Page 27 of Baby Maker

The text arrives at half-past eight, and I can’t hold back the smile. I may be a bastard, but I’m thrilled her date isn’t going well.

Calli: I’m at the Drunken Dog. It’s a terribly scary dive bar. Come join me? I’ll buy you a drink. Hell, I’ll buy you ten.

I should say no. Politely decline and go work out for two hours until exhaustion forces me to sleep. Wanking off in the shower provided a minor reprieve—for about twenty minutes—until my mind started replaying the feel of Calli’s skin and the taste of her lips.

That’s another issue. Every time I see her, the urges grow more primal.

This is why men and women aren’t friends.

My phone flashes, this time with a sad-faced emoji.

Calli: Bollocks, I’m likely interrupting a fun-filled evening for you. You, no doubt, never leave a woman wanting more, and I’m killing the mood. So, so sorry. Bottoms up.

I can leave it like that, let her think I’m balls deep in some gorgeous woman, any memory of what happened between us long forgotten.

That’s the safe route.

Fuck safety.

The idea of her sitting alone in a bar, drowning her sorrows, hurts my heart. The fact that she called me to join her?

Let’s just say I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

---