Sex Says Page 5

  “Ow, fuck!” I shouted as it scalded me. “You might want to pay attention, Reed,” I scolded myself.

  I hadn’t been this distracted by a woman in a while—as it really took something more than a hello and a bat of eyelashes to get my attention—and I hadn’t even met her.

  We’d exchanged one email, but responding to her column so pointedly felt extremely personal. And I was getting the impression she felt the same way. Someone else might have let it go. But not her. She’d reached out nearly immediately.

  Lathered and rinsed, I stepped out and rubbed a towel haphazardly over my body until only dampness remained, and I secured it around my waist. I moved back to the desk under the living room window at what I have to admit was a jog and woke up the screen on my computer to see if she’d responded.

  Frankly, I hadn’t left her much time, sending the email at six for a meeting at eight, but if she were as connected to technology as my sister, she’d have read the email as soon as it arrived.

  Sure enough, a new, freshly unopened email sat patiently waiting at the top of my email box. Well, actually, I wasn’t sure if an email with the subject “Hey, Dickface!” could be patient, but I’d given it the benefit of the doubt.

  To: Reed Luca

  From: Lola Sexton

  Subject: Hey, Dickface!

  Hello Reed,

  If you want it to be tonight, I’m ready to rumble. Bitters, Bock & Rye, 8 p.m. I’ll be the one in the unicorn T-shirt, but I’m pretty sure I’ll recognize you by the huge dick on your face.

  Sincerely,

  Lola Sexton

  P.S. I’m hungry, and it isn’t for perspective. Bring your wallet.

  I clicked reply with a huge fucking smile on my face and started to type.

  To: Lola Sexton

  From: Reed Luca

  Subject: Re: Hey, Dickface!

  Greetings Lola,

  There are so many underlying gems for me to enjoy in that email, but I’ll save the real enjoyment for our tête-à-tête in person. Bitters, Bock & Rye, 8 p.m.—it’s a date.

  Reed Luca

  I didn’t even click out of the screen before another email popped up.

  To: Reed Luca

  From: Lola Sexton

  Subject: It’s a date…

  In your dreams. But, hey, whatever makes you feel better about paying.

  Sincerely,

  Lola Sexton

  If she was even half the person she was in email, in person, I had a feeling I’d be dreaming about her plenty.

  At eight fifteen, I started to wonder if Lola was going to show up. It wasn’t like she was hours late, but maybe her idea of the ultimate revenge was to arrange a meeting with me only to stand me up.

  I wasn’t sure if that was the case, but I was sure that if it were, I would be disappointed. She might have been thinking off with his head when it came to me, but after our little war of emails, I felt decidedly on the other end of the scale.

  Unable to sit in my apartment and wait any longer, I’d gotten here at seven thirty and pulled up a spot at the bar to drink a beer. This place had some of the best variety in the city, nearly fifteen beers on tap and even more to offer in ambiance.

  It wasn’t too far from my place, but I wasn’t sure what kind of a hike it was for her.

  It hadn’t bothered me at first, obviously, but the more I sat there, the worse I felt.

  She was a woman, it wasn’t daylight anymore, and while San Francisco had many wonderful things to offer, it also had some not so nice ones.

  It really wouldn’t sit well with me if I was the reason she ended up in a situation.

  For the first time ever, I found myself kind of wishing I had a cell phone. Not that I have her number…

  Turning to the door once more, my drumming fingers stopped midbeat. Lola.

  I knew, with absolute certainty, the woman walking in the door was her.

  Simple action—a woman walking into a bar—but it was crazy how much more remarkable it felt. It didn’t just feel like she was walking into Bitters, Bock & Rye—it felt like she was walking into my life.

  An oversized T-shirt that had the words I’m a unicorn written across her left breast was the first thing I noticed, but it definitely wasn’t the last. Her cutoff shorts were short enough that the tips of the pockets stuck out below the hem, and the collar of the T-shirt hung off her shoulder to reveal one hot pink bra strap. Her hair was up and messy, shielding the side of her face as she turned back to laugh at what someone outside the door had said. Forest green, patent leather boots came up past her ankles, and a thick leather watch seemed to take up half the length of her arm.

