Evolve Series Box Set (83 page)

“Yeah,” he stands, extending his hand to her, “show me your moves.”

And he’s back in the game, ladies and gentlemen! Now it’s me and the friend. I blatantly move my eyes down her body and back up even slower, giving her a one-sided grin when I get to her wide, hungry eyes. Not bad. “You got a name?”

“Carmen. Yours?” She smiles shyly. Nice try. Her eyes tell me the truth; she’s anything but shy.

“Sawyer. Have a seat,” I pivot toward her and spread my legs, patting my thigh, “right here.”

***

“Sawyer!”

Don’t open your eyes, just keep going. She’ll go away, you’ll finish and fall asleep; another day down.

Her fist thuds on the door so hard this time it shakes. “Sawyer!”

“What?” I scream back, aggravated. Whatever my sassy ass roommate Laney lacks in good timing…she doesn’t make up for in subtlety, either. Must we talk while I’m buried nine inches deep in…? I spare a one-eyed peek at…the brunette under me. That’s right—the friend. The girl I picked solely for the color of her hair.

It may always be a raven-haired beauty, for the rest of my life, if I don’t fuck her image out of my head. The thought of the clumsy-yet-captivating lil’ stripper has me pumping feverishly into Miss Not Her, screams of “Oh Daddy!” bouncing off my bedroom walls again.

Which explains the complaining spitfire banging on my door. This bitch is loud!

“You are not her daddy and I have to be up and on the field at 6 am! Finish or shove a sock in her mouth!” Laney calls out, the thin plywood door, the only thing between us, not even close to a barrier if Laney decides to come shut this girl up herself.

“Yup,” I answer, eyes squeezed shut again, no break in the rhythm of my thrusts. “You heard her,” I grunt to my guest, “quiet down, sweetheart, and no more Daddy talk.”

“Hmph.” She starts to pout, but it easily morphs into an open-mouthed groan when I switch from teasing her with only the tip to slamming home again.

“Yes, oh God, yes!” she screeches beneath me, totally faking it.

Yes, I’m sure. You see…loose chicks, or basic bitches, can get away with the fake orgasm when they’re fucking a needle dick. As long as she fluffs Pencil Dick’s ego until five seconds after he comes, he’s okay with ignorant bliss because of the unspoken understanding that he’s anatomically equipped to get off regardless of the fact that he’s a suck fuck and she got nothing. Not only can he not tell, since he’s sporting a twig, but most guys don’t give a shit if she’s really getting off or not, so they’ve never made a study of the signs.

I have a different handbook; feel free to follow along.

I’m built. It’s not ego, just a fact. So if I can’t touch the sides, the elasticity in that thing is shot—Ben Wa, kegels, duct tape, and electrical wire be damned—there’s no hope, sweetie. Buy a double-wide dildo and a lifetime supply of anti-depressants and wait ‘til some unlucky bastard’s too drunk to care.

For the rest of you—guess what the fact that I’m packin’ means? I can feel, or not feel, the ripples, the natural quivering in the lining of your pussy that you can’t make happen anymore than you can make it stop when you actually get off. So save the fake screams and use your big girl voice to tell me left, right, up, or down instead. There’s a 100% chance I will come by the time we’re done, and since you went to all the trouble of letting me in, you should get yours, girl…no shame in that game!

It never ceases to amaze me, really. A woman in the passenger seat won’t shut the hell up. It’s all “turn here, slow down, stop and ask,” but she’ll fake her way through mediocre sex, unfulfilled, and never say a word. What is that?

If only this one would do something to snap me out of the monotony, do something to engage me enough to stop these damn vagina monologues currently running through my head. Slap me, take charge, tell me how this shit’s gonna go down— do something, girl! But she doesn’t. Just like the one before her and I’m sure the one after her, she just lays there with the false moans and occasional twist or squirm. So I answer accordingly, banging into her like a jackhammer, not so much as using one finger to tickle her fartbox (which they all like, though they’d deny it if asked). Sorry, Senorita. No extra effort, no surprise ending.

Showing some life, she tries to grab my face and raise herself up to kiss me, but I turn my head, resting my forehead against the pillow. I’m ready to finish, not prolong the niceties. 

“Almost there,” I growl in her ear. “Wrap your legs around my back.”

