9. Sophia
Chapter 9
Sophia
“ A nd for an extra heavy flow,” I say, keeping a poker face. “You know, the type that’s like a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre , I use Tampax Pearl?—”
Abigail chuckles. “He’s gone.”
“Finally.” I grin like an evil villain. “Typical man.”
Rupert, my ex-whom-I-do-my-best-not-to-think-about, would gag at any hint of “that time of the month,” even if it was something innocuous, like a discussion of punctuation marks or a trip to Tampa.
“To Mason’s credit, he lasted longer than I would have expected.” Abigail waggles her eyebrows. “Speaking of, you should also check his stamina… in bed.”
“What?”
She rolls her eyes as she snatches the last piece of sushi with her chopsticks. “You should let him take you out—to discuss business, of course, and afterward, invite him over for some… Netflix.”
“We don’t own a TV.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Though given the vibes between the two of you, maybe you should be less coy and invite him over for a hate fuck.”
Yeah, no. I’m not the type who can invite someone over just like that, but even if I were, that someone would not be that man. Thanks in large part to Rupert, I want nothing to do with men, be it a relationship, hate fucking, or even asking them to screw in a lightbulb.
“I can see you’re overthinking this,” Abigail says with a sigh.
I counter with a sigh of my own. “Can we talk about something else? For example, how is your job search going? Did you apply at Octothorpe?”
The anxious expression on Abigail’s face makes me regret asking. “I applied but didn’t hear back from them. I do, however, have a few interviews with other companies lined up after finals. What about you?”
“No jobs on the horizon,” I say. “But as it turns out, I don’t need the money so urgently anymore.”
I feel a pang of guilt as soon as the words leave my mouth. It’s almost like my father had to die in time for me not to worry about replacing Abigail as my roommate. Shit. Speaking of. “Want to have a sleepover at my new mansion?”
Abigail jumps excitedly to her feet. “I thought you’d never ask.”
As Richard gives us a ride, Abigail tells me what she’s learned about managing a hockey team.
Turns out, the cost of the team includes the arena, the players, and the staff.
“I own an arena?”
She nods. “Yeah. In Brooklyn. You also own Mason… in a way.”
“How does any of this make money?” I ask, ignoring the bit about Mason.
“Ticket and merchandise sales, sponsorships and TV contracts,” Abigail says. “There may be more that I haven’t yet delved into.”
The sushi in my stomach becomes cold and clammy fish once again. “I already feel overwhelmed with my newfound wealth. This team sounds like a major extra headache.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she says. “You’ll need to increase revenues and/or cut costs. The media outlets and fans will have a lot of questions for you. The?—”
“Maybe I should sell?” I wonder out loud. “Not to that asshole, but to someone?”
“Whatever you want to do,” Abigail says. “Like I told him, I can help you figure all of this out.”
I open my mouth to reply but notice the awestruck expression on my friend’s face.
Ah.
Right.
We’ve arrived at my not-so-humble abode.
“Yeah.” I take it all in once again. “It’s big.”
She grins. “That’s what you’ll say to Mason one of these days.”
Before I can come up with a retort, Effie leaps out of the entrance and bows like a proper butler.
Abigail’s eyes gleam as she takes in all the ink adorning Effie’s skin.
“Abigail, this is Effie, the butler,” I say.
“Do you have a brother?” Abigail blurts.
Seriously? Even if she does, it’s not like tattoos are genetic.
“I’m an only child,” Effie says, her expression confused. “Why?”
Because my friend wants to have sex with your non-existent sibling—and maybe with you too, at least a little.
“No reason,” Abigail says, blushing. “You just seemed like the type.”
The type to have a brother? Is it a certain deadness in the eyes that a sister develops after enduring countless stupid pranks?
“Would you like another tour?” Effie asks, changing the subject.
Nice save. “Yes, please,” I say. “I’m not familiar enough with the place to do it justice.”