  But what I couldn’t stop seeing no matter how hard I tried was how much she looked at ease with it all. She was what she was—take it or leave it.

  Her eyes scanned the line of the bar, starting with the end opposite of me and moved in calculated inspection.

  One thing was blindingly obvious: she knew what I looked like, had more than noticed in the video. I could tell by the way she slowed down on the guys who resembled me and sped right across those who could be dismissed easily.

  Her shoulders were back and confident, and the way she held her face said she was preparing for war.

  But I wasn’t the kind of guy to wait for an opponent to strike.

  Picking up my beer, I moved around the room to circle behind her and watched as I did. She was still looking for me, growing a little more agitated by the second, but I took my time. Studying everything about her and cataloging it for future reference—I had a feeling I was going to need every advantage I could get.

  With the soft lighting of the restaurant igniting the hints of auburn and gold in her dark and wavy hair, she moved her lithe body with an effortless yet underlying playful saunter. The soft step of her boots against the tile worked with the rhythm of the indie rock music that played in the background, her eyes continuing to scan the room with determination. But of course, with me strategically behind her, she came up empty. Her nose scrunched up in this adorable little way to telegraph her frustration.

  The more I watched her, the more I realized Lola embodied understated beauty.

  It takes natural talent to look good when you’re pissed, and as the minutes ticked by, that part of her appearance wasn’t going to get any better.

  Still, even knowing that, I took my time, categorizing expressions as they popped up.

  Frustrated fury.

  Helpless hopelessness.

  Indignation with a side of I’ll fucking kill Reed Luca.

  Each of them played across her mouth and projected from her eyes flawlessly. I doubted she even wore makeup, and beyond that, she showed no outward signs of aesthetic awareness. This girl was all about simplicity and doing what made her feel comfortable in her own skin. But she probably didn’t realize that it was those things that had everyone around her drawn in like smoke to a fan. Bachelors number three, four, and seven at the bar were damn near fixated on her every breath. She wasn’t just a pretty face; it was something intangible and rare that lit her big eyes and softened her features. And when she smiled and laughed, everyone around her couldn’t help but smile along too, even if it was just on the inside.

  Hell, I was too.

  I couldn’t help it.

  Without actually speaking to her, I was already fascinated.

  Ready, I walked directly to her and pulled her attention around with a gentle tap on her bare shoulder. Her skin actually hummed it was so warm.

  Like a top released from its launcher’s hold, she spun on the spot and locked her eyes on mine.

  Unfortunately, her demeanor didn’t pack nearly the same heat as her shoulder, her smile transitioning to something far more severe as recognition set in.

  She didn’t like me. She quite possibly hated my very existence.

  “Do you always make snap judgments, or is that something you do special for me?” I asked bluntly.

  I didn’t even bother with names or pleasa
ntries. We both knew what this was, and we both knew exactly who the other was.

  She narrowed her eyes, but when her jaw finally finished flexing, the rest of her relaxed too. “All the time,” she admitted, surprising me.

  I wasn’t used to being surprised by people. They usually gave a first impression and stuck to it with their second. But not Lola Sexton. She seemed to morph before my eyes, from closed off and judgmental to open and honest and self-aware.

  All people are more than one thing, not some robotic version of themselves that fits into one tiny box, but by and large, they hide it better. They protect the soft heart under their hard edges and use the lash of their tongue to disguise vulnerability. They trust everyone in the hopes that everyone will trust them, and they wear their heart on their sleeve in an attempt to make others be more open.

  Lola didn’t hide her distaste for me under sweet smiles, but she also didn’t dismiss my assertion because of her dislike. She’d approached this moment separately from our early virtual encounters, open to possibility and persuasion, but equally ready to provide her own opinion.

