Stubborn, I swear. It’s not like I asked him to give me a baby.
Ohh, that’s a perfect idea for my “unmarried at thirty-five” backup plan!
Wait, focus. One use of his anatomy at a time, and time is precious, something Crew apparently doesn’t seem to grasp.
It’s been nine days since I asked him to help me with my little problem. By the third, when I hadn’t heard a word, I half expected an angry voice mail from my dad, but nooo. Mister Cool Cat Crew didn’t even bother to snitch me out. He used to tell on me to Memphis all the time and then Memphis would play dad, even though we had a perfectly strict one of those already. It was annoying.
It’s funny how the things that drive you batty about a person are the things you miss most.
Day five made everything clear. He was pretending I didn’t ask him to give me the D.
But I did. And he knows I did.
So, by the sixth day, I decided to remind him by sending him a cherry emoji, following it up with the explosion one, and a pair of begging hands.
He did respond, but only with a single, four-letter word I hate, being it’s been his go-to when it comes to me since forever.
Ugh!
So yeah, it’s the ninth day, and I’m pissed, so I pull up the message thread, glaring at the word “stop,” and I swear it grows big and bold and mocking.
And blurry, but that could be the half bottle of grocery store wine I’ve consumed.
Wedging the bottle between my legs, I jolt when the chill meets my thighs, and text the maddening man again.
Me: In case you have forgotten, I always sucked at the silent game my mom tried to trick us into playing on road trips.
Me: I don’t like silence.
Me: It makes me want to scream.
Me: So maybe I’ll keep being annoying and texting one line at a time.
Me: Over and over until you respond.
Me: It could work.
I go to text another random spew of nonsense, but before I can, those three little dots appear in the thread, and I grin. A grin that falls flat five seconds later.
Crew: I’m at work. Stop.
There’s that word again!
Me: Say you agree.
Five minutes go by, and I groan, take a swig from the bottle, and send another message.
Me: Don’t make me beg. I am not above begging. I will literally get on my knees, Crew.
Crew: Swear to god, girl. Quit, or I’ll call your dad.
My mouth gapes. See! “Ass!”
Me: Okay, sure. Tell him his sweet, perfectly virginal daughter is asking his second son to deflower her in exchange for a 1939 Chevy half ton!
Annoyed, I hop off the edge of the bed and begin pacing the room. What if he is calling my dad? At this very moment?
Oh my god, what if Crew does tell him I offered him what was supposed to be my brother’s prized possession in exchange for something so… trivial. I mean, I know virginity is important to a lot of people. Some want to wait until they’re married, and that’s fantastic. Commendable, really. Yay them.
I, however, am not one of those people. I’m only a virgin because the opportunity to rid myself of the title has never been naked before me or I probably would have grabbed hold—hopefully requiring both hands—but again, I’ve yet to get the chance.
It’s probably because I like to stay busy. Always. I work and go to school and guys are… difficult. To be fair, most of the men I talk to are hungover customers, looking for the perfect meal to settle their queasy stomachs. That or their polar opposite and instead of liquor, they get book drunk, thinking they’re smarter than me, and speak as if they’re fresh off page five of Communication Essentials for Dummies.
To be fair: they’re also not Crew.
I squeal when my phone rings, peeking at the screen out of the corner of one eye. The utter relief that washes over me when it’s not my dad’s smiling face greeting me, but the sneaky side profile shot I took and programmed for Crew is embarrassing.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I end up staring at the screen rather than answering, and then it stops. Seconds later, his text comes through, and I growl.
This man is impossible, but liquor can help with that.
Picking up the pink-colored wine, I take another swig.
Crew
I swear to fucking God, if I wasn’t working, I’d need a damn drink, times ten. Had I lacked self-control, I’d have busted out a bottle the morning she begged me to meet her, saying the last fucking thing I’d ever expected to leave those lips.
It’s like she’s gone mad.
For real mad.
I don’t even know why I’m entertaining this conversation. Should turn my fucking phone off already.
Should but don’t.
Instead of calling me back, she sends another message.
Davis: You should really say yes. You won’t like the alternative.
What the hell is she talking about?
Glaring at my screen, I pretend I didn’t already give her the only possible fucking answer.
Me: What happens if I say no?
Davis: Are you saying no?
Me: Sweets.
Davis: Salts.
A scoffed laugh escapes me, and I kick off the wall, glancing toward the end of the alleyway when drunken laughter reaches me.
I sigh when my phone vibrates in my hand.
Davis: If you won’t take my virginity, I’ll find someone else who will.
“What the fuck?” Frustration heats my chest, my fingers flying over the keys.
Me: You can’t go shopping for dick in a bookstore.
Davis: No… but you can in a bar.
“Oh, hell no.” I whip around, heading for the sidewalk instead of turning to the back exit I came out of. My phone is at my ear in seconds, but all I get is her voice mail.
“Hi, you reached Davis, I’m either in class or effectively ignoring your call.”
“Swear to you, Baby Franco, you do something dumb, I’ll—” I cut myself off, hanging up with a huff.
I was going to say whoop that ass, but considering what she’s asking, she’d probably assume that meant I was agreeing to her “offer,” as she called it.
An offer.
“Relieve her of her virginal status” as she so callously put it in the damn contract she typed up, “in exchange” for her brother’s rebuilt 1939, dusty-red Chevy half ton. The one we spent two summers fixing up alongside his father and grandfather before he passed. The one Memphis spent a year saving for the final part to get it on the road, but never had the chance to get it installed.
Mad. She’s gone fucking mad.
Memphis isn’t around anymore to give me a hand in what we liked to call “don’t be dumb, Davis,” not that I’d hit him up if he were, and I’d never call her pops, even though I threatened to. He doesn’t need the stress and spilling something like this to him might send the old man into a heart attack. He went through enough with his son to have to worry his daughter has lost her damn mind, and only weeks before her college graduation.
It’s not like I’d want help with this anyway. No way I’d listen to what someone else thought was right, wrong, or too much. She’s too fucking much, and I didn’t go through all the shit I did, stay away all this fucking time, to allow her to pull this.
There’s no fucking way.
You’d have to quit ignoring her to stop her.
Grinding my teeth, I curve around the small line outside the bar, patting the bouncer on the shoulder as I walk by. “Last name Franco doesn’t pass the door.”
“You got it, boss.”
Shoving my way through the entrance, I slip behind the bar.
Drew nods his chin from the other side, but I shake my head and get back to picking up my employees’ slack.
She might have hinted at knowing where I work when I did my best to keep it from her, but Matt won’t let her past the door. No way she’ll Uber her ass all the way down here, and she’s too chicken to go out alone, so that scratches the bars by campus.
Her little plot twist will have to wait another night.
Minute by minute, the place grows fuller, and before I know it, I’m drowning in orders, passing out free shots just to get the area clear for all the others waiting to get up here to order.
One minute I’m pouring vodka on the rocks, and the next, I look up, locking onto a pair of eyes that shine like malt whiskey.
Davis smiles wide, pushing a twenty-dollar bill across the wooden bar top. “Drink please, something extra sweet.”
Fuck.
