Oh my god. I have a thing for Miller. #3
His face scrunches a little. “Nah. You got Beau for that. I ain’t no daddy. I don’t gotta teach morals. He’s a handsy prick, so you let him have it. I don’t see nothin’ wrong with that.”
For some stupid ass reason, my eyes fill so I face my computer and say, “thanks, Atticus.”
He pats my shoulder like an uncomfortable older brother, and before he leaves for the shop out back, he says, “thanks for tellin’ me.”
The rest of the morning is nice. Busy, with customers keeping the door revolving for most of the time.
I listen to my audiobook, slowing it down to the original speed so I can soak in every single drop of it.
I love how the woman takes the broken man into her hands and rebuilds him into someone mentally stronger than he was before, all using the control of his orgasm.
I don’t think someone could shape my thoughts and feelings by holding an orgasm over my head, but then again, men are far simpler than women.
I know it’s just a story, but I really feel like I get it.
I can understand how bringing them to the edge and taking away their power in sex makes them open to any and all feelings.
It’s then that the heroine swoops in and fills their brain with all the things they no longer believe about themselves.
And as they learn to control their orgasm more and more, she builds them up more and more.
It’s kind of brilliant. And it’s so fucking hot, too.
I can do that with Miller. For him. I can. I know it. I may not have the actual experience but again, is that really necessary? Plus, he doesn't have to know I’ve never done… things.
Atticus and Beau barrel through the shop doors together, having a friendly argument about what sounds like a book. They stop their chatter as I look up at them.
“What?” I blink. Why are they staring?
Beau leans toward me from across the desk. His smile is foreboding and tender like he’s the coach and I’m about to be cut from the team. “Atticus told me about the douche at karate.”
I turn to face Atticus and roll my eyes at him. He thumps his fist against his pecs. “Eye rolls bounce right off me. My old lady rolls her eyes at me so much; I’m immune.”
I roll them again for good measure. “You didn’t need to tell Beau.”
Beau clucks his tongue. “Don’t say that. Something’s up with you; I wanna know.”
Now I feel bad because Beau really means that.
He’s a good guy, and even though Atticus takes a cheese grater to my last frayed nerve, he’s a good guy too.
I let out a heavy sigh. “I know; I’m sorry.
I’m just… annoyed by the situation.” I speak a private truth, knowing with them it’s safe.
“I don’t want to be the poor girl who fights. ”
Beau winces back from the desk. “Poor?”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean. Lower income .”
His face grows serious. “Working hard to contribute to your family is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I know that,” I say defensively, then wish I wouldn’t have brought it up because Beau cannot possibly understand. I turn to face Atticus, and reading my mind, he nods.
“When you don’t got a lot, you feel like everyone knows and expects a certain behavior out of ya.”
Beau’s head ping-pongs between the two of us.
“I’ve been to both of your houses. They’re fucking great.
” He really looks puzzled, but then again, I forget that Beau is a millionaire that lives at my level because he likes it.
Sure, he doesn’t struggle with finances, but his house isn’t fancy, and if I think about it, I think it’s smaller than mom’s house.
Miller pushes through the door with his hands full.
“We’re getting burritos,” Atticus announces, gripping Beau by the shoulder and walking him out. He still looks confused, but right now, my focus is already entirely elsewhere.
When the front shop door closes, Miller empties his hands onto the desk. He pushes one of the items he was holding toward me, leaving a streak of moisture beading on the Plexiglass. “I brought you an ice pack.”
I look up at him.
“Atticus told me what happened.”
I roll my eyes but immediately feel the need to clarify. “The eye roll was for Atticus, not you.”
“I’ll pass it along.” Miller’s lips twitch at the corner like he’s fighting the instinct to smile. “I’m sorry you had to hit someone. That must have been scary. ”
I swallow the immediate lump of emotion that his words throw into my throat. “Yeah,” I breathe slowly. “It really was. I didn’t want to.”
“I know,” he says, and the way he says it makes me believe he really means it. My body feels like a Christmas tree that someone just plugged in.
“Thanks for the ice,” I say, wanting to change the subject. I plop the cold, melting bag onto my knuckles and feel relief from my heated state immediately. Next to me, Miller unpacks a bag from Delilah’s Deli.
“Two meatball subs,” he announces, and even though I’ve never had it before, my stomach growls like it’s my favorite meal.