She does so immediately and I find myself wishing her pussy gripped as tightly as her legs do. But, since it’s not even close, I scoop both hands under her ass and tilt her pelvis, angling myself to drag along the upper wall inside her for at least some friction. That really amps up her moans now, so I’m forced to use one hand to cover her mouth, lest we have a second visit from Laney. After a few more slides in and out, my eyes closed, my ultimate fantasy skipping through my head, I finally find my non-climatic climax and she feigns the same.

I don’t take time to relax or fall down beside her. I don’t even catch my breath, not wanting to send her any fucked up signals. We’re done, so I jump out of bed and walk to the bathroom, disposing of the condoms. Yes, condoms. I always wear two.

Unfortunately, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I walk past it. When I turn to examine my reflection, I realize I look as shitty as I feel. My eyes are vacant and hollow, my heart damn near visible on my sleeve. I’ve never done relationships with all the snuggling and kissing, but I’ve also never been quite the callous ass I’ve become. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit ashamed of myself, yet I can’t seem to pull myself out of my funk. Even the women willing to forego being wined and dined, or even sweet-talked, before they jump in bed and spread their legs to help ease my ache and tension don’t deserve the level of asshole I’ve become.

I’m not completely in denial; I know I’m idealizing her in my head and building up a fantasy perhaps a million times greater than what it would actually be like in real life. I haven’t stopped the idealistic comparisons, imaginings, what ifs in my head ever since that night. There’s a tugging in my gut that tells me, more certainly than anything ever before, that together, we’d be something special. Maybe it’s all the “true love” bullshit around me, everyone pairing off, my friends adored by some of the hottest, coolest girls you’ll ever meet, but I’m starting to feel like anything but the lucky bastard who escaped the claws of a woman. I feel like something’s missing.

Oh, fuck me, I’m a goddamn chick, dreaming of my skipping, extraordinary Princess Charming. Gidge and her Disney bullshit are rubbing off on me and shriveling my nut sack into a vag. Is there a razor here? I’ll go ahead and slit my wrists right now and call it a day.

Sighing, I wrap a towel around my waist and open the door, ready to try and at least behave cordially, which I know is only right. “Listen, can I—”

“She’s gone.”

I look up, startled by Laney’s voice and even more shocked to see her sitting on my bed. Thank God I put on a towel. “Where’d she go?”

“Home, I guess.” She shrugs. “I didn’t ask. I heard the front door slam and got up to see what the hell was going on. Since you’re here and she’s not, I’m assuming it was her.”

How did I not hear the door slam? Not that I would’ve chased her. “All right, she left. So what’re you doing in here?”

She stands, grabbing some shorts off my floor and throwing them at me. “Go put those on and we’ll talk. Since I’m up,” she reminds me with an evil glare.

I head back in the bathroom to change, and stay in there, locking the door and taking a deep breath. I’m over six feet tall and lift almost every day, but yes, I’m scared to face Laney. Not only is she a hellcat when she wants to be, but I don’t want to see the disgust or disappointment in her eyes. She’s one of my best friends, even more so after becoming roommates, and her opinion means a lot to me.

“Get out here!” she yells when she finally realizes I must be stalling. “Take it like a man.”

I might as well go out there or she’ll undoubtedly come in here, kicking in the door or taking it off the hinges in what I have no doubt would be less than five minutes.

She pats the bed beside her when I open the door. “Come sit down. We’re doing this now.”

I hesitantly take a seat, my knee bouncing as I wait for her to speak.

“First, and of the utmost importance, you know I call my father ‘Daddy,’ so hearing your visitors scream it repeatedly in the middle of the night freaks me out. I wake up thinking I’m in some bad Lifetime movie.”

Fighting my smirk, I agree. "Okay, got it." Maybe this little chat won’t be so bad after all.

"Second," she stands and tucks my extra pillow between the headboard and wall before sitting back down beside me, "on school and game nights, booty call curfew is eleven. That work for you?"

"Yeah." I sigh and run my hands along my head, wishing I had some hair to pull. "It won't happen again, Gidge. I'm sorry."

She places a hand on my shoulder with a small smile. "Don't be sorry. This is your house too and we hadn't talked about it. Now we have, so we're all good. Any rules you want to put in place?"

"Nah, I'm easy."

"Made crystal clear by the parade of women coming in and out of here." She laughs and scoots away quickly, ducking the pillow I grab and swing at her head. “Speaking of which, been busier than usual lately—you trying for Guinness or Gonorrhea?"