This is how I get another walkthrough and Abigail gets her first. A few times I have to elbow my friend because whenever she spots a representation of turtles, she giggles maniacally, which makes her sound like Floki from Vikings .
“Ready to see the gardens?” Effie asks.
Abigail nods.
We head over to Donatello and April’s domain and find them doing exactly the same thing they were doing the last time I was here: humping like rabbits, though I think I might henceforth change that expression to “humping like tortoises.”
“Wow,” Abigail whispers. “That’s a big bang.”
I grin at her.
“Don’t stop,” we suddenly hear Acadia scream at Donatello. The doctor clearly hasn’t noticed us approaching or doesn’t care if she’s overheard. “Keep going. Just like that. Yes. Yes. Yes!”
Effie and I exchange confused glances while Abigail whispers, “Rule 34.”
I believe Rule 34 states something along the lines of “whatever it is, it’s someone’s porn,” and if so, my friend is right. The good doctor may just have a little fetish for big reptiles doing it, but who am I to kink-shame when I get wet at the sight of a fist?
“Want to see the garage?” I whisper to Abigail.
She nods and we head over there, where Abigail chuckles at the sight of the turtle-like Beetle.
“What’s next?” I ask Effie.
The butler shrugs. “You tell me. You’ve seen the whole house now.”
I scratch my head. “What about something like a kitchen?”
Effie shuffles from foot to foot. “You saw the dining room.”
I frown. “Right, but where do I go when I get hungry?”
“Well, duh,” Abigail says. “You go to the dining room and tell your amazing butler what you want.”
Given the grateful look Effie shoots at my friend, I bet if there were a tattoo-covered butler brother, she’d offer him as thanks.
I turn to Effie. “I don’t get to raid the fridge?”
Effie wrinkles her nose, clanking her jewelry in the process. “Just tell me what you’d hypothetically be looking for, and I’ll get it.”
“What if it’s the middle of the night?” Not that I’ve decided if I’ll sleep here on a regular basis, but I will tonight.
“She does get hungry for sweets at the weirdest times,” Abigail whispers to Effie conspiratorially. “It wakes me up every time she opens the stupid fridge.”
“You can still call for me,” Effie says, but she looks less sure now.
“I wouldn’t feel right doing that,” I say.
“Therefore, she’ll go hungry,” Abigail chimes in. “Which means she’ll be cranky the next time you see her.”
Effie seems horrified at the idea of a cranky “mistress.” “The kitchen is this way, but please only use it in case of emergencies.”
So we visit the kitchen and explain to the cook—an older lady we met earlier—that she’s not going to be redundant and that I’m only going to show my face in this room when craving a doughnut at night.
“Okay,” the cook says. “What kind of doughnuts are your favorite?”
I tell her, and she promises to make a couple to keep in the fridge at night.
Wow. Whoever says money can’t buy happiness clearly hasn’t considered homemade doughnuts as a variable.
“Can you make us some dinner?” I ask the cook. “With popcorn as an appetizer?”
When Abigail looks at me questioningly, I explain that I want to watch a movie with her in the “media room” and then have dinner.
“Yes!” Abigail pumps her fist. “This is going to be the best slumber party ever.”
“So,” I say to Abigail the next morning as Richard drives us back to our micro-apartment. “Do you want to move into my mansion with me?”
She furrows her perfect brows. “Commuting to school will take forever.”
I gesture at Richard. “But we’ll do it in style.”
Abigail puts a hand on her belly. “I’ll gain four hundred pounds.”
She’s got a point. Last night’s dinner and today’s breakfast were fancy-restaurant quality but fast-food quantity. And I won’t even count the midnight doughnut I had, one that I still think might’ve been a wet dream.
“There’s a gym,” I remind her. “We can work off the meals.”
She cocks her head. “If I say no, will you leave me on my own?”
“No. But I’d want to rent us a better apartment.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t afford to pay half of anything better. Not unless I get a job.”
