14. Wren
FOURTEEN
WREN
I tap my pencil eraser on the stainless steel counter, searching through hazy ideas in my brain to come up with new specials for next week, but I keep getting dragged back into memories of my steamy nights on the couch with Ridley.
My body composition must be ten percent cum at this point with all the dick I’ve sucked since this started.
My cock twitches as more memories wash over me—Ridley’s sexy smile as he watches me suck him off, nodding with encouragement and whispering sweet things to me.
I don’t hate that he calls me rabbit whenever we’re fucking around, and I definitely don’t hate the way he looks at me like I’m the only man on the planet.
It feels incredible to be so seen and wanted, especially after years of feeling invisible unless Trent wanted a verbal punching bag.
The memory of my ex dampens the warmth I was just feeling and puts a sour taste in my mouth.
He’s a loser, but what does that make me that I stayed for so long?
I probably still need to unpack the bullshit that kept me holding on to something that was clearly broken, but just getting through each day feels like enough right now.
And there’s a positive side effect to my deal with Ridley: sleep.
After a turn with him, I practically pass out.
He’s more effective than any pill I could take, and I feel better than I have in months.
Even a few solid hours of sleep is a vast improvement from the tossing and turning I dealt with before.
Now if I could just get his amazing cock out of my mind so I can focus on the menu, that would be great.
I glance back at the food inventory list from last week to see what we sold the most of.
Fish continues to be popular, so I should do something with that.
New twists on classic bar food are always favorites.
Maybe I can come up with a new wing sauce.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, cringing when I see the name on the screen. I’m really not in the mood for a family guilt trip today, but I’ve already avoided my sister’s calls the last two days.
“Hey, Whit.”
“ Hey, Whit ,” she mocks. “You are alive.”
“Yep. What’s up?”
“Why are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not. I’ve been slammed.”
“I guess I’ll buy that since I saw your restaurant on the news.”
“What?”
“There was a little segment on things happening around the metro area and they talked about Willow Bay.”
“When was that?”
“Yesterday.”
“Good to know. We’ll probably get a wave of people this weekend from the city.”
“Not a bad problem to have, right?”
“Right. Did you need something?”
She scoffs. “God, Wren, is it so awful to talk to your sister?”
Yes, actually. “I’m just busy, Whit. That’s all.”
“We’re all busy. Especially me. Did you know Riley is having her first ballet recital? No, of course you don’t because you don’t call your niece.”
“She’s three, Whitney.”
“And?” My sister dives into the many things that keep her life busy, sounding like a martyr just because she chose to have kids with a man who spends all his time with clients or at the golf course. “And mom says you haven’t called in weeks.”
There it is. The guilt trip. My sister is my mom’s favorite weapon of choice, flinging her at me whenever she wants something from me—sometimes money, but often just my emotional labor.
My chest tightens and I’m about to give in to it, but then I remember the tips I’ve been reading on the difficult family forum and steel myself to deliver words I’ve never said before.
“The phone works both ways. She can call if she really needs something.”
There’s dead silence on the other end, to the point where I look at my phone to make sure the call is still connected.
“But she’s your mother.”
“And? Why am I responsible for making all the contact?”
She gasps softly. “Because we’re the children, Wren. We show our parents that we care and we’re thinking of them.”
I scoff. “What about them showing that to us?”
“What is this attitude? It’s not hard to pick up the phone and spend fifteen minutes of your precious day talking to your mother.”
“It’s not hard for you. We have different relationships with her.”
“I know she can be difficult, but she loves you.”
“Difficult? She spent a solid year of my life bursting into tears and praying every time she saw me because the devil had his clutches in me.”
“That was her religious phase. You know she’s over that now. She doesn’t care that you’re gay.”
Shaking my head, I drag a hand through my hair. This is useless. Whitney will never see my side of it.
“I’ll call her.”
“See how easy that is? I’ll send you pictures of Riley’s recital.”
“Great.”
We end the call and I slump against the counter.
I know I need better boundaries with my family, but at least I don’t live near them anymore.
Now that they’ve moved upstate, neither Whitney nor my mother can just show up anymore without planning ahead.
Sometimes I still find myself wondering what life might have been like if my dad was still around.
Would my mom have been more stable? Would I have pursued the law career he wanted for me?
Would Whitney have chosen a different path?
The kitchen door opens, filling the space with familiar voices and pulling me out of my depressing thoughts.
It’s Indy, Kit, Bane, and Jerryn, and my mood dips with disappointment that Ridley isn’t with them.
Before I can wonder where he is though, the door swings open again and he enters with Salem and Lowen.
Everyone’s talking at once, carrying on separate conversations within the group, but Ridley’s eyes are on me, a soft smile on his face.
“Morning, Chef.”
“Morning.”
“You good?” he asks.
I nod, glancing at my still-blank specials notebook page. “Yeah. Planning for next week.”
“I vote to bring back the shrimp tostada bites,” Salem says, leaning on the counter. “Those were popular.”
Lowen nods. “I agree. You might want to consider adding them as a permanent item.”
I scrawl that on my paper. “I noticed that too. Thought I might play around with a tropical wing sauce.”
“Oooh, something with pineapple?” Jerryn says. “I love pineapple.”
“I can do pineapple.” I write that down. “Spicy and sweet is always a good combo.”
The guys filter past me to the office, but Ridley lingers, leaning over the counter so there’s barely any separation between our mouths.
“I woke up with a massive hard-on,” he whispers, checking that the guys are gone, “and memories of that mouth of yours.”
My stomach flutters. He never flirts with me at work or mentions what we do in the dark once the sun comes up, but this is fun.
“What did you do about it?”
“Nothing. I’m saving it up.”
“For?”
“For whenever you come around again.” He rests on his elbows. “But I have a wicked craving for something only you can only give me.”
I lean in slightly, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. “What’s that?”
Ridley drags his tongue over his lips, his eyes dancing. “You, fucking my mouth, spilling your cum down my throat.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, reaching down to adjust my growing erection.
He stands and walks around to my side of the counter, pressing his chest to my back. His hand slides down my belly to my dick, and he squeezes gently.
“Have a good day, rabbit. Hope to see you later.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me panting and hard. I have no idea what’s gotten into him, but I hope it gets into him again.