I drop a hand to my stomach to stifle the outrageously loud howling.
He grins at me, and my stomach goes from starved to a sea of nerves and swells so high that my breath and voice falter for just a moment.
“Hungry?”
I rub where I’m holding my stomach. “Yeah,” I say, really holding back the insanely large grin I’m feeling. “Starved.”
“What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asks as he unrolls and plates up the food. I see he’s nabbed all the sides, too, and a man who doesn’t skimp on sides is my kinda man.
“Oatmeal with blueberries and granola,” I say. “It’s Art’s favorite, so I made enough for all of us.”
He nods. “I like oatmeal.”
“What’d you have?”
We sit and eat the most delicious meatball subs either of us has ever had, and we talk about food.
Miller tells me that he didn’t get to eat anything of his choosing growing up, so now, he treats himself to one thing a day that he’d wanted as a kid.
I like that a lot, how he’s taking care of himself by filling his bucket with what he feels he lost.
He tells me his first few years of having his own place were made up of fast food and ice cream. Lots of ice cream. He also tells me the one snack that stuck with him that he eats every day is fruit snacks.
And I can’t help that I like that about him, too.
And I can’t believe I’m only learning some of this just now, after years of working twenty feet apart. I guess I never asked or listened, but now, I’m not sure anyone could keep me from learning about him.
By the end, we plan on me being at his place around seven tonight, and all I can think of is how hard it will be to get through the rest of the workday.
Miller texts me his address, and when I leave for his place, I don’t lie to my parents. I mean, I omit details, but I don’t lie.
“Going to Miller’s place for a couple of hours. He’s teaching me some stuff from the MB,” I tell Mom as I work my feet into a pair of well-loved Vans. She glances at me once before returning to her dating show on TV.
“Okay, lock the front door when you get home.”
“Don’t drive home if you drink,” Art adds, peering at me over the top of his glasses.
“I’m not drinking. We’re working through the BIBLE tonight,” I say, confused. Art focuses on his newspaper, but I see a small smile on his face.
“We are,” I argue against his smile.
Mom looks at me, confused. “We are what?”
I wait for Art to look, but he doesn’t. “Nothing. Anyway, I’m going. Bye.” I kiss her on the cheek, and when I get to Art, he winks and lowers his voice when he says, “have fun.”
After sitting in my car in the driveway for a solid ten minutes figuring out which way I’m getting across town to Miller’s apartment, I check myself out in the flip-down mirror.
When I was getting ready after my shower, I felt compelled to wear things . Pretty things made of lace and satin. Things that came from the mall that I hide in the bottom of my pants drawer.
Buying those pieces of lingerie after I dumped Rock was a promise to myself: no more filler guys. Only date guys worth dating. And when I date a guy who I'm glad I waited for, I’ll wear the lingerie.
Miller is a friend turned mentor, and to him, I’m a friend turned…
guidance counselor . Mentor and guidance counselor sounds like the start of a joke involving a bar, not the start of a very sexy night.
So I went with my normal cotton bra and panties because I’m not trying to make an impression on Miller about anything other than how he feels about himself . It’s not about me. Or us.
Now that I’m looking in the mirror, I’m wishing I’d worn something lace, even if Miller never saw it. Because I’m feeling underwhelmed with myself, and suddenly I’m wishing I was a little… more .
It’s late, so I didn’t wear makeup. It didn’t make sense to shower and then put on a fresh face of makeup. Also, I didn’t want it to seem like I was dressing up for a date or something and make Miller feel weird.
I’m wearing jeans with my Vans and a Wrench Kings hoodie.
My curls are up in what I’d like to think is a bun but is more realistically a wad of tangled former curls.
Pieces that escaped the shower cap are wild and frizzy around my face and down the back of my neck, and when I smile, the wear of the weekend lies beneath my eyes in dark crescents.
I drive to Miller’s place, and by the time I get there, I realize the thing bugging me isn’t what I’m wearing or how I look.
It’s that I am concerned about his opinion of me.
Since when?
Irritated with myself, I close my car door harder than necessary, and like usual, it doesn’t make me feel any better. Stupid fucking car door. Miller’s apartment is on the second floor in the back corner–the perfect spot.
Of course, he has the perfect location because I want a perfect little corner apartment, and I want Miller, and it’s only making him that much more appealing to me.