A Mess of Reason Read online

  Scout is never—has never been—without a girl. You might even call him the ambassador to the Republic of Labia. Man-whore? Eh, that might be severe, but then again, his cock seems to be magnetic. Every sugar-hole from here to Nashville has found a direct line to its pull. Everyone, that is, but me. I have to wonder if I’m a repeller to his magnetic force? I keep wishing I were like that dead star that was discovered recently…you know, the one that produces a magnetic field around twenty trillion times stronger than a refrigerator door magnet. That’s what I want to be to him.

  I think my friend status had officially screwed me. So much for friends with benefits. I realize my chances of getting killed by a vending machine falling on me—which is 1 in 112 million—is better than me getting some of him.

  So here I am, doing all I can to be near him, because if this is all I get, then I’ll take it. It’s still a sweet deal. I’ll get to see him all the time, work with him on our holographic concert movement, have drinks, take sniffs of his neck, get a little grab-ass…I mean, come on, it’s “endless-ish.” Plus I get to look at his traffic-stopper, fly, badass face, watch his lips slide into that lickable smile, and watch that tongue of his float along his plump bottom lip. Ahhh.

  And, while he’s a guy’s guy, I also get to ask him anything in the world and he’s good with that. Not many guys would be. Anything from Why do you cut your nails with a pocket knife? to Will you take the Cosmo quiz with me? to Why do you think Doritos are the fifth food group? to Did you jack off last night? and, yes, he’ll tell me. Do you have a hunky guy friend like that? Didn’t think so.

  And, I get to share every single line item that floats through my brain with him. That punishing endless diatribe. The stuff you share only with certain girlfriends. The guy literally eats my mind dump like I’ve flipped on Sports Center and I’m hand-feeding him M&M’s. He cares, he listens, he laughs, he tells the best raunchy perv jokes…there is no downside.

  Okay. I lie. The downside is, I don’t ever get to be naked against his well-muscled flesh. Ever. I don’t get watch him walk out of the shower and dry off his chiseled arms, not to mention his hindquarters. Ever. I don’t get to look down between my legs to watch him wrap his hand around his hard and—I’m assuming—beautiful cock, place it at my sex, then slide it into me. Ever. I don’t get to watch him throw his head back in ecstasy, calling out my name as his eyes slowly close right before he comes inside of me. Ever.

  But hey, let’s not get all goldfish-died-Hallmark-y here. I’m just telling it like it is. I get to flirt heavily, sit on his lap (while my clitoris calmly has a nervous breakdown), hug him, kiss him, and talk naughty-dirty…plus I can boss him around a little. Though I wish it were him bossing me around—in the bedroom, that is. Ah well, while it’s not the lottery win I want, it all adds up to some sort of pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, now doesn’t it?

  “Get your tushie over here and sit next to me!” I tell him. “You’ve been behind the bar for the last hour. I moved here to be close to you…now let me get my hands on my merchandise before I call the store manager!” I love that I can bark at him all Princess Leia like that. I promise you, no one gets away with the stuff I do around Scout. It’s a feel-good thing for me, I won’t lie. Not even his Little Bo Peep priss of a girlfriend gets away with it. Speaking of…how she even makes him hard is beyond me. Maybe they aren’t even screwing. Good question.

  “Are you fucking her?”

  He answers me with a criminally dark laugh. His laugh, by the way, is bottle-able, lethal, should-be-banned-like-absinthe good. Deep, rich, sexy. And yes, it makes me rainforest wet. Sister, does it.

  “Am I fucking whom, my love?” He has my hand in his and he’s kissing the back of it like he does sometimes when we talk. It makes me ache with a sweet, fiery, groin-grabbing throb.

  “That thing with bows. Miss Elevator-Goes-to-the-Top-but-the-Doors-Don’t-Open. Are you getting your toothless blow job on with her downstate condo? Or is her south mouth all braided up in ribbons? I’m gonna lay a twenty on the fact that she keeps her Beanie Babies collection stored up in that attic. Do those get in the way of your big lead monster, Scout?”

  “Woman, you are on overdrive today. I think your New York years added even more angel of darkness to your sugared sarcasm. Do you really want to know?” The mystery in his eyes, smoldering with fire, makes me want to bite the meat of my thumb.

