Chapter Thirty-Nine #2
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Isn’t that your job? Aren’t you the one with the fancy degrees and the laminated ethics code? Fix it without a nosebleed, right?”
“Maybe it starts small,” he says. “Maybe it’s you three sitting in the same space. Not tearing each other apart.”
I bark a laugh. “Okay, let’s stop bullshitting. It’s not three. It’s four. Let’s just say it. You’re gonna fold eventually. She’s going to smile at you the wrong way, and you’re going to be on your knees, and don’t pretend you haven’t already jacked off in the shower thinking about her.”
A couple at the next table turns. I shoot them a smile that says move along or bleed for it.
Benji stays quiet. Of course he does. Cheese-dipping, good-boy, girlfriend-forever Benji.
“How is any of this helping her?” I say, pointing between us. “She’s got charges coming at her from all sides. She’s scared. You want me to what, start a knitting circle with the competition?”
“That part’s out of our hands,” Rhys says. “What we can do is make the rest of her life easier.”
I shake my head. “You expect me to sit there and watch her straddle Benji like it’s a trust fall? And just make eye contact and nod politely like that’s normal?”
“You wouldn’t have to witness anything so drastic to start,” Rhys says, smoothing the words like they’re tea leaves instead of landmines. “I can offer a session. The three of you. Neutral ground.”
“Oh, the same room where you imagine bending her over your desk?” I ask.
Rhys flinches. Barely. But I see it. Boom. Got him right in that therapist guilt-core.
“Perhaps you and Benji first,” he says after a beat. “No Delilah. Just...time like this. Shared space. Neutral ground. Maybe a hobby?”
“The pool?” Benji suggests, like it’s the most normal idea in the world. “Or nude art. That’d include all of us.”
“Of course you wouldn’t object to the pool,” I growl. “That’s your turf. Like the gym is mine. Funny how you only suggest shit that keeps you comfortable.”
“I wouldn’t mind the gym either,” Benji says. “It’s not about territory.”
“Exactly.” I point a loaded finger at him. “You don’t mind anything. And that pisses me the fuck off.”
Rhys is smiling now. The kind of smile that makes me want to wipe it off with a barstool.
“Why don’t we do all three?” Benji says, chipper like we’re planning a picnic and not mutually circling the same woman like dogs in a bone pit.
“Hit Rhys’s naked kink therapy tomorrow, swing by the pool after my clients Saturday, Delilah’ll be there if you’re brave enough, and Sunday, gym. Punch some shit. Classic masculinity.”
“I thought we were leaving her out of this strange dick-measuring bonding ritual,” I snap, halfway through my last onion ring and already mourning it.
“So come after her lessons,” he says, playing the reasonable one here.
So now I’m the asshole for not wanting to roll up poolside just in time to watch her climb into his lap in a string bikini.
“It’s not a naked kink,” Rhys says. Again. For the third fucking time.
“Shut the hell up,” I say. “It is. You’re a repressed pervert with a sketchpad.”
Rhys blinks slowly. “First of all, yes. I have kinks.”
Benji nods solemnly.
“Second, that’s not one of them. Drawing strangers nude is about detachment and discipline,” Rhys says.
“If the third is about your kinks, skip it. I don’t want any part of that festering in my mental real estate,” I say.
Benji fucking giggles. “We should make a group text. In case plans shift.”
“We don’t have plans,” I say, but my phone’s already in my hand.
“What are you so afraid of?” Rhys asks, pulling out his phone as if he’s about to schedule a goddamn brunch. “Benji? Number?”
Benji rattles it off while sipping his soda.
This is the Twilight Zone. I’ve slipped into a different plane of existence where men who want the same woman exchange digits like teammates before a fantasy draft.
“What am I afraid of?” I shoot back. “You’re the one who’s scared of her.”
That one lands. Rhys looks like a chord got plucked under his ribs.
“She rattles you. That ever stop?” I ask, watching him enter the number anyway.
“I’ve had no developments with Delilah,” he says, too clinical.
My phone dings. I glance down. A new group chat blinks on screen. Labeled: “Darling-Thirst Support Group.”
“What the actual fuck.” I don’t even know who to stab first. Rhys, for naming it that, Benji for not objecting, or me, for opening the text thread like a moron. The chat icon is a stock photo of a therapy couch and a flame emoji.
“Yet,” I say. “You haven’t touched her yet. But if you do it in front of me? I’ll turn it into a goddamn crime scene.”
Benji grins, all sunshine and zero threat awareness. Rhys leans back, phone in hand, probably documenting my meltdown for his next thesis on possessive psychos.
I’m in hell. Let’s all share the same girl and talk about it like gentlemen hell. And these two bastards are wallpapering it in emojis and group texts.
And worse, they’re not even fighting me for her. They’re just waiting for me to catch up.
I want to flip this table. Instead, I tap a thumbs-up emoji.