Page 11 of I Knead You Tonight

“Those don’t sound nearly as satisfying as blow jobs.”

“Get out, Winston,” she huffs.

Laughing, I pull the door mostly shut behind me, leaving her there to stew.

After stopping at the hall closet to grab a fresh set of sheets, I make my way to the living room.

I pluck the fitted sheet from the pile, slipping it around the couch cushions as best I can.

“Is it just me or do you have a thing for taking in strays?” I hear the recliner squeak as my roommate, Sully, takes a seat. “I could have given her my room, you know.”

I peer back at him. “No way, man. I’m the one who offered to let her stay here. This was my bad decision.”

He snorts in the way only he can.

The way that saysThere’s more to your story, but I’ll let it slide for now.

“You know the rules, Sully—if there’s something you want to say, just fucking say it. Don’t do that hippie mind-reading bullshit with me.”

“I just think it’s funny you’re calling this a bad decision.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because something inevitable can’t be a bad decision. Not when it was meant to be all along.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“You know. Deep down, you know.”

I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “I’m convinced you’re the reason I smoke so much sometimes. It’s so I can get your bullshit out of my head.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he agrees.

I plop down onto the sofa, and though the linens are fresh, they do nothing to hide how uncomfortable this damn thing is. “How the hell did I let Foster sleep on this for so long?”

“Because you’re a good friend.”

“You’re only saying that because I let you stay here for free.”

“True.” Sully laughs, pushing up from the chair and grabbing his surfboard that’s resting against the wall. “I’m heading out.”

I want to tell him he’s an idiot for surfing at night, that anything could happen out there in the dark, but I know he’ll just argue that anything could happen in the daylight too.

“Enjoy your therapy,” I mutter.

The back door slides shut, and I pull out my phone, setting myself a reminder to make an appointment at the local auto shop first thing tomorrow morning. I know Harvey Schwartz will fit me in, especially considering how much money I’ve spent there keeping my station wagon alive and chugging.

It’s the same old clunker my mom used to drive us around in, and I couldn’t let it go.

I click the lamp off and lie back on the couch, arms crossed under my head, trying to get my brain to settle down, something it never wants to do at night.

Not since the accident.

Nearly three years ago now, I was clipped coming home from a party in college.

The road was winding, dark, dangerous…wet from hours of rain.

I was lucky, limping away with only a broken collarbone, a fractured leg, and a whole slew of chiropractor appointments from messed-up discs in my back and neck.

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