Page 11 of Pants On Fire

We drive a few more miles before a question pops into my head, and even though I probably shouldn’t ask it, I can’t help but want to know the answer. No, Ineedto know the answer. Now. “So, what was in her background that made you run for the hills?”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“You can’t leave me hanging, Rueben.”

“I can, Crick. In fact, it’s probably a violation of her privacy to share the information with you.”

“That’sa violation of her privacy? You’re kidding me, right? You run a check on her background without her consent, and now you’re worried about protecting her? Give up the goods, Rigsby. Now.”

“Fine, fine. Just hold your horses, Hill.” Rueben has always called me Crick, yet sometimes he’d throw my last name at me, mostly after I use his. Just the way he says Hill has me blushing and a little tingle hits me between my legs. “We had dinner at this little barbecue joint and had a nice time, so we agreed to meet up again later that week. She had mentioned being between jobs, but didn’t really say what she did.”

“You could have just asked her during your next date, Creepy McCreeperson.”

He rolled his eyes. “