  All of that together drew me in like a hug.

  “Interesting. Why is that?” I asked, eager to delve deeper into the things that made her tick.

  She shrugged as if answering were easy. “Because if I’m judging someone, they’ve given me a reason to come to that conclusion.”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem, though, are they?” I pushed.

  “Definitely not. And I’m open to changing my mind about those things and facing the consequences of whatever I’ve missed because of my first impression.”

  I raised my eyebrows and smirked.

  Her eyes narrowed on the minute movement. “But some people are what they seem, and by assessing them from the start, I save myself a whole hell of a lot of trouble.”

  She bit her lip and twirled her hair, all while she bounced from one foot to the other, something I couldn’t distinguish tucked safely under her arm. She actually emanated energy like a pint-sized generator—so much so, it seeped into my pores without my permission.

  “Want to sit down?” I offered and she smiled.

  “I never did like to eat standing up.”

  The hostess led us to a table by the window, and I should’ve been giving my stomach a mental pep talk—preparing to eat as much food as Reed’s wallet could buy—but my mind was too preoccupied with cataloguing every detail about him.

  I hated that his tousled brown hair appeared thick and lustrous—the kind of hair your fingers wanted to slide through—and I hated his eyes, too. They held some sort of black magic with their hypnotic, deep ocean-blue color. The flecks of silvery light interspersed throughout only intensified their power. And his stupid face was so strong and defined, his features might as well have been molded from granite.

  I watched his strong hands, slightly roughened and callused around the edges of his palms, flex as he took the offered menu from the waitress. “Thank you,” he responded and flashed an annoying smirk that somehow made his face appear playful and sexy.

  It also highlighted his lips. Stupid lips. They were full and pink and were the exact kind of lips most women prayed would be ripe for kissing.

  Obviously, I wasn’t one of those women. At least, I was trying not to be.

  I can walk above him as he feeds off the bottom, for God’s sake. I can.

  He was handsome all right, but he was also an asshole. I just had to keep reminding myself of that very fact.

  I mean, he had pretty much fucked me over.

  Bashing my column in a vlog for the entire world to see? Yeah, even if his intentions for that god-awful video had been good in some twisted way, he’d done a shitty job of executing. And if his intentions hadn’t been good… Fuck, don’t hit him, Lola. That’s assault, I reminded myself.

  The waitress giggled softly and a hint of blush rosied her cheeks as she handed me a menu, but her gaze never left Reed’s orbit.

  I couldn’t deny he had the kind of face and confidence that stopped most women in their tracks. I guessed he must’ve been used to it, the sudden pause in a person’s natural expression when they looked his way, followed by overcompensating with a nonchalant gaze and a weak smile—or, in our waitress’s case, blushing and soft giggles—because he didn’t bask in it like I theorized he would.

  Actually, it was almost as if he didn’t even notice.

  But how is that possible?

  Our waitress was on the “this guy is fucking hot” train, telepathically screaming, “All aboard, here’s my ticket, and where should I put my pants?”

  Internally, I scoffed.

  “I’ll give you a moment to look at the menu,” she finally said, her eyes still fixated on Reed.

  “I know what I want,” I announced without hesitation or concern if he still needed that offered moment to peruse the meal selections. “I’ll start off with the baked mac ’n’ cheese and fried pickles,” I said and pointed at the appetizer section on the menu. “And then,” I singsonged as my finger slid to the meal options, “I’ll have the barbecue chicken sandwich and the brisket.”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion as she scribbled down my ridiculous order. “Uh…and what would you like to drink?”

  “A Coke to drink, please.” I smiled sweetly. “Oh, and can you add a double order of fries to the brisket?”

  “Yeah…but…” She paused in hesitation. “That’s a lot of fries.”

  “Fantastic,” I said, and my eyes met Reed’s. “I’ll take it.”