“That’s fine,” I say.
“No, it’s not.” She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Crashing in your mansion would be one thing, but an apartment is a whole different story. I can’t let you?—”
“Yes, you can. You’re helping me with this team business for free, or did you forget?”
“How about we have a few more sleepovers at the mansion?” she says in a tone that tells me her mind is set in stone. “Then we’ll talk.”
Translation: after said sleepovers, she will tell me what’s what—which is fine.
“Do you have a parking spot?” Richard asks, and I realize we’re pulling up to our street.
“A parking spot?” Abigail grins. “Sure, it’s next to the stables.”
“Can you drop us off and look for a paid parking garage?” I suggest.
Parking here will cost an arm and a leg, but I need to start thinking like a wealthy person.
Richard nods, but because there’s a big truck sitting by the building’s entrance, he lets us out down the block.
As we head down the street, I notice a man walking a strange spotted dog, and something about the man’s broad back seems familiar.
“Hey,” Abigail says, following my gaze. “Isn’t that?—”
Yep. The stranger turns, and it’s Mason, in all his virile glory.
“Are you stalking me?” I demand, advancing on him.
Mason raises an eyebrow. “I’m just walking my cat.”
I pause my glare to check out the strange dog I saw earlier, who, in fact, does turn out to be a large cat. An adorable cat, with pointy ears and leopard-like coloring.
I narrow my eyes at Mason. “How did you know I like cats?”
Because I do, and I’ve always dreamed about getting one, except it’s never been possible. Before our landlord’s rules got in the way, it was my mom’s cat allergy, not to mention her inability to keep even the single human in her care, i.e. me, properly nourished.
Mason’s dark eyebrow arches higher. “How could I know that you like cats?”
“The same way you know where I live,” I snap, motioning to my building. “And where I go to school.”
Mason squeezes his hand over his cat’s leash, a gesture that makes his hand look too much like a fist for my panties’ comfort. “Spike and I have been together for four years. I just met you. I’m not that good of a planner.”
“What kind of a cat is he?” Abigail croons, staring down at Spike.
“A Savannah,” Mason says proudly. “Before you ask, he’s a rescue, and I know the city doesn’t allow his breed, which is why I have a special license for him.”
“He’s super cute,” she says.
“It’s true,” I say grudgingly. I have no idea how much said license cost or how it was even obtained, but a woman with giant turtles who fuck nonstop shouldn’t throw stones.
“Thank you.” For the first time since our meeting, Mason smiles, and I wish he wouldn’t, because it makes his already attractive face too much so, to the point where it affects my lady bits in the same way that a premium fist would.
I do my best to shake it off. Sternly, I say, “Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“I came to apologize.” His hand dives into his tracksuit pocket. “And to give the two of you these.” He hands me two papers.
“Tickets?” Abigail exclaims. “Are they for?—”
“End-of-season,” he says. “Center ice, right by the glass.”
They must be good seats because Abigail’s eyes widen to comic proportions. Just as I open my mouth to reject the shady offer, she starts jumping up and down like a teen about to go to her favorite boyband concert.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she gushes. “I was dying to go!”
I glare at Mason, who gives me a look that says, “Are you really going to take this away from your best friend?”
“Okay.” I snatch the tickets from Mason’s hand—a big mistake because my fingers brush his, and it’s like all the electric power of Thor’s mighty hammer zips through my body. “Thanks,” I grumble as I jerk my hand away.
Mason looks wonderingly at his fingers that were just holding the tickets. “No… problem.”
“Well, then,” I mutter. “We have somewhere to be.”
“Have coffee with me.” He makes this sound like a foregone conclusion.
Shit. Am I really tempted?
As if sensing my weakness, Spike rubs himself against my leg, purring like an overactive vibrator.
Wow. Has he trained his cat to wear me down?
Maybe not just the cat. At my side, Abigail’s nodding so fast that she looks like a human bobblehead.
