chuckles. “As in Joey Tribbiani because he’s the horniest of all the flamingos. When it’s mating season, his dance moves, a.k.a. the bobble of the head, are very eccentric and out-there. I have so many videos of it.” She starts bobbing her head and then laughs at herself.
Dear God.
What the fuck is happening?
“That’s, uh—”
“Oh, and the one with the sixteen on her band? That’s Martha Stewart.”
This ought to be good.
“Let me guess, because she teaches the other flamingos how to garnish their krill with lakeweed and make swans out of a simple stick and dollop of mud?”
Maple looks me up and down with insult written all over her face. “No, because she likes taking thirst traps while lounging in the water.” She rolls her eyes and then moves away from the fence, as if I’m the insane one. “This way.”
I follow her, glancing back at the flamingos that, let’s be honest, smell fucking terrible, as she walks into the flamingo building.
For a brief moment, as we make our way through the small hallway, my eyes fall to her backside, where her khakis cling to her heart-shaped rear and cinch around her waist, meeting her unflattering, tucked-in polo.
A worn black belt is wrapped around her waist, keeping her pants in place, while the hem of her pants sits just half an inch off her hiking boots, making them almost high-waters.
It makes me chuckle. I don’t really know anything about her other than it seems like the flamingos are her friends, she doesn’t seem to take much shit, and she has one hell of a nice ass.
Deceptive almost with her small frame, but she has a lot of curve in her backside. The perfect amount to grip onto.
To fucking ride.
To spank.
To…
“This is where we clean—um, hello?” Maple says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Were you just looking at my butt?”
Shit.
“No.” I casually lean against the wall, lying through my teeth, because yeah, I was looking at her butt. Her really nice butt. Although because I’m not one to show my cards—ever—I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I was looking at your high-water pants.”
Her cheeks flame red as she looks down at her pants, pressing on the fabric like she thinks it will make them grow longer, but failing as she adjusts them. “They aren’t high-waters.”
“Sure,” I say, feeling slightly bad about calling her out on her pants. I’m sure she gets paid shit for writing fan fiction about flamingos and feeding them, so she can’t afford many pants, but before I can attempt to find the words to apologize, she clears her throat and moves toward the sink.
“Um…what was I saying?” She clears her throat again, looking out of sorts…and embarrassed.
Shit.
I’m an asshole, I know this, but making someone feel bad who doesn’t technically deserve it is not the kind of asshole I tend to be.
“Maple—”
“You know what, let me just, um…” She spins around in a circle, looking every which way but at me.
She’s so flustered, her cheeks burning red, her hands fidgeting while attempting to find something to do.
My apology is on the tip of my tongue because I can tell I hurt her, but she says, “Oh yes, these, um…these are some dishes that need to be cleaned. Use soap and water and rinse thoroughly.” She brings me toward the sink, placing me right in front of the washing zone.
Uh, hold on one goddamn second.
She starts to step away, but I stop her. “You want me to clean these?”
She looks back at me, her eyes glistening. “I do, because they’re not going to clean themselves, and I have more important things to do than wash them.”
With that, she takes off, leaving me alone with a sponge, some soap, and the disgusting smell of bird shit.