28. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
On Monday, Marcia in the cubicle across from my office, giggles into her phone. She pronounces it with a Latino flair, Mar-see-ah. Not Marcia Marcia Marcia. The way she blushes, suggests she’s talking to a guy.
My throat tightens, and I sink into a panic attack thinking I’ll never hook up with anyone ever again. This insatiable hunger is eating away at me.
I can’t keep my mind from wandering to Eoghan and his offer to get my fill of him.
With all interest lost in the case I’m reviewing, a mundane counterfeit ring, I open an excel spreadsheet on my computer and type out Pros and Cons of getting lost with Eoghan in the sheets while he works on the Borgia case.
Pros:
Guaranteed satisfaction in bed.
I assume our fantastic sex wasn’t a fluke.
Doesn’t want anything serious.
Another assumption, but I can’t exactly ask him. Or could I?
Negotiate the terms of just us sweating it out in the sheets?
How unsexy.
I edit my second Pro entry:
Doesn’t want anything serious with me.
He lives in New York.
I’m not his type.
Not being his type is from my observation of all the other mafia bosses and lackeys strutting around this city. They all have tall, thin models on their arms. I chalk up my one-night stand with Eoghan to him being turned on because I yelled at him in the bar.
Men love a challenge.
But when it comes to dating, I’m not much of a challenge. Or exciting. I work nine to five, do yoga, microwave pre-packaged meals for dinners, belong to a book club for entertainment, and indulge in one luscious glass of red wine every night.
Working the corruption unit gave me a glimpse of how mafia men live. Jetting off to exotic locations on their fancy jets. Sitting front-row at sold-out, impossible-to-get concerts, and mingling backstage. Snapping their fingers and getting anything and everything they want.
More Pros escape me because all I have are subsets of number one. How unbelievable Eoghan was in bed. How gorgeous he is. That dirty talk is the chef’s kiss. Those damn blue eyes. That mouth, his lips.
And of course, his unbelievable dick.
My eyes slip closed, and the picture of him in my head is so vivid, it’s like he’s in front of me as I start an imaginary conversation with him over this Pro/Con list.
Eoghan: No Cons yet, sparkles?
Me: Oh right, you’re a criminal.
Eoghan: As a lawyer, I’m disappointed in you, since you know a person can only be classified as a criminal if they’ve been convicted of a crime.
Me: I notice you left out that you never committed a crime.
Eoghan: Ever speed?
Me: What?
Eoghan: Ever make an illegal U-turn?
Me: You’re joking.
Eoghan: When I’m trying to get you to fuck me, I don’t joke.
I flash my eyes open and type in the Con column:
Arrogant.
Sad, that’s all I can come up with, but then my cheeks swell. The Pros outweigh the Cons.
Just as I’m about to send him a text asking to meet me in that same bar, my Sinners app dings.
Adrenaline kickstarts my heart, but I can’t open the app in my office.
I save my ridiculous Pro/Con list in my personal folder and collect my take-home work to leave for the day.
In my car, my fingers rap the steering wheel, debating if I’m going to look at who pinged my profile right here, right now in the car, like devouring french fries from the drive-thru window. Or have some self-respect and wait until I get home.
“Self-respect is overrated,” I murmur to myself and fire up the app.
Inbox: 1
Swallowing, I click it.
Johnny B. Goode
I roll my eyes, but giggle, getting the word play.
Arrogant. Like he knows how good he is in bed. Must be a common male trait.
And it’s not in short supply in this city.
No profile picture? Just a ruler. Is he a reincarnated Catholic School nun?
My chest puffs out feeling defeat.
I toss my phone on the passenger seat and head for the liquor store to buy a fresh bottle of red.
At home, digging into a bowl of blue box mac and cheese, I look at the app one more time.
Inbox: 1
“This is freaking ridiculous.” I open the profile again.
Staring at the photo of the ruler, I notice a faint shadow just above the tick marks.
“Holy shit,” I blurt into the emptiness of my condo. “Is that his cock?”
Moreso, I wonder if I indeed see the shadow of his cock extending to a tick mark.
Eight and half inches.
Not as big as Eoghan, but still…
My womb squeezes, remembering his stiff and very long length sliding in and out of me. He said he was ten inches. Is that how men are built these days?
Considering all I want is hot sex, I’ll look past the no discernable photo of his features above the waist to see what else Mr. B. Goode is about.
Hobbies: Movies. Travel. Gambling.
Hmmm. I can say the same about me. I’ve always wanted to see Hawaii.
Horseback Riding?
I crack up into my wine glass.
6’2” and 250 pounds. Sounds impressive, I assume that type of height and bulk comes with a lightning rod between the legs.
And that’s when I realize it’s all fake.
Figuring this is a scam artist carpet-bombing the app, I go to delete his profile when a message pops in.
Johnny B. Goode: You viewed my profile.
I drop my phone.
Shit!