Here we go—this is what she really wants to talk about. It was a nice segue, funny even, but I’m on to her.

"I mean, you used to at least walk them out and kiss their cheek at the door. I know you said you'll come to me when you're ready, but I can't watch you self-destruct much longer and not say anything." She ducks her head and looks up at me, forcing my eyes to meet hers. “You’re trying to fuck something, or someone, out of your system, Sawyer, and it’s killing you.” Care to share with the class?"

"I would’ve walked her out. She left before I came out of the john."

"What was her name?"

"Molly," I answer immediately.

She sighs heavily, flopping backwards on my bed but jolting right back up like the mattress shocked her. “Oh, God! Gross! I just laid on your bed o’ brothel. Ewww,” she whines.

“Relax,” I roll my eyes at her, “I double wrap and she faked it. There’s nothing on this bed but some sweat and regret.”

She stands, waving me up with her hand. “Still, better safe than sticky. Ew, yuck, not a good joke.” She pulls the blanket all the way up, covering the sheets, then sits back down right on the edge. "Now then,” she again pats the spot beside her and I sit, “her name was Carmen. You weren’t even close!" She slaps my back. “And by the way, I read or heard someplace that double wrapping isn’t recommended.”

“If I triple wrap, I won’t feel a damn thing! And just one? No fucking way. I’ll take my chances.”

“Fine,” she huffs, defeated.

“And how in the hell do you know her name? Are you sure it wasn’t Molly?”

"I’m sure it was Carmen. You were still in the hall, that thing that runs right in front of my bedroom, when she said, and I quote, 'don't worry, Daddy, Carmen's gonna make you feel real good.'” Her breathy imitation and finger air quotes are hilarious, but I bite back my laughter, knowing she wants me to take this whole conversation seriously. “Highlight of my day, really, thank you."

What am I doing? I'd kill any man that treated one of my girls (and by my girls I mean Laney, Bennett, and Whitley) the way I've been treating women lately. There's a big difference between trying to have a good time and straight up being a dick. I don't want to be the latter, but damned if I can find the cure for my fucked up head.

I lie back, mesmerized by the ceiling fan blades whirling above me. "I'll try to be better, be nicer. I swear I'm not that guy."

"I know you’re not, which is why I'm worried."

“Don’t be,” I reply with a resigned sigh. “Eventually I’ll get happy in the same pants I got mad in.”

“What? You’ll get in someone’s pants again and then you’ll be happy?” She turns her head to look at me, face full of confusion.

I chuckle at her and shake my head. “It’s a saying: ‘you’ll get glad in the same pants you got mad in.’ As in, wait the woman out and she’ll be over it quicker than she changes clothes. I didn’t write it. Ask Confucius’ ass to explain it. And by the way,” I poke her in the side, “don’t you chicks usually veg out and eat when you have problems? You haven’t offered to make me shit. I should be surrounded by junk food by now.”

She mocks me, poking out her bottom lip and batting her eyelashes. “Aw, does Sawyer need a hot fudge sundae?”

“Now you’re talking, woman! Geez! You were holding back on me. What kind of friend are you?”

She stands, pulling me up by the hand. “My bad. How about I give you extra sprinkles? Will you forgive me then?”

“Maybe. You better hope you’ve got chopped nuts and chocolate ice cream though or we’re through.”

CHAPTER 2

Lost Boy

***Sawyer***

"You want a hit of this before I kill it?" CJ tries to hand the creepy-looking wizard bong to me, the end of his staff the bowl.

"No, man. I'm good," I mumble, rolling my eyes. I don’t need to take an actual hit, the contact buzz is more than enough. If I had to guess, I’d say the air in his rat-hole apartment is currently two parts oxygen, ninety-eight parts bong smoke. CJ’s definitely not the most upstanding citizen, nor is he my friend.

The only reason I keep him around is because he’s the go-to guy for ammy motorcross. Ammies, or amateurs, are the lower level events allowed at the track on “off” times. No one’s sponsored, things are unofficial, and money changes hands under the table since betting’s technically not allowed.

At one time, I'd been an up-and-comer in the motocross scene, getting better and better with every race, but it had been left behind when Dane and I made a pact to quit all the bullshit partying and head to Georgia to be near his brother.