Chapter 7
Simon
I don’t call Cassie the next day. Or the day after that.
It’s not that I don’t want to. Frankly, I want to call her so badly I have to kick my own ass to keep myself from dialing her number.
Which is a problem, in my mind. We established the boundaries pretty clearly. This is about sex and nothing more. We both get to scratch an itch without any attachments being formed.
So, I’m doing my part to make sure that happens.
That doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t leap into my throat when I see her number pop up on my phone around ten on Sunday morning.
“Hey there,” she says, sending a jolt of dopamine from my brain through my body. “Hadn’t heard from you for a couple days, so I wanted to make sure you’re still on board for helping me with The List.”
Her tone is breezy and casual, and I can’t tell if she genuinely doesn’t care or if she’s playing that card so I don’t think she’s desperate or too available. I know the latter isn’t true, since Cassie Michaels is a far, far cry from desperate.
That leaves me to assume she might not care, which makes me feel shittier than it ought to.
As far as her list goes, a cock is a cock. Whether it’s mine or someone else’s, she’ll have no trouble crossing off the rest of the items.
My brain flashes on the image of Cassie with someone else. Screaming his name as he performs the Post Hole Digger, whatever the hell that is. I picture the bliss-dazed look on her face as another woman grazes those beautiful breasts with soft fingertips as they lean close and share a kiss.
I suddenly feel hollow and angry and jealous and I don’t know why, but I do know one thing. I need to see Cassie again.
“Sorry I’ve been out of touch,” I tell her as I settle back onto my black leather sofa. “I’m definitely still in. If you want me, I mean.”
“I want you.”
I can hear the smile in her voice, and it reroutes all the blood in my brain straight to my groin. “Well okay, then,” I say. “What’s next?”
Cassie clears her throat, all business now. “I was doing a little research for item number three.”
“Number three?”
“The pokey wheelie thing,” she says. “The Wartenberg wheel? I found a ton of them for sale online.”
Her focus on this device is charming to me.
There’s something oddly sweet about Cassie’s interest in it.
The fact that it stems from her own science background, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s eager to follow through with something she admits she wrote down on a drunken whim.
In any case, I love the idea of her browsing sex toys on .
“Did you find something you like?” I stroke a hand over the arm of my sofa and wonder what it would be like to have her sitting here next to me. Would it feel natural to put my hand on her knee, to have her tuck her feet up under her and lean in close?
I like that mental picture a lot more than I wish I did.
“That’s the thing,” she says. “There are some Wartenberg wheels that have seven rows of pins, and some with three, and some that have just one. And some that advertise really sharp pins, and some that boast about the quantity of pins. How do I know what I need?”
“That depends,” I say. “Are you planning to get off with it or use it for neurological testing?”
She laughs, and I picture her there on the sofa thumbing through her laptop. “That’s what’s weird. I’m finding some of them listed under ‘medical supplies,’ and some listed under ‘novelty and more.’”
“Hang on, let me look.” I grab my iPad off the coffee table and pull up , joining her in the online quest for the perfect sex toy.
I type in the keywords and find myself staring at a veritable cornucopia of sharp little pinwheels.
“Wow. This is impressive. Did you notice they’ve got some categorized under ‘tools and home improvement,’ subcategory ‘hole punches’? ”
“Good Lord,” Cassie says. “Let’s hope no one gets mixed up and sends their third grader to class with one of these in the school supplies box.”
I chuckle and continue flipping through reviews on one of the more popular implements. Something tickles my big toe, and I glance down to see a daddy longlegs spider scuttle across the Italian marble floor.
“Aaaarrh!” I bellow, jerking my feet up onto the couch. “Holy shit!”
“Simon? Are you okay?”
“Fuck!” I yelp, but the spider is gone. Jesus.
“What is it? What’s wrong? Simon—”
“I’m fine, it’s okay,” I assure her. “I just saw a spider.”
She’s quiet a moment. “A spider?”
“Yes, a spider. A daddy longlegs.”
“You know they can’t bite, right?” She sounds amused, but at least she’s not laughing at me.
“I hate spiders, okay? I’ll get the gardener to call an exterminator—”
“You have a gardener?”
Crap. A guy who works in a computer store wouldn’t have a gardener, would he? It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her right then. To explain about the career, the finances, the magazine articles that have made me unexpectedly famous in certain circles. The whole mess.
But that’s been the catalyst for screwing up every relationship I’ve ever had, and I’m not ready to sabotage what I’ve got going with Cassie right now.
“I’m joking about the gardener,” I mutter. “I’ll pick up a can of bug spray at Home Depot.” I drop back onto the sofa and pick up the iPad again, feeling more than a little embarrassed. “So back to the Wartenberg wheel. Are you looking at this one with the three rows of spikes?”
“Hang on, what’s the item number?”
I rattle it off, then wait for her to pull it up so we’re looking at the same page. I lean back against the sofa and wish she were here next to me, her hair brushing my arm as she leans over my lap to peer at the screen.
“Okay, I found it,” she says.
“Check out the second review down. The one titled, ‘You get what you pay for.’ See it?”
“Yeah.” She snorts. “He’s questioning whether it’s really stainless steel and suggesting you not use an autoclave to sterilize it.”
“Think that’s a medical professional or someone who’s really dedicated to cleanliness when it comes to sex toys?”
