Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
My mother had always confused me. She’d ask questions as if she cared, but she never stuck up for me when my dad got off his ass for beer number six, shoved me around, criticized my hair, my posture, my general…me-ness. I’d hated her for that.
Okay, that wasn’t helping.
I turned off the TV, grabbed my phone, and moseyed through my house, my bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I scratched my nuts through the cotton fabric and thought about jerking off.
I pulled the elastic down and cupped my balls. It wouldn’t take much to get my motor running. A little porn would do it. Nah. I should work out again. Then I’d take a shower and daydream about Lorenzo’s pouty mouth sucking my dick and—
Mr. G is stable. I haven’t seen him, but Enid says he’s in good spirits.
I read the message twice before responding. Glad to hear it. Are you at work?
It’s seven o’clock. I’m off.
Really? I glanced at my watch. My blinds were drawn in my room, but my whole house was practically made of glass. You’d think I’d have noticed it was dark outside. I hadn’t. Fuck, I didn’t know what I’d done all day. I couldn’t decide if that was alarming or depressing. Maybe both.
What are you doing? I typed.
I’m making dinner. Albondigas soup.
Meatballs?
Yes, it’s delicioso.
And suddenly, I was hungry. I bet. You make it from scratch?
Of course. I wouldn’t know where to buy it.
Welcome to the 21st century. Anything you feel like eating is a tap away.
Homemade is better, he replied. This is my grandmother’s recipe. Trust me, you will never taste albondigas soup like this.
Invite me over.
Oops. I wasn’t sure why I typed that.
Way to make things awkward, Allen, I mused.
Three dots danced, then disappeared. Twice, three times…I set my cell on my nightstand and headed for the shower.
When I picked my phone up again, he’d finally responded. Very funny.
I’m not joking. I’m free. I’ll even bring wine.
Okay. I was sort of joking. I didn’t think Lorenzo would take me seriously. Ten-year-old me might not have thought twice about finagling a dinner invitation I never planned to reciprocate, but I liked to think I was a smoother operator nowadays.
I expected another eye-roll emoji…not a phone call.
I answered on the first ring. “You’re calling me? I didn’t think we were phone-call friends.”
“We’re not friends at all,” he retorted. “I can’t read your vibe. I think you’re kidding, but if you’re not…”
“If I’m not?”
“You could…come over. But don’t come if you were kidding. And don’t come if you feel sorry for me for suggesting it ’cause now that I’m saying this out loud, I’m hearing how ridiculous it sounds. You probably have fancy plans to eat gourmet grub anyway and although my soup is freaking amazing, it’s not gourmet and I—”
“Where do you live?”
“WeHo, on North Sweetzer,” he replied.
I sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed my scruffy jaw. This probably wasn’t wise, but fuck it. “Do you like Pinot or Cab?”
“I—um, Pinot.”
“Cool. I just got out of the shower, but I can be there in twenty-ish minutes. Text me your address.”
Silence.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Was I? Yeah.
Maybe seeing him again would help me get him out of my head and put this episode behind me once and for all.
I nodded, though the gesture was lost in a phone connection. “Yeah.”
“Okay, well…great,” he stammered. “I made more than enough to share, and I have fresh bread and—wait. My neighbor is a gossipy queen, and my other neighbor is a gossipy accountant. You really shouldn’t come in a flashy car or with bodyguards or—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I hung up before he could renege and followed up with a text. See you soon.
Thirty minutes later, I parked my motorcycle on the curb in front of his building. I kept my helmet on as I navigated the stairs to the third floor, rechecked the apartment number he’d given me, and knocked on 3E.
Lorenzo opened the door an inch and squinted. “Is that you?”
I lifted my helmet and crossed my eyes. “Yeah, it’s me.”
“Come in.”
He tugged at my wrist, pulling me over the threshold into his small but nicely decorated apartment. I noted the high ceilings, parquet flooring, white walls decorated with abstract prints, and the L-shaped sectional that took up the majority of space.
He motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen, thanked me when I pulled a bottle from my backpack, then pointed me toward the wineglasses and told me he could use a strong pour.
No problem.
I shrugged off my leather jacket and dealt with vino service. I handed him a glass and raised mine in a toast. “To meatball soup.”
Lorenzo’s lips curled in a shy half smile that went straight to my dick. He sipped his wine before turning to stir a large blue pot on the stove. My gaze wandered from his slim hips, lingering on his perfect ass. His white sweats clung in all the right places and—shit. Were they see-through? That definitely looked like the outline of a black thong.