chapter four Succumbing to the Powers of the Curse #2
“You okay?” Pickleball Guy asks.
Shielding my face with my hand, I turn carefully back to make sure I saw who I think I saw. My eyes did not deceive me. Sitting
just two tables away is Olsen’s sister. Lex is by herself, dressed in jeans and a loose grey shirt, with a thick book propped
on the table in front of her. You’d have to be living under a rock to not instantly recognize the ACOTAR cover.
Of all the places Lex could be on a Friday night, she had to choose this restaurant. There’s no possible way that this is a coincidence. The curse has fully kicked in and is here to ruin my night
and rob me of my chance for mediocre, disappointing sex.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, still shielding my face. “Was just thinking we could get out of here.”
“We haven’t even ordered dinner.”
“I know, but there’s someone over there I’d really rather avoid,” I try to explain without getting into too many details.
I don’t want him to fear for his life, or the well-being of his genitals. I really should be getting guys to sign a waiver.
“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Pickleball guy seems genuinely concerned.
“I was thinking . . . we go back to your place, order some takeout, and get more comfortable?” I try to make my voice seductive
rather than panicked.
It works. Pickleball Guy’s countenance immediately shifts into suave mode as he leans forward and gives me an exaggerated wink. “I can show you some footage from my last match while we . . .
relax.”
Oh, god, no. I mean, yes? I force myself to smile. “Sounds great.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the bill,” he says, as if he’s doing me a huge favour by paying for my thrice-refilled club
soda. Pickleball Guy reaches across the table, picks up my hand, and brings it to his lips for a kiss. I do my very best not
to cringe at the very m’lady show of affection. If he had a fedora, he’d be tipping it.
As soon as he’s gone, I wipe the back of my hand on my pants. If I’m this turned off by him kissing my hand, then maybe I
shouldn’t be having sex with him. Maybe once we’re paid and outside I’ll tell him that I need to go home to water the dog
and walk my plants, and it was very nice to meet him, and—
I look toward Lex at exactly the wrong time and we lock eyes.
Hers widen with immediate recognition and, dare I say, a hint of fear.
Her steely blues are arresting in their intensity, sharp and focused and penetrating.
With effort, I manage to rip my gaze from hers and turn back in my seat, opting to pretend I never saw her at all, but in my haste I bump into the table and knock my freshly refilled soda over right into my lap.
I gasp in shock at the cold, wet sensation.
The glass rolls on the table toward the edge, but I manage to grab it before it falls and shatters on the ground.
My head whips to Lex, who saw the whole thing and is sitting there with her mouth slightly agape and eyes wide, then over
to Pickleball Guy, who is at the host stand using the debit terminal as a paddle to demonstrate a proper swing to the poor
server held captive trying to get a tip out of him. Then, finally, I look down at my lap, my white pants soaked through. I
grab all the napkins on the table and try to sop it up. With only seconds left before Pickleball Guy returns, I rub vigorously
at my damp crotch, hoping I can soak up enough liquid that my white pants won’t be completely see-through. Nobody needs to
know that I’m wearing my lucky purple striped panties.
“Mommy, that lady is touching herself in her no-no place!” a little girl’s voice announces from the table beside me.
I turn to look, and the mother stops halfway through cutting up her child’s chicken tenders to cover her daughter’s eyes,
mortified. I look down at my hands busy rubbing at my pants, to the distraught family confused by the attention I’m paying
to my crotch, and back to Lex, who is frozen in place as she watches the curse in action.
“It’s not, I’m just, I—” I stutter, trying to explain what happened, when another server approaches.
“Ma’am, this is a family establishment.” He crosses his arms and scowls.
The little girl starts crying, the parents are yelling at the server about the conversation they’re going to have to have
with their child, and the entire restaurant pauses their meal to watch the drama unfold.
The server leans on the table. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Pickleball Guy approaches. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing! I’m just so wet,” I say, gesturing at my pants.
His brows raise in excitement.
“I mean, I wet my pants!”
His brows lower in disgust.
“Can we just get out of here, please?” I ask, clutching the wet napkins to my very see-through white pants.
Pickleball Guy glances around him and notes all the people staring, becoming more and more uncomfortable by the second. “You
know, on second thought, I’ll call you.” Before I can object, he turns on his heel and leaves me alone in the restaurant with
nothing but soaked pants and a year’s worth of embarrassment.
“Ma’am, you have to go,” the server demands. This time, the bartender is behind him, arms crossed and domineering, as if I’m
going to put up a fight.
“Yes. Okay . . .” I begin to stand, unable to hide my shame any longer.
Lex appears at my side, blocking everyone’s view of me with her jacket. Her eyes meet mine, those sharp blues of her communicating
a single phrase: I got you. I stand behind her jacket and Lex wastes no time wrapping it around my waist and tying the arms over the apex of my thighs
to hide my bright purple panties from view.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” Lex tosses a twenty on the table, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and escorts me from