CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gizmo

“You realize you always have shitty timing when you call, right?” I adjust my hard-on in my pants as I stare out the window at the pool where I left Hendrix moments ago.

The urge to go back out there and finish what we started is real, but Nathaniel’s voice in my ear is like cold water splashed in my face.

And a reminder of what I promised him.

Regardless, and at my own discomfort, I accomplished what I set out to do when I went to talk to her, so at least there’s that.

“What’s so shitty about it? I can’t possibly be interrupting a groupie giving you head—”

“It was one time and she wasn’t a groupie.” I roll my eyes. She was kind of a groupie, but I don’t think he cares much about semantics. “Besides, part of the deal was me abstaining, so I’m pretty sure you’re implying I’ve already cheated on my wife when I haven’t.”

“Shocker.” He snorts.

“Fucker,” I respond.

“So much hostility,” he jokes, although I can imagine his hands held up in surrender. “Jesus. I was simply calling to check in and see how it’s going.”

“That’s mighty kind of you to take time out of your visit to Dad’s house to think of me.” The vitriol in my tone is lightened with the chuckle I emit but fuck if I don’t still feel it.

“I told you that you were welcome to come with me.”

Over my dead fucking body. The physical recoil I have to him even saying it doesn’t surprise me. “Yeah, well, you also told me I had to get married. You’re asking for a lot for me to do one, let alone two, things that you ask.”

“It’s not like you think it is,” he says quietly.

“What? Marriage? No shit.”

“No. Dad.”

“Hmm. I bet.” My disinterest is plain as fucking day. Not like I ever got a chance to know myself. “Is there a reason for this call, Nathaniel? The judge reach out and say I’m granted freedom? The probation officer give you an update? You miss my sarcasm? What?”

He clears his throat like he’s prone to do before he gives me a lecture but then pauses. “Like I said, I was just calling to see how everything was going.”

“It’s good. Fine. Whatever.” Another glance out the window has me questioning my sanity and what exactly that whatever entails. Hendrix is flipping over on her stomach and undoing the back of her top to avoid tan lines.

Every juvenile fantasy boys have had about running out onto a beach or pool and yelling fire to get a free glance of tits runs through my head.

“Good? Fine? Whatever? That doesn’t exactly sound promising,” he says, oblivious to my childish but very real thoughts.