“I’m sorry, but no,” I say more to Spike and Abigail than to Mason.
And before feline cuteness is further weaponized, I sprint for our building’s entrance.
It’s not until we’re both safely inside the apartment that I realize something that should’ve occurred to me earlier: I own the team and the stadium, so I don’t need tickets to go to the game. In the same way that I don’t need an invitation to come to my own party.
Grr. To think that for a second, I felt grateful to the man.
“So why not have coffee with him?” Abigail demands as I’m still processing that he somehow pulled a fast one on me.
I grit my teeth. “Because he’s a jerk, and it was just an excuse to talk to me about buying the team.” As I speak, I turn on the most luxurious item in our place: the tiny cappuccino maker.
Abigail watches me with exasperation. “Look at what you’re doing. You’re even craving coffee. You totally should’ve said yes.”
If craving something were a reason to agree, I’d have two. “I just need caffeine for my lecture on Platonic idealism.”
Abigail snorts. “I don’t care how much you plan to lecture me; I will not agree that keeping things platonic with a man like Mason is ideal.”
Unsure if she’s kidding or not, I can’t help but explain, “According to Plato?—”
“Your right boob or the ancient Greek dude?” she interrupts.
I sigh. It was a mistake to tell her the secret nicknames for my breasts: Plato (on the right) and Socrates (on the Left). I named them thus because my mammary assets are big, and in philosophy, it doesn’t get any bigger than Plato and Socrates.
“I meant Plato the Greek,” I grumble. “He believed that the physical world is not as real as ideas—or forms—are.”
“The dude must’ve been on something,” Abigail says. “Or watched The Matrix one too many times.”
I know this comment is to bait me into geeking out about all the philosophy in The Matrix , so I ignore it. “Things in the real world are mere imitations of the ideal forms. So, for example…” I gesture at the micro-microwave. “Somewhere—don’t ask me where—exists the Platonic ideal for a microwave, and ours is a lousy imitation of that ideal.”
“Which can be said of a microwave inside the Matrix,” Abigail says triumphantly.
I shrug. “Maybe that’s what I’ll learn in the lecture, but I’ll never know unless I’m awake. There’s a reason everyone calls our professor Ambien.”
Finally, she leaves the issue of coffee with Mason alone, and we have breakfast and caffeinate before I rush to my lecture.
I’m sitting in front of an ice rink, eyes bulging at the sight of the players: all naked as mole rats, but much, much hotter.
Then I spot Mason, and he’s hotter than all his comrades combined, and that’s before I notice his tight fist clenching his hockey stick and his other fist stroking his hard cock.
Everyone around me cheers, as if jointly urging Mason to come.
Meeting my eyes, Mason gives himself an expert stroke and adroitly sends the puck into the opposing team’s goal.
Not sure which stick he used for that, but it turns me on unbearably.
Though I’ve never thought of myself as an exhibitionist, I ignore all the people around me as my hand sneaks into my panties and my finger circles my clit. Once. Twice.
“Sophia!” Mason screams as his strokes intensify. “I’m coming for you, Sophia. Sophia!”
“Sophia?” the voice of Professor Ambien is like a cattle prod poking me in the butt.
Fuck me. Despite the precautionary cappuccino, I’ve still managed to doze off and drool all over my desk.
“Care to tell us in what text the Theory of the Forms was first introduced?” Ambien asks nastily.
I rub my crusty eyes. “ Phaedo ?”
Ambien looks disappointed. “You should thank Zeus for your habit of studying ahead. Class participation is twenty percent of your final grade, and you almost lost it.”
Shouldn’t he invoke Morpheus as his Greek god of choice, seeing how that’s the dream deity and all?
“In any case,” Ambien drones on, “In The Republic , Plato?—”
My eyes become heavy again immediately, so I bite my tongue to stay awake.
The last thing I want is to return to that dream where I saw Mason naked.