  “Yeah. We’re drinking. It’s just conversation. Drinking equals smack talk. Get those lips shakin’. Move some ground, brutha!” Can you tell I despise her? Don’t judge; I’ve staked my claim.

  “You’re insufferable. Yes, I am fucking her.” He almost sounds sad the way he says it. Numb. As though he’s resigned himself to her. Not the words I want to hear.

  “Oh my! She has an opening down there? I know you aced health class…or would that be geography?”

  “Pretty sure, baby. The female anatomy is something I specialize in.”

  His words strip me bare. I might need a spanking or a clitoral amputation. I spin on my barstool, looking back at him. I’m over the edge. I wish I weren’t. But I am. I can’t help myself. Shamelessly eye-fucking him. The very act of it wrapped in a prayer. I feel it coming straight back at me as he allows himself a deep chuckle that rides his penetrating gaze. He’s a master at it, all right. With every blink, the intensity of his eyes become a shade deeper. And those would be my fingers right between my legs.

  “Details, Scout? Give it to me. Hard and fast.”

  “You want it hard and fast…is that right, baby?”

  Please, please, please…

  His laugh is masculine, charging at my most intimate parts almost against my will, sending me into survivor mode.

  “May I help myself?” I ask as I hold my empty glass up.

  “The fact that you’re asking if you can help yourself is disturbing. You can help yourself to my anything. Must I place my hands on your ass and hoist you up there myself?”

  God yes…

  “Please, just one little push, Romeo.” I shake my apple-bottom at him. He rewards me with another deep gaze. I wonder if those make him as hard as they make me wet? Dare I ask?

  “What’s her pet name for you?” I want to suffocate her with post-game football player socks while she’s strapped to a bed of nails.

  “I’m not telling.” Not a good sign. He tells me everything…could he actually like her?

  “Did you ask me to move here so I could help you relocate your lower anatomy? What’s happening to you? You’re getting soft on me. Where is my Scout? Please don’t tell me she’s also convinced you to eat chocolate bunny ears before the tail? Are you pussy whipped? Tell me you’re not! Please!”

  I kneel up on my stool, then lie across the bar, sliding my belly straight to the tapper. Giving him a full, perfect shot of my caboose. And he loves it. I don’t mind…not one little bit.

  “Get a good look. And while you’re at it, slide your glass over here so I can fill you up, too.”

  He looks at it, all right, then he shoots me a glance that hits me from my heart to my gut. That little waggle in his eyebrows doesn’t hurt either.

  “You still got it, Tess. Still the hottest girl in the room.”

  You see? He tells me this stuff and I don’t know what to do with it. I feel like a daisy that’s getting my petals torn off. He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me….

  “Aww, shucks, Scout…I’m blushing now.” I think I am. I’m too old for these games. Gah.

  “Yeah, I don’t think you’d blush if I pantsed you.” Try me…

  I scoot back onto my barstool, then slide his beer down to him. He’s a hair further away from me than I’d like. I grab the leg of his stool and try to scootch him closer—think mouse moving Superman—not happening. Naturally he gets the hint and comes to me. Just not as close as I’d like.

  “So, you never did tell me. Is she vanilla in the sack? Or does she like naughty slap-and-tickle sex like we do?”

 
; “She’s vanilla. But a fuck is still a fuck, Tess.”

  “Yeah, I know it is. But I’m sad for you. Well, if you ever want to liven things up, I’d be happy to be the third wheel in your threesome. You know I love my kink. Would that ruin my friend status, though?”

  “No, it would not…but I promise you baby, she wouldn’t do a threesome if it were climbing up her ass.”

  “Wow, that’s a bummer…ha ha, get it?”

  He tilts his head at me, then drags his long, sculpted fingers over the thick stubble riding his jaw. Have I told you about his hands? His beautiful man hands? And yes, I’ve pictured them on my naked body more times than should be legal. They make my libido go “Excuse me, you dropped something—my jaw.” You feel my pain?

  “Do I need to point my jokes out to you now, too? Are you getting old or tired or are you just not spewing enough semen out these days to keep your brain properly flossed? Or, wait…oh no…am I just losing my touch?”

