“YOU’RE BREATHING DOWN MY NECK.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” I gesture to my neck where he’s hovering while we peer out toward the restaurant from the bar. “There is breath on my neck that’s forming a dewy condensation, and frankly, it’s giving me the ick.” I turn toward the worst human I’ve ever met and look him dead in the eyes. “You’re giving me the ick.”
He glares at me for a moment, those dark brown eyes like spotlights, examining every inch of me. “The spinach that’s been stuck between your teeth for the last hour and a half has been giving me the ick.”
I let out a horrified gasp before I rub my finger over my teeth frantically. “Where? Did I get it?”
I bare my teeth at him, and he throws his head back and laughs before shaking his head. “Jesus, you’re too easy.”
And this is why I can’t stand this man.
I smooth my tongue over my teeth just for good measure before I say, “I hate you so much.”
He grins the most annoying grin ever presented to another human. “Not as much as I hate you.”
And that in a nutshell sums up my relationship with Brody McFadden.
The bane of my existence.
My current nightmare.
And my brother’s best friend.
I would like to say it wasn’t always like this, the disgust between us, but honestly, I don’t know. My brother, who is seven years older than me, met Brody in college. They were in a fraternity together.
Sigma Phi Delta! Let’s go! ← said in annoying bro voice.
Yeah, I’m gagging too.
I met Brody when they graduated, and he’d simply been “my brother’s best friend.” Nothing more.
My brother, Gary, was best known in his bro-hood college days for jumping off the frat house roof and into the pool, breaking his leg in three places. A vastly unintelligent move, but hey, he got high fives from everyone, so clearly a winning decision.
And then there’s Brody. He’s best known for making out with two hundred and thirty-two women throughout his college career. He kept count. I know this because he’s told me…twice. Can we say…douche?
The pair of idiot bro-hards formed a bond over the Chicago Rebels, a baseball team they love so much that to this day they will cry like itty-bitty babies if their cherished team loses in the playoffs.
I’ve seen it.
It’s unflattering and uncomfortable to witness.
Gary’s face will turn a dangerous shade of red while Brody will sniffle over and over…and over. Just blow your nose! We all know you’re crying.
And of course, because they’re not responsible in the slightest, instead of applying for jobs right out of college, they spent the summer visiting every ballpark in America and putting together a detailed list of which one serves the best hot dog. They created a website for the entire endeavor and last I checked, they’ve only had a little over one thousand visitors, so…time well spent. Really went viral with that idea.
So, why do I hate him?
Great question.
Because the night Gary and his now wife, Patricia—bless her soul for putting up with my brother—got married, I became woman two hundred and thirty-three. Ehhh…well, probably more than that, but you get the idea.
I fell victim to a Brody McFadden make out session.
And it wasn’t just some kissing.
Ohhhh no, there was groping.
Huffing.
Grunting.
Smacking lips.
He felt my boob.
I touched his erection.
Cupped it, actually.
Sometimes I can still feel him in the palm of my hand. There was girth, damn it.
It’s infuriating. But what’s more infuriating than the imprint of Brody McFadden’s large wiener on my hand is the fact that he gave me the best and most passionate kiss I’d ever experienced in my twenty-three years of life.
All the practice he had in college turned him into the Master of Mouths.
The Conqueror of Caresses.
The Sultan of Salacious Tongues!
I felt that kiss all the way to my champagne-painted toes that night.
He owned me with his mouth, dragging me into a vortex of his carnal hotbed.
I was useless.
Played like a fiddle by his large hands and his masterful lip-locking.
Pressed up against a wall, living out every romantic heart’s fantasy as the most attractive, tuxedo-clad man in the room devoured me with one simple slip of his lips over mine. It was a dream.
A fantasy turned reality.
And right as he cupped my breast over the burgundy chiffon of my dress, he lightly pinched my nipple, releasing the most feral sound I’ve ever produced.
The moan sounded like angels above to me, but to him…but to him…it apparently acted like a wet blanket, suffocating his monstrous erection and turning it into a shriveled-up bean pod.
He pulled away so fast that a string of saliva dangled between us before hitting me in the chin.
And then I’ll never…ever…forget this part. It was utterly humiliating.
Degrading.
Flat-out freaking rude.
Looking me square in the eyes, my hazel to his deep brown, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, uh yeah…wiped it off in front of me—as if disposing of the layer of lust we created to avoid catching infection. What did he expect? Cholera?
Then without a word, just a snarl on his lips, he turned away and bolted, leaving me aroused, confused, and sexually annoyed…at my brother’s wedding.
Yup, let’s hear it. Go ahead, let in the boos.
Send your curses in his direction.
Any hate mail can be addressed to Brody McFadden, 233 Locked- Lipped Loser Lane.
You’re allowed to hate him. I actually hope that you do. I plead that you do.
So, after hearing all of that, you must be wondering, why am I letting this Henry Cavill look-alike—chin dimple and all—breathe heavily on my neck after he teased me with his tongue and then left me unsatisfied? Well, sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures.
Sometimes we’re dealt cards in our life that are harder to shuffle through than expected.
And sometimes you’re stuck on a small Polynesian island with no other option than to pretend the person you hate most in the entire world is actually your boyfriend…
