Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“I’ve never been into classic rock,” she says. “My dad’s tried to get me into it, but I’ve always been more of a pop girlie myself.”
I say nothing. Whatever’s on her mind, she’s going to have to nut up and say it. I’m not willing to try to pry it out of her.
“What’s this one called?” she asks.
“‘Since I’ve Been Loving You.’” Heat rises in my cheeks. It’s just a song title; so, why did I blush from saying it?
“I like it.”
I bite my tongue, very much wishing I could reply, “I’d very much like to fuck you to this song, Aubrey.”
“Now that I know you hate girlie pop so much,” Aubrey says, “I know exactly what to play to torture you, whenever you piss me off again.”
“When I piss you off again, not if? Maybe there won’t be a next time.”
Aubrey snorts. “Haven’t you been trying not to piss me off this whole time, C-Bomb? And look how that’s turned out. I’m sure I’ve ripped you a new asshole by now, thanks to all the times you’ve pissed me off.”
I smirk. She only calls me C-Bomb when she’s playfully putting me in my place. It’s a good sign, I think. “I’ll take your word for that, A-Bomb, since you’re more of an expert than I am about what’s between my ass cheeks.” Several times last night, Aubrey groped every last inch of real estate back there, while she was in a fugue state of pure ecstasy. “Also, for the record,” I add, “I’ve mostly tried not to piss you off. A few times, however, I admit I’ve actively tried to piss you off, for the sheer fun of it.”
She gasps. “Why?”
“You’re hot as fuck when you’re angry.”
Aubrey rolls her eyes. “Well, that’s not toxic or anything.”
“Never said I’m not toxic. Only that I haven’t tried my best, at all times, not to piss you off, so it’s possible I’ll be able to avoid doing it in the future, if I decide to give it my best shot.”
“Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath.”
“I didn’t try to piss you off this morning, to be clear. I still don’t know what the fuck I did to set you off. I mean, I get that we shouldn’t get handsy in front of Raine. I’m on board for that. But it seemed like more than that to me.” There. I did it. I opened Pandora’s Box. But, shit, if we’re not going to fuck any time soon, then we might as well get to the bottom of whatever made Aubrey go off on me this morning.
“I think I just . . . Panicked, a little bit.”
“About what?”
“Where this might lead. Where it won’t.” She opens her mouth to say more but closes it abruptly.
“And . . .?” I prompt.
“Nothing. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
It does matter, though. Clearly. There’s something more she’s not saying. I don’t know how to get her to say it, though. I’ve never been good at expressing my own feelings with words, so I’m the last person who’s going to pull something out of someone else.
I’ve been working on the communication thing with Gina in our counseling sessions. But it still doesn’t come naturally to me, especially when I’m dealing with a whole bunch of feelings that have been hitting me like a Mack truck, all at once. I’ve got new, big feelings for Raine. New, big feelings for Aubrey. A rising feeling of joy and hopefulness that’s brand-new to me, too. Or at least, I haven’t felt this way in a very long time.
Aubrey clears her throat. “It’s not just me who loves girlie-pop music. Raine loves shaking her booty to a good dance beat, too.”
I stare her down. Come on, Aubrey. “Maybe we could give each other music appreciation lessons. I’ll show you my favorites—the best of rock, decade by decade—while you show me your favorites.”
“You’d listen to all my pop favorites?”
I shrug. “Fair is fair.”
Aubrey flashes me a beaming smile—one that makes me feel like my haphazard attempt at reconciliation has made a dent in whatever’s making her skittish. “Okay, great. Let’s do that.”
“I’m down to try any strategy that will help me bond with Raine.” And with you.
“Would you mind if I put on my all-time favorite song now?”
“Go for it.”
I stop the song on my phone, and Aubrey starts one on hers. One I recognize instantly, since it’s part of the very fabric of pop culture by now: “Pretty Girl” by Aloha Carmichael.
“Ugh, Aubrey. Not this. Anything but this.”
She giggles. “Come on, Caleb. This is the best song, ever. My top favorite. My desert island pick.”
“Please. I beg you. My ears are bleeding.”
“Oh, calm down.” She gets up and begins dancing to the song, doing choreography like she did the other day when we walked around the lake, and her perky little tits start bouncing with her effort, making me realize she’s braless under there.