  “No gorgeous, you’re not losing your touch. I just don’t want to talk about Liberty. Let’s talk about you. You’re my favorite topic. Enlighten me…” His hand sweeps across my cheekbone, then under my chin… Oh, you love him, don’t you?

  “Enlighten you with what, darling man? Do you want to pick the topic or shall I spin the wheel for fifty dollars and see where it lands?”

  “What about you and big-nuts? You gettin’ all you need?”

  He flashes his crooked smile at me while giving my knee a ticklish squeeze. I could climb onto his lap right now, move my panties aside—he could be in me in ten seconds, mach speed. Do I sound desperate? Don’t think poorly of me. I’d do it—I want to think I have that level of courage, the I’ll-Take-That-Dare level—but the risk of him turning me down is paralyzing. The only thing I seem to be able to move around him is my smart-ass mouth.

  “Eh, he’s a pretty good fuck as fucks go. He’s not vanilla—more more like fifty-six flavors—so at least we don’t get bored in the sack. It’s…you know…pretty good. I take care of myself when it’s not.”

  He grabs my thighs, making me gaze up and down his delectable arms. I can’t not look. He’s mid-thigh, squeezing my legs—and let me tell you, he could easily slide them to my zipper and be in the midnight dip in seconds.

  “I have to ask because you’re my girl. Are you head over heels with him? I mean, he’s the one? All hearts and rainbows? Tell me the truth, Tess.”

  I put my hands over his and he scoops my fingers into his palms. Inside I crumble as he takes them to his lips, kissing each fingertip like he’s done a million times over, but in this moment it feels so much bigger…and against my will, I pull away. Because I know I can’t have him. When he does stuff like that, it’s a wrench in my gut. I give a big Broadway laugh—he’ll call me on it any second now, but I don’t know what else to do except talk fast and avoid eye contact.

  “Oh, you know. He’s a good enough guy. What can I say?”

  My chin is in his hand, as his thumb touches my bottom lip. There’s no escaping his demanding vibe.

  “You can look at me instead of avoiding my eyes,” he says. “You can drop any more bullshit fake laughs. You can tell me the truth because that’s what we do, remember? I’m your Scout…you’re my Tess. Or what is it you used to say when we’d to go out in my pickup truck down by the pond, just the two of us? I’m the bit to your bridle. I’m the Jack in your Daniels….”

  Would it be weird if I were shedding tears right now?

  “You’re the fruit in my pie…you’re the sprinkles on my birthday cake,” I finish his sentence. We used to do this and try to get to one hundred of them. Each of us completing the other one’s sentence. And when we got there, we’d entangle our arms, then do a shot of something, the way brides and grooms do when they take their first sip of champagne post nuptials.

  “Looks to me it’s more like you’re the chicken to my shit, sweetheart. Now who’s not spilling it?” He grabs my waist, picks me up like I’m a two-pound kitten, and plants me on his lap. He’s always done this with me, because since forever he’s been big, muscle-y, and yummy. Me…I’m barely five-seven, a little skinny scrapper. But now I’m so close that I’m flustered. Is this what happens when you round thirty years old: you lose your edge?

  “What’s with the waterworks? You okay, love?”

  You must be wondering. Maybe I like pain? Because I seem to be living the very act of it. I wish I could say the tender strokes of his fingers wiping away my emotion-filled tears felt soothing. But I can’t. His touch is so good it hurts me. It hurts in that way that leaves you empty because you know you can’t claim it and call it your own.

  “Yeah, I’m still a sap. You know me: wrought-iron spine filled with custard.”

  “I’ll change the topic because I see this is one we’re going to need to grease with more Jack, Johnnie, or Jose…but just know, you will not be getting off the hook quite that easily going forward, Miss Harlow.”

  His tone matches his look: dead serious, dark, deep, and syrupy. I wonder if that’s how he sounds when he’s fucking her. Like when he says, “Hey baby, I want to go deep in your ass. Turn over—hands and knees.” Pfft. Hardly. She’s a vanilla fuck. That’s what he should be saying to me. ’Cause I’d be all, “Yeah lover, lube up…let’s go.”

