Page 43 of UnScripted

She arches an eyebrow, “Damn, please tell me some insanely hot mountain man ravaged you in the woods and now you can’t walk straight.” She gets up walking closer smirking, “You have sticks in your hair and a hickey on your neck.”

“H-he didn’t.”

“He did. Damn, was it the Silver Fox? ‘Cause he just marked you as his woman judging by that love bite. Oh, god, please tell me it was him,” she sighs, walking back to the couch fanning herself with one hand while picking up her wine glass with the other.

I groan slumping down beside her and practically guzzling mine. “It was him. It’s a glorious hot mess, Luce.”

“I’ll bet. Did you really do it in the woods? I knew you had it in you, you dirty slut!” She practically shrieks.

“NO! God, no Luce. I drove out to the old logging roads to clear my head. It’s a trail area now, where people workout. He was running and we kinda collided.”

“Yeah, collisions don’t leave love bites and the smell of sex behind.”

I whiff my shirt. “I don’t smell like sex!”

She rolls her eyes. “Was he huge? Did you feel him? Did you come?”

“Calm down, Luce. What the heck?”

“It’s been a long time for me. So long, I feel like a virgin.”

“Well, it’s been a long time for me too. That’s probably why I came screaming like a banshee when he had me pinned up against the tree.”

“Jesus. I’m so glad the shop next to the tattoo parlor sold vibrators.”

“W-what?” I stutter.

“Don’t worry. I got one for you too. And hopefully after this weekend, you won’t need it because you’ll have that Silver Fox’s big dick in you every night.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Toad told me what happened with the club. My birth mother brought it down. Her name is cursed by them.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Dev. Men are dumb shits—always losing their head over what we got between our legs.”

“Yeah? Well Jeff fell out of love with mine. But he did text me all afternoon.”

“Shut up?”

“Yep. He wants me back.”

“Did you tell him to go to hell?”

“No. I-I didn’t dignify him.”

“That probably pissed him right off,” she snorts, digging her hands into a bag of chips she left next to the remote, “he’s got an ego the size of the city of Chicago itself.”

“Tell me how you really feel?” I mutter grabbing a handful of chips myself.

“He’s a prick. He probably would’ve cheated on you if you did marry him and it would’ve been a trainwreck.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Cheer up, Dev. You’ve caught the big bad wolf.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. It all started years ago with these two men, Colin Flynn and John Masters. Oh, before I forget—I have a brother.”

She chokes motioning me to continue.

So, I do. I tell her every sordid detail while we pass the bottle of wine back and forth. Twenty minutes into the story, we stop using glasses and chug straight from the bottle.

---