Page 9 of Whiskey Throttle
Pretending to care. Fashion show fundraiser.
I exhale slowly. Her voice bleeds through the message, cool, dry, too smart for the room she’s trapped in. Because fools and in-love pool boys never learn their lesson, I text her back.
Let me guess. Champagne. String quartet. Models walking like they haven’t eaten in months.
I hold my breath, waiting to see if she responds.
Close. No quartet. Rubbery chicken. Men twice their age stare at models half their daughters’ ages.
I laugh under my breath. Her humor is brutal and effortless. How am I just now noticing this?
You always this good at suffering with grace?
I look up to see Em and Massimo play fighting as they walk out of the store, jerky in hand, shoving each other like they’re still ten. One of them knocks into Diego, who doesn’t even flinch. He shoves them away and rips a bite out of a protein bar.
My phone buzzes again.
I’m good at a great many things.
She’s not flirting.
Dom’s mom is not flirting with me. I repeat that a few more times, willing it to sink in. When it doesn’t, I glance at him. Sitting indifferently on his bike. His head turned away from us. Looking at the open road. They probably want to be on it, rather than listening to the twins argue or Diego trying to referee them. I gaze back down at my phone screen. Re-reading the message.
She’s not not flirting either.
I thumb over the keyboard, then hesitate. Backspace. Re-type. Backspace and pause. If this were any other chick, I’d say you’d look good riding my cock. Or look good bent over or with my cock down your throat. Fuck. She’s not like the others. This is his mom, for fuck’s sake.
I must be out of my mind, thinking of her like that. But damn, she’s hot. No, she’s not hot like some college chick. She’s a woman, stunning, flawless like her skin, and is in incredible shape for her age. I drag in a shaky breath. My cock is filtering between getting hard with possibilities and then shrinking when my mind goes back to Dom’s mom.
What are you good at?
The double text. So refreshing that she doesn’t know or follow the rule about double texting. Like, Dom hasn’t told her not to do it. It conveys too much interest or commitment. Yet, here it is. On my screen. Like she doesn’t know or doesn’t care.
I’ve never been with an older woman. Aside from watching MILF porn and thinking several women at these charity events could benefit if someone bent them over the furniture to straighten out their bitchy attitude. But beyond that, never. It’s always been Dom’s thing. Even now, with his TV lady, that’s what he kept a secret, aside from telling Diego. That still stings.
Three dots.
Then nothing.
I don’t know whether to run to her or ride away. I’m already in over my head. That night, I was buzzed, didn’t exactly know what I was doing. Today, I’m sober as fuck. Messing around with my best friend’s mom. I must be high or on something else to keep this going.
A triple text.
Sorry. That sounded a bit inappropriate.
Fuck.
It’s exactly how she meant it.
Not an invitation. Not really. But it sure as hell feels like the door just cracked open and she’s wanting me to step through it. Do I want to? Yes. I’m so intrigued. She’s a dark cloud of mystery, not too unlike her kid.
Should I? Fuck no. He’d beat my ass seven ways to Sunday. Then again, he didn’t include me in his deal to catch a killer. He chose Diego over me, so what harm is there in keeping this from him? Just for now. It’s nothing anyway. It won’t go anywhere. I’m not even into older women.
It did
I liked it
Well, shit.