  I nearly fall off the chair as he tickles me. It’s a horrible abusive power he uses to get me to talk, and usually it works. But being the good guy that he is, he lets me off the hook about Creed. I’m so damn happy about it that I just let him ruin me with his fingers until I can’t breathe.

  “Stop…oh my God…”

  “Magic word, Tessie girl. ”

  “Please…uncle…fuck…stop!”

  “Nope, the other magic word.”

  “Stop, you cocksucker.”

  “There’s my girl. I knew you’d come out to play.”

  “I think I just ruptured my spleen. Jeez, Scout. I’m gonna be bruised tomorrow.”

  “Speaking of ruptured, I think your tits have grown.”

  “No they haven’t; they’re the same. Why are you looking at my tits anyways?”

  “You’re lying. They are bigger—that’s why I’m looking at them. Yeah, I’m checking you out.”

  “I’m a grown woman now, not eighteen anymore, so maybe I’ve filled out a little and I buy better bras.”

  “Yes, you are! B cup, even? I think so, mmm. And you’re blushing again. So now that you’re a grown woman, you blush, too? Am I flustering you with titty talk? My, my, how things have changed.”

  “I am not blushing, asshole. I’m hot from all that tickling. Surely you know me better than that. I don’t blush.”

  “I’m just givin’ you shit, baby.”

  But I know he’s not. He sees it, I feel it. I’m blushing from head to toe inside and out. Every inch of me is bright pink and sweaty. Shitfuckcrap. Thing is, I can’t help it. What am going to do with him? How am I going to be by him all the time, feeling like this? It’s as though the years we’ve been apart have made me more in love with him. I thought distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder? I thought eventually my heart would close up to the idea of ever having him as my own.

  “Come here. “ He wraps his arms around me. I sink into his chest…breathe him in and stay that way for such a beautiful bit of time standing still.

  “Tess, baby girl.” He’s whispering…unraveling me. “All I want is for you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. I’m glad you found your guy. I’m happy for you that you’re getting married if it’s what you want. You’ll be a beautiful bride and you’ll have lots of gorgeous babies someday. I just feel like a lucky bastard that I have you back in my life.”

  He peppers kisses on the top of my head as we breathe each other in and my God, I feel my heart pounding like mad—or is it his?

  CHAPTER THREE

  SCOUT

  “So check this out, Tess said.” Think paper doll, Scout, and you’re my new boy toy. I can graphically
map any outfit onto your body. I can’t wait to show you—I’ve been working on all kinds of cool concepts along these lines.”

  She’s talking a mile a minute, arms flying about, giggly and happy as all get out.

  I’ll do anything she asks, hopelessly surfing for her love like a junk food binger. And right now, I’m standing on a white photo sweep in only my black briefs while she poses me for photos. Don’t get me wrong, she’s seen plenty of me—we’ve gone skinny-dipping more times than I can recall. Mind you, skinny-dipping to her is keeping her shirt on but stripping her panties off. My definition is a bit more…oh…fleshy than that.

  “Spread your legs, further apart…more like this. Man, Scout, for a rock star who can actually move, your posing skills stink. Just copy me.”

  The only legs I want spreading around here are hers; the mere idea of it sends an endorphin blast straight through me. I realize I’m dreaming, because after this photo shoot I’m accompanying Tess to get her wedding dress fitted. I can’t tell her no. She expects me to be there. Demands it. She has no idea what it’ll do to me to see her—the girl I should be marrying—in a damn wedding dress. A wedding dress that Creed, that thunder-cunt, is going to get to peel off of her.

  “Is this better, your highness?” I follow every move of hers while the photographer clicks away, chuckling at our banter.

  “Yeah…good job!” she says, clapping. “What would you do without me? Do this with your hips, see…more like this…just copy mine.” She’s wiggling around, making me nuts for her. “How did you function before I moved back here? Now turn around; I need some backside shots, too.”

  “Damn, woman, you are bossy. And for the record, I think I did all right without you sassing me around.”

  “Sassing you around? Obviously you like it. Oh…your glutes… My, my, still got that tight little quarterback tail-end, don’t you?” She pats my ass, then fist bumps me in a grandiose proclamation, nursing my insecurities. “Put your hands up…like this…now spread your legs again,” she says as she smacks my ass once again. I can live with this. “Just let me position you, for heaven’s sake.”