“If it’s the latter, I can’t imagine having sex with that guy,” she says. “He’d be checking the pillowcases for hair samples and whipping out the antibacterial spray every five minutes.”
I laugh, enjoying the easy banter with her as I scroll through more reviews on the device. “Here’s one titled, ‘Great product!’” I read. “It says, ‘everybody needs at least one.’ Think that’s someone who’s using it as a sex toy or a neurological device?”
“Sex toy,” Cassie decides. She’s quiet for a moment, and I picture her scrolling down the same page. I can’t decide if this is flirtation, a mild form of phone sex, or just a fun conversation. Either way, I’m enjoying myself.
“Here’s another review,” she says. “It’s titled. ‘Problem screw.’”
“Sounds unfortunate.”
“Right, but the review says, ‘Screw fell out after first use, but easy to repair. Just watch out for the screw.’ Think that’s a sex toy user or a medical user?”
“Medical,” I decide. “Wouldn’t they make a screw joke otherwise?”
“Good point,” she says. “How about ‘best value for the money’?”
“Sex toy. I can appreciate budget-conscious kink.” I don’t say anything else, hopeful that solidifies her belief I’m just an average Joe with a less-than-impressive bank account. I keep scrolling, enjoying the easy banter between us.
“How about this one that says, ‘Broke five minutes after using.’”
“Tough call,” she says. “Maybe medical use on that one. Then again, I could see the sex toy user being the one to apply a little too much pressure.”
“You notice some of the ‘also purchased’ items at the bottom?” I ask. “Looks like polypropylene rope, leather floggers, and coconut oil are popular accompaniments.”
“So is a UV sanitizing wand and this really expensive eye cream.”
“For people who squeeze their eyes shut during kinky sex, but don’t want wrinkles?” I suggest.
She bursts out laughing, and I realize this is becoming my favorite sound in the world. Even more than the sound of Cassie screaming my name when she comes.
“Tell you what,” I say. “There’s a pretty good adult store a few blocks from your apartment. How about I swing by and grab a Wartenberg wheel that we know is meant for our intended purposes.”
“You mean right now?”
“Sure,” I say, then realize I’m being a presumptuous asshole. “If you’re free, I mean.”
She hesitates a few beats, and I’m opening my mouth to suggest another day when she replies. “I can’t do it tonight,” she says. “I have to go to a baby shower for my sister’s best friend.”
“A baby shower?”
There’s something hilarious about the idea of Cassie chatting me up about kink while she’s getting ready for a baby shower, but I realize she’s not laughing.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s this ‘all-white’ themed shower my sister’s been planning for months. Apparently white symbolizes goodness, innocence, and purity.”
The glum note is unmistakable in Cassie’s voice, and I’m not sure how to respond to that. “You have to go?”
“I do. I’m supposed to help Lisa polish the white porcelain serving dishes so she can set out all kinds of white candy.
And then I’ll help blow up a bunch of white balloons and string up white streamers so we can all ooh and ahh over them while we eat our white cake over a table covered with a white tablecloth. ”
“This is sounding very—”
“Pretentious?”
“I was trying to come up with a less judgmental word, but yeah. I guess that’s it.”
“They don’t mean it to be,” she says. “It’s just how they are. It’s just what they’re into.”
“So, you can’t blow it off?”
“No. I want to help. I promised I would, even though it’s not really my scene. Besides, my sister loaned me her car two weeks ago when mine was being serviced. I owe her a favor.” She hesitates, and I listen to the silence, wondering if she’s about to change her mind.
But that’s not what’s going on in Cassie Michaels’s head.
“I really do love them,” she says at last. “They’re a challenge sometimes, but my sisters are the best people I know. They’d each give me a kidney if I needed one, and I’d do the same for them.”
“Ah. That makes sense.”
And it does. I consider telling her about Junie. About how I started the WorkAbility program so adults with disabilities—people just like Junie—could have opportunities to be productive. To know they have value in society.
But I clamp my mouth shut and bite back the words.
I can’t afford to go there. I don’t mean financially, though money is certainly a factor.
It’s been a factor in every relationship I’ve had, starting when the woman realizes I’m stupidly wealthy, and ending when she discovers life with me won’t be like an episode of the Kardashians.
I don’t say any of this to Cassie. Instead, I offer up a perfectly bland remark. “Sibling relationships are complicated.”
“That they are.”
I wait to see if she’ll volunteer more. If she’ll offer further intimate details about her life or her relationship with the siblings.
I hate how curious I am. How much I’m enjoying getting to know her.
I know I need to keep a rein on things, to keep this whole thing in the ballpark of a sexual relationship.
It can’t be more than that. We’ve both agreed.
But still, I wonder about her. I want to know more.
“How about another time for the pokey wheelie thing,” I suggest.
“Good idea. A pokey wheelie rain check.”
“Actually, what would you say to a date?”
“A date?” She sounds skeptical, and I hope I haven’t crossed some line in our agreement to keep things purely sexual.
“Not a date, exactly,” I tell her. “I just think we should sit down together and make a plan for the rest of The List.”
“Oh. That sounds smart.”
“We could even keep our clothes on. Maybe grab a bite to eat or something.”
“Okay.” I can’t tell from her tone if she likes the idea or hates it. But when she speaks again, I hear the smile in her voice. “I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.”
So do I. And that scares the shit out of me.