Page 86 of Wicked Pickle

“It’s embarrassing. I’m in grad school! And I’ll be done with that in a year! What if I’m thirty and still haven’t done it?”

“That’s a long way away.”

“Is it? I don’t think so. I’ve dated a lot. I just haven’t, I don’t know, gotten that far with anybody. They’re all so shy or weird or something.”

“You’ll find the right one.”

“I want a biker! I’ll even take one of the old greasy ones if I have to.”

I grimace at that image. “But you want Merrick.”

“I’m not looking to marry him and pop out little biker babies!” She tilts her head. “But wouldn’t that be cute?”

Oh, boy. “Do you think Merrick is interested?”

Marietta’s voice is a wail. “I don’t know!”

“Okay, okay. We’ll figure this out.”

She finishes the first drink, and I pour us both another, this one with more Sprite and less vodka.

She repeats herself while she sips it. She wants Merrick. She wants a biker. She’s embarrassed. Maybe she’ll be a stripper and have sex with a client.

I try to listen without judgment. She’s venting. I get that.

She keeps sipping. For all her efforts to increase her tolerance, she’s still the lightest lightweight I know, and I have to catch the cup when she falls asleep mid-sentence.

I tuck a pillow under her head. Poor Marietta. I guess everybody wants what everyone else has. Nobody is ever content.

And these biker brothers seem to have both of our panties in a major twist.

CHAPTER 28

DIESEL

Owning a bar definitely has its drawbacks when you end up spending your weekend nights pouring drinks for other people.

During my time off Sunday morning, Symphony had a study group for some big project on Monday, so that was another day with a hard-on that wouldn’t get quenched between her legs.

I’ve given up questioning why my dick is so taken with her in particular. We’ve evolved into something roughly approximating a relationship. There are no rules saying we can’t see other people, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m not interested in any orgasmic caterwauling but hers for the moment.

I guess I’m in it until it plays out.

I arrive at the bar first on Sunday afternoon, once again making up for missing Friday night with a delicious evening of steak and Symphony. Alone in my office, I pull out the envelope holding my drawings of her. I bought a proper sketchbook, and it has a pocket inside the front cover. I thought I’d put the original ones in there.

Not that I need the reference. Every inch of Symphony is cemented in my memory. I could draw any part of her.

I unseal the flap. The sketches make my body wake up even more. Damn it. When is she done with that study group?

I tuck the slips of paper into the pocket and trash the envelope. I don’t have any pressing bar work to do, so I set to making a new drawing on the first clean page. I have a proper pencil set with varying lead sizes, if I can remember when or how to use the different ones. I vaguely recall cross hatching and smudging from that long-ago instruction.

I slide a pencil from the middle of the selection and start with a rough outline. She’s naked, always naked, because that’s the feeling I’m seeking. It’s almost painful, roughing out her breasts and darkening the nipples, knowing I can’t touch her right now.

I show her leaning over the arm of her sofa, gazing at me with soft eyes. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders.

I’m trying, over and over again, to get her lips just right when my phone buzzes.

I ignore it for a moment, pleased with how perfectly the pencil erases on the textured paper with the right eraser. I’m not quite satisfied with her mouth when my phone buzzes again.

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