Seeing as I don’t want Johnny to start stalking me, I type back to be polite.
Me: Hi. Yeah, I did.
Johnny: I bet you get a lot of responses.
I pause.
Me: Dozens every day.
Johnny: Dozens, huh?
My eyebrows pinch together. Does he know I’m lying?
Me: Of course. Anyway, I just got a work thingy assigned to me and can’t really meet anyone right now. But thanks.
Johnny: Work thingy? What do you do?
His question tenses my shoulders. It’s a hook-up app. He’s not supposed to be interested in my life. Unless he thinks I’m a prostitute.
Me: I’d rather not say. This is a hook-up app for people who just want to have some fun.
Johnny: And have you had fun with other men from this app?
These are rather personal questions.
Me: Maybe. (smile emoji)
Johnny: I haven’t.
That confession halts my fingers from deleting this thread. He sounds…lonely. Poor guy.
Me: Oh?
Johnny: Haven’t found the right woman.
Me: Too busy watching movies, playing slots, and going on vacation, where you ride horses?
Johnny: You’re funny, Gemma7. I like that. Why does it matter what our hobbies are? What they should list are kinks.
Kinks…
Me: I guess they want people to discuss things like that.
Johnny: Let’s discuss. What are your kinks?
I swallow down some wine. I don’t have any kinks. I’ve only been laid once. It makes more and more sense to delete this whole app. I’m not ready for this.
Me: I don’t have any.
Next, I’ll tell him I think I love him, and he’ll delete me first.
Johnny: That’s a shame. People always dismiss things without trying them first. Like saying you hate pistachio ice cream without ever licking it slowly to get a feel for how the cream coats your tongue and slides down your throat. But if you’re adventurous, you drag your tongue around that cone, slowly, catching every drop to draw out the fantasy.
Pistachio! Did he just pick my favorite flavor? I chuckle. He’s a guy who wants to just get off, but he’s got some game. At least he’s not skittish like me.
Johnny: Speaking of fantasies, Gemma7, tell me yours.
My mind is still on that ice cream cone…one that’s shaped like a dick. I shake that image from my head. He’s waiting for an answer.
About my fantasies.
My heart ticks up. When was the last time a man asked to fulfill a fantasy? Of course, I don’t have any firsthand experience, but much like my book club meeting on Saturday night, after we talked about the over-the-top, passionate, alpha in Love in the Shadows, the rest of the night, the women complained about their real-life men.
It’s pretty much a universal truth: men don’t care about our fantasies.
So why is this one asking?
And why do I care?
Me: Before I answer that, may I ask why you don’t have a real profile photo?
Johnny: My face shouldn’t be important in a hook up.
Me: Au contraire, if a hook up is to have an orgasmic-inducing experience, a person’s looks play a part of that.
Johnny: Au contraire?
Me: Too highbrow for you?
Johnny: You’re funny. I like you.
Odd, that he’d say that after two minutes.
Me: Are you a bot?
Johnny: I’ve been called a machine.
I spit out my wine, laughing.
Me: I included a photo and not just a boob shadow.
Johnny: No, you were falling out of your dress. I didn’t see your face.
Me: All you care about is looks, huh?
Johnny: And horseback riding. Bareback mostly.
This guy is amusing.
Me: I insist you send me some kind of picture beyond your nether regions with a ruler. Impressive by the way. It will at least tell me you’re real.
Johnny: I’m very real.
Me: Show me.
I glance down and see there’s an icon to include photos in the chat screen.
Me: I won’t share the photo.
After a whole minute that feels like an hour, I type: Please.
Johnny: How is this?
A selfie of a beautifully sculpted torso of rippling abs de-pixilates. Now I know where those 250 pounds are from.
Sighing, I type:
Me: That could be someone else.
Johnny: Trust me.
Me: I don’t know you.
Johnny: Get to know me. Tell me your fantasy?
What if those abs are real? I bet he also has veiny arms and ripped shoulders, not to mention a tight ass like…
Eoghan.
I broke my cherry with a god and now my bar is too high. Johnny is right, his looks shouldn’t matter. If he doesn’t want to show his face then maybe I can just fantasize it’s Eoghan.
Hmmm.
My eyes wander to my balcony, and my heart kickstarts as I think of the fantasy where Eoghan watched me get off with my vibrator the other night.
Only, it’s dangerous to give a stranger my home address and tell him to figure out a way to climb onto my balcony. What do I do? Leave the door open so he can sneak inside? Kind of ruins the magic.
That fantasy of Eoghan standing there paired with the burning question, how did he get here, is what made me come so hard with Rocco I didn’t stop shaking for a full twenty minutes.
Still, it’s too risky with a complete stranger.
What if I stage that scene someplace else?
My car perhaps?
On the edge of the desert. Get in my backseat, fire up Rocco, and then have Johnny stroll by and rip open the back door, flip me over…
Hands shaking, I start to type…