Page 17 of Venus
Trevor leans around the fridge door with that same smug face he had when he once convinced a girl that his mustache was genetic. “Did you kiss her? Did she slap you? Did you bang? Did you propose? Should we start looking for tuxes?”
I grunt and shove past them toward the coffee machine. I tear into a protein bar and bite it, speaking through the salted caramel flavor. “A gentleman never tells.”
“Hey Jacks, is he blushing?” Trevor mutters. “This is why you need to grow a beard, man. It might preserve your dignity.”
I’m trying not to smirk. I’m failing. My face is betraying me hard right now.
Because yeah, it went well.
Really fucking well.
But I’m not giving these two the satisfaction of hearing about it. Not yet. Not when I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that she texted me first this morning. A little heart emoji next to a “Bring extra licorice next time.”
That’s basically a love letter, as far as I’m concerned.
I head to the gym, needing to burn off the grin that’s basically tattooed onto my face. Mid-bench press, my phone buzzes. I ignore it, thinking it’s just a meme from Trevor about how“true love is when she doesn’t flinch at your morning breath.”
But then it buzzes again. And again.
Three messages. One from Venus.
I rack the bar with one hand and wipe my other on a towel before checking it. There, glowing against my cracked screen, is a photo that momentarily breaks my brain.
Red lace.
Venus: Help me, fireman. I seem to be stuck in my bra.
I stop breathing for a second. I forget that I’m in a room with fluorescent lights and the distinct smell of sweat and preworkout. I forget that I’m wearing socksthat don’t match and that this girl ghosted me just a few weeks ago.
Is she seriously flirting with me?
I look around the gym to ensure I’m alone and do a fist pump of victory to myself. I snap a photo of my gym shorts, very clearly showing the effect of that photo.
Me: On my way with the jaws of life.
Not five seconds later, the door to the gym swings open and Trevor strolls in, Jackson right behind him.
“You hogging the squat rack again, Grandpa?” Trevor asks, flinging his towel over his shoulder like a coach who never made varsity and vicariously lives through his son that barely made JV.
Jackson eyes me, squints. “Why do you look like you saw a ghost?”
Trevor leans over and whispers loudly out of the side of his mouth to him. “I think he just sexted one.”
I grab a dumbbell to mask the absolute chaos in my pants and hope the pump pulls the blood from my groin. “Just thinking about last night.”
Trevor raises a brow. “You know what they say about us men…we’ve got two heads but only enough blood to use one at a time.”
We settle into our usual banter, but my mind is still spinning from her message. Not because it was risqué (though I’m not complaining) but because it washer. Reaching out. Playfully.
Willingly.
And that tells me more than any confession ever could.
Later, when the guys head upstairs to raid the kitchen for protein shakes that taste like chocolate-flavored drywall, I duck into the locker room and pull out my phone again.
Another picture. No face this time, just legs, bare and tangled in red silk sheets.
Venus: You’re late. The fire’s spreading.
