Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
I found myself grappling with a strong desire that I didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t just a matter of convenient sex with a willing partner. It was him. He was odd for sure, but he was real and honest. And honesty felt like something I really needed in my life.
I couldn’t wait to see him again.
We’d agreed to meet at his house on Tuesday morning, so I drove to Pasadena Sunday afternoon, ran laps on the field at my old high school, met up with some friends for a drink, then headed for my parents’ house. I watched football with my dad, grateful that the brutal chorus in my head that insisted I was a loser and a has-been remained blessedly silent. I didn’t mention that I knew anyone on the field or boast that I could run faster. I stayed in the moment, shifting my gaze from the TV to the text thread with Topher on my phone.
Class starts at 9. I’ll be at your place by 8:59, I typed.
I think you’re kidding, but in case you aren’t, please arrive by 8:30.
Okay. Anything else?
No.
I waited till the next commercial to add, Where’s my script? It’s your turn.
Three dots danced on my screen for what felt like a millennium. My dad scooted to the edge of his seat when the ref blew the whistle. This was a big play. There were four minutes left, the game was tied, and the ball was at third and goal. Even if the Ravens scored now, the Chiefs had plenty of time to respond, and Mahomes’s arm could launch rockets. And yet, I was more interested in whatever play Topher had in mind.
No, it’s your turn, but I think the script idea was a bad one. I apologize.
No takebacks, I typed, glancing at the flat-screen for inspiration when my dad griped about another damn time-out. A commercial for office products popped up, so…You’re the office manager. Your name is—
“Did you hear anything new about the Watson trade?” Dad asked.
Watson. And your line is, You’re late again.
I pushed Send and looked over at my dad. The general consensus was that I took after the Murphy side of the family. I didn’t think the Irish were known for their height, but my father was six three with a thick build, a ruddy complexion, and thick salt-and-pepper hair. I was taller and had a leaner physique, but our coloring was similar. We shared a lot of the same mannerisms too. We were both easygoing about everything except family and football.
“Uh, no. Did you?”
“No, but”—Dad pointed at my cell when it buzzed in my hand again—“you’re smiling too much for that to be your agent. Gotta be a new girl.”
Say what?
“No, just a friend.” I shook my head, chuckling at Topher’s newest message, Does that make you Sherlock?
I sent him a Sherlock Holmes gif. Yep. I’m in charge, remember?
But if I’m the office manager, I’m the boss.
Don’t play me, Watson.
I smiled at his eye-roll emoji before slipping my phone into my pocket. I met my dad’s stare and raised a brow in question.
“The Ravens scored while you were texting, Si.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Dad huffed as he settled into his favorite armchair, mumbling something that sounded like, “Definitely a girl.”
Nope, definitely not a girl.
I couldn’t say why, but my first thought was, Better than a girl. That was a weird one because I liked girls. A lot. Always had. I lost my virginity at sixteen to Meg Castaneda at a football pre-party. I played like shit that game, but I played it with a smile on my face. Probably the same stupid smile I had right now.
Damn, I had a crush on Topher. It was hard not to like a guy who balanced genius-level intelligence with a quirky sense of humor and an appreciation for the ridiculous. Anyone who perked up at the mention of role-playing was someone I needed to know better.
Sherlock Holmes and Watson. I chuckled. That was a good one. Whose idea was it to role-play? Oh yeah, mine.
So, about that…
Obviously, my place on the sexual spectrum leaned a little more toward the bi side than I’d thought…if I’d stopped to think about it, which I hadn’t. I just wasn’t the kind of guy who agonized over sexuality—mine or anyone else’s.
I’d identified as straight until I hooked up with a frat boy at a college party my freshman year. He told me it wasn’t gay if we didn’t kiss, and my eighteen-year-old self thought that made a lot of sense. It became a personal mantra of sorts. If I happened to find myself in a dark corner with another man’s hands on my crotch or his mouth on my dick, I went with it. But I never kissed any of them. And don’t ask me how many guys I’d willingly opened my fly for. I’d lost count years ago.