Page 21 of The Worst Kind of Promise
She opens her mouth to say something, but we’re interrupted by the frazzled barista yelling out my name.
“Kit! Kit’s drink is ready!”
I reach past Faye and grab both of our drinks, offer a pageant-winning smile to the woman who looks like she constantly gets fucked by twelve-hour shifts in the soul-sucking heart of capitalism, then usher Faye out the door.
As she makes a rather exaggerated traipse toward the car, she slurps noisily through her straw. “Why can’t you just leave me to read and rot for the summer?”
“That’s how you want to spend your summer? Inside, hiding away from sunlight like you’re some vampire, staring at a bunch of words?”
“I don’t want to go into anything with expectations. I want to relax. I want to take things at my own pace. I don’t want to be treated like a—”
“—princess,” I finish, opening the passenger door for her.
She narrows her eyes. “I can open my own door.”
I keep my hand firmly planted on the door. “I’m a gentleman.”
A loud groan pops out of her as she climbs into her seat, and I get an indeliberate face full of ass. I didn’t realize how short her shorts were…back there. Faye’s too busy buckling herself in to notice that my face has drained of all its color, so I take my time rounding the car, trying to leash the runaway thoughts that beckon me to sayfuck it, and let my inhibitions fly.
“You’re a lot of things, but a gentleman isn’t one of them.” Faye chuckles, stirring her straw amongst a pink sea and floating buoys of ice.
I set my drink down in the cup holder, then get to working on the steaming sandwich calling my name. “You’re really bad for a guy’s ego, you know that?”
“Oh, I know.”
She takes another long pull from her drink, her lips tinted from the dye, her cheeks hollowed. She overestimates and sucks too much liquid out, resulting in a few drops dangling from the hole of the straw. I shouldn’t be so invested. I shouldn’t be watching her. None of this should be sensual. Her tongue flicks out to catch the droplets, and I have to tear my gaze away before I’m too hard to drive.
I shouldn’t think about her tongue tracing the length of my dick, lapping at the crown before repeating the process until I’m leaking for her. I shouldn’t think about the heat of her mouth as she engulfs me, the little noises that slip out of her, the way her nose presses against my full and aching balls. And I definitely shouldn’t think about talking her through it—her choking me down until she can fit every inch inside her perfect mouth, saliva pooling and stringing from the corners of her lips, her hand pumping me at the base with equal enthusiasm—
“Ugh, it’s like talking to a wall sometimes.”
Faye, who’s ditched her drink, has her arms crossed over her chest in her usual Kit-you’re-an-idiot look, complete with two laser beams shooting from her eyes.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I totally spaced,” I say, fairly certain that she either gave me a heartfelt monologue or admitted some deep, dark secret.
I don’t know if it’s the guilt exuding off me or the perfect puppy dog pout, but her face softens incrementally.
“You’re forgiven. But only because you bought breakfast,” she mutters.
Phew. Crisis adverted. For now.
I quietly begin to tuck into my meal. “Please repeat what you were saying,” I implore, my tastebuds rejoicing at the first flavor rush that doesn’t seem to be overly seasoned or sweetened.
“It’s not important.”
Sausage, cheddar, and egg? A great combination. Sausage, cheddar, egg, and that sour pit in my stomach? Not a great combination. “It is. Anything you say is important.”
She makes herself at home again, toeing off her sneakers and throwing her legs up. “I was just talking about how thrilling reading can actually be. It’s relaxing but stimulating. You’re in this other little world, experiencing it for the very first time. You don’t have to worry about your shitty desk job or the errands you have to run tomorrow. You can just…escape.”
I finish my food in two more bites and brush the crumbs from my hands. “Is that what you like to do? Escape?”
“I think so. My life hasn’t always been that great, and during times when it isn’t, I look for a way to get out of it,” she explains in neither a sad nor happy tone.
“What do you read?”
She looks at me strangely, like she can’t believe I’m engaging in somethingshefinds interesting. I don’t blame her—I’m not very well-versed in compassion or empathy. I’m trying to be better. I’m trying to think of others before I think of myself. It’s easy when I have someone like Faye, whose whole job relies on emotional connection, to teach me not to wish death upon people who inconvenience me.
“It’s embarrassing.”