  No big eyes or furrowed brow, he didn’t give me the reaction I wanted. His expression remained relaxed and calm, like it was the most normal thing in the world for a human being to order two appetizers and two meals for dinner.

  I hated how much that intrigued me.

  “Hungry?” he asked when the waitress finally sopped up her arousal and headed for the bar.

  “I’m starving, but don’t worry,” I said and patted my stomach, “I’ll save room for dessert.”

  He smirked but didn’t offer any sort of rebuttal or sarcastic retort. Instead, he glanced at the bike helmet sitting beside my feet and then out toward the window. His eyes met mine again. “How did you get here?”

  “Dais—” I started to say, but quickly corrected, “My bike.”

  “Dais?” he repeated in question.

  Of course, he noticed that little slipup. The least he could have done was politely ignore it.

  God, this guy was annoying. He wasn’t following the normal rules of social interactions, and that didn’t fucking help me strike preemptively.

  Looking like a regular—albeit, irritatingly attractive—douchebag, but refusing to follow my bait?

  He was unlike anyone I’d ever met.

  And did I mention I hated him? I did.

  “Daisy,” I admitted in a bitchy tone. “My bike.”

  “You named your bike?”

  “Is that a problem for you?” I questioned with a challenging raise of my eyebrow. “Are you going to post another video about why humans are too materialistic and use my penchant for naming my bike as proof?”

  He grinned, and I immediately wanted to smack that grin straight off his face. He didn’t let my cloud of anger phase him, though.

  “Why’d you name your bike, Lola?”

  “Why’d you post a poorly recorded YouTube video and bash my column, Reed?” I retorted, but my sarcastic words didn’t hit a nerve. Nope, they did the exact opposite and made that naturally confident smile of his grow wider.

  “So, it’s safe to assume you’re not a fan of my video.”

  “Uh. Yeah.” A baffled laugh escaped my lips. “I’d say that’s a pretty fucking safe assumption.”

  “It appears that it irritated you.”

  Appears that it irritated me? I’d love to know the person who could watch a video like that, about their column, and not be irritated.

  I ignored his fondness for stating the obvious and asked the o
ne thing I wanted to know. “Why’d you post it?”

  He shrugged. “I had an opinion, and I had the urge to speak my opinion.”

  “Do you make a point to give in to all of your urges, no matter how fucking ludicrous they are?”

  His lips quirked up, and soft lines appeared at the corners of his cheeks. “Are we still talking about the video? Or have we veered off toward a different kind of topic?”

  “First of all, if you’re insinuating that I was just asking you about sexual urges, you can stop right there,” I scoffed and held up a determined hand. “I do not currently, nor will I ever, want to know about your sexual urges.”

  “I never said anything about sex,” he answered with ease, leaning back in his chair and running his fingers against the scruff covering his jaw. “But it’s interesting that you brought it up. Do you do that often with people you’ve just met?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Can anyone have a conversation with you and actually enjoy it? I mean, seriously? I’m honestly curious here.”

  “Most people would describe me as pleasant, intelligent, easy to talk to.” He ticked off his supposed attributes with that irritatingly comfortable smile of his. “And my mother often tells me that I’m a very good boy and she wishes I’d call her more often.”

  “Your mom doesn’t count,” I refuted. “Everyone’s mom thinks they’re the best. That’s what moms do.”

  “She also thinks I’m too old for my brand of bullshit, as she calls it.”

  “Your mother is brilliant.”

  He laughed, but I got back to the topic at hand. “And I’d love to meet these other people you speak of.” Lightning from the Almighty practically struck me down with a case for the opposite. “Or, wait…maybe I wouldn’t. I should stay far, far away from anyone who finds you enjoyable.”

  He quirked an amused brow in my direction. “And why’s that?”

  I huffed at yet another question as an answer, but for some irritating reason, I found myself perpetuating his game by responding.

  “Because they’re either one bad day away from having a psychotic breakdown, or they are already locked away in a padded room and are suffering from a psychotic breakdown.”