Chapter 3
WILLA
Holy shit.
That had been epic. I called an Uber and stood on shaky, jelly legs next to Eng until I managed to slide into the back seat of my ride home.
We hadn’t spoken. We hadn’t exchanged numbers.
There had been no half-hearted statements about seeing each other again.
I doubted he even remembered my last name. This was one night.
And what a night it had been.
Damn. If this was sex with an orc, then call me a fan.
The guy might be a colossal asshole, but he could fuck like a hero from one of Abby’s romance novels.
I loved sex, and tonight with Eng, in a fucking alleyway of all places, had been the best sex of my life.
It was like he’d read my mind, knowing how to shift his hips, adjust his pace, nibble my neck before I even knew what I wanted.
The Uber dropped me off at my little studio apartment on George Street above a coffee shop/deli. I climbed the stairs and unlocked the door with shaking hands, throwing the three sets of deadbolts behind me before dropping my coat on the table and collapsing on my bed.
I was still horny. I wanted another round.
Yes, I had been a bit drunk after five beers this evening, but the ones at the stadium were so watered down they probably didn’t count.
Plus I’d had water instead of shots and the sex had helped to sober me up.
Still I wondered if my erotic haze was alcohol induced or the real thing.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’d let a buzz lead me to believe the sex was better than it was—or that the guy was better than he was.
I stripped and dug my vibrator out of the bedside table drawer, taking care of my residual needs.
It should have left me satiated, but I continued to think of the orc, his bulging muscles supporting my weight, the smooth feel of his tusks against my mouth, against my breast. The way he’d thrust into me, angling his approach to press against my erogenous zone.
It had been amazing. But I wasn’t the princess he wanted, and he wasn’t the sort of man I could possibly tolerate outside of the bedroom, let alone create a life with.
This was a one-night stand. It was an incredible experience—probably an experience that would complicate future relationships. But it still wasn’t enough to build a relationship on.
Enjoy the fun. Let go. I’d had a wonderful time tonight, but it wouldn’t happen again. And hopefully there would be other incredible sexual encounters in my future that might lead to a long-term relationship. Maybe even marriage.
Because this night of sex, as amazing as it was, was never going to be more than just a quick, hot bang in an alleyway.
I woke up the next morning feeling better than I had any right to.
The beers at the arena had been watery, but I’d followed them up with a beer at the first pub, then two more at McHenry’s.
The partying days of my college years were over.
While I still enjoyed an alcoholic beverage several times a week, at the age of thirty I could no longer handle a night of drinking.
It had been a wise choice to stick to water in all those shot glasses, even though I’d been tempted when Eng started drinking that rye whiskey.
The water must have helped because I had only a tiny headache that quickly went away once I downed a tall glass of water and started sipping my morning coffee.
My phone buzzed and I grabbed it, wondering who would be texting me at eight o’clock on a Sunday. Surely not my friends who’d had a few more pints of beer than I had.
Eng? I hadn’t given him my number though.
Had he somehow sleuthed it through the internet?
Texted me to say last night was amazing and he wanted to see me again?
My breathing hitched at the thought even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t see him again, that I wouldn’t fall into the bad-boy trap like I always did.
The text wasn’t from Eng. Even more disappointing, it was from one of my clients cancelling our personal training session for this morning. Wincing, I texted him back that I would see him on Wednesday and mentally calculated the hit on my back account.
One cancelled session shouldn’t make that much of a difference in my income, but I was budgeted down to the last penny.
And had been since I’d gotten out of college eight years ago.
There had been a crossroads when I’d made the decision between a medical career in physical therapy, or what I’d eventually chosen.
I loved my job. There was flexibility in my hours and in the athletic levels of my clients.
My per-client-hour income included a free membership at the gym.
And best of all, I got to help people reach their goals.
Increased mobility? Running a marathon? Keeping bone density loss at bay?
Or just being able to take the stairs up to your third-floor apartment without gasping for air?
There was such a high, such a feeling of joy in putting what my parents had thought would be a pre-med degree to use.
I wasn’t a doctor, but I hoped I helped all of my clients avoid a health problem that would need a doctor.
But there was a limit to the amount of clients I could manage in a day or in a week, and even picking up the occasional spin or yoga class didn’t bring a noticeable difference to my checking account balance.
I didn’t get regular raises. I didn’t have any company-paid benefits.
And the career I loved had completely stalled.
Which meant I was coming to the unfortunate realization that something needed to change.
I was one major car repair, one broken bone away from poverty.
And while my family would do their best to help me out, they shouldn’t need to pay the bills of a daughter they’d put through college.
It was time to grow up and face the fact that unless I won the lottery, or some unknown distant relative left me a pile of money, I’d need to change careers to something that paid better, something with the potential for growth.
Something that at least offered minimal health insurance coverage.
But that was a depressing topic for another day. Right now, I needed to get ready to go over to my parent’s house for our family ritual—Sunday dinner.
After a quick workout at the gym, I showered, put on one of the few family-friendly dresses I owned, tossed my gym bag into the back of my car, and made my way out to Canton.
We hadn’t been rich growing up, but between my father’s solid union job at the port and my mother’s teaching salary, we’d been comfortable.
Eight of us kids meant we’d needed to share bedrooms and bathrooms, and pretty much everything else.
There had been lots of squabbling, but there had also been lots of love and loyalty that had continued as we’d all flown the nest. Those of us who could make it to Sunday dinner, did.
Those who couldn’t were with us in spirit if not in person.
There was a rotating roster of us kids each week.
Even Emmajean and her family, who lived in Atlanta, flew north to see the family at least twice a year.
I made a special effort to be there. Partly because I lived in Baltimore and even if I had an appointment with a client, I still could at least manage to drive over for an hour or two. Even when my car had blown a gasket Dad had sent an Uber to bring me and had driven me home that night.
And he’d Venmo’d me money for the repair—money I gratefully accepted.
The other reason I did my darnedest to show up every Sunday was that I was acutely aware that time was ticking and there would be a day when my grandparents, my parents, and maybe even some of my siblings might not be there.
The thought of that sent an ache through my chest that I quickly shoved away.
I was the youngest, and while my grandparents were in their mid to late eighties, they were all reasonably healthy and active.
A depressingly quiet family home wasn’t on the immediately horizon.
I parked on the curb because the driveway was reserved for after-dinner basketball.
Or maybe before-dinner basketball depending on which of my brothers and sisters were here.
I saw Agatha’s car down the street, and Leroy’s, and Charlene’s, and Terrance’s.
Walking up the path to the porch I was nearly bowled over by a pack of five kids, one carrying a basketball.
“Don’t break any windows,” Charlene called after them. “Or dent any cars.”
“You know Leroy is secretly wishing they total his and Sela’s minivan,” I said.
My brother had been looking for an excuse to upgrade their family vehicle.
His wife had argued the van could last another two years, but if she needed to go one more year with their ancient kitchen appliances they’d all be living off microwaved pizza served on paper plates with disposable plastic utensils.
I’d sided with Sela, having witnessed said appliances.
Mom, Agatha, and I had all let Leroy know that the new appliances should come with some freshly painted cabinetry and maybe even granite countertops.
“Two years. That’s the deal on the minivan,” Sela shouted from the other side of the screen door. “I don’t care if we have to duct tape it together and power it with our feet like Fred Flintstone, that thing needs to last two years.”
I climbed the steps and embraced Charlene, thinking that even two years from now, Leroy’s minivan would be in better shape than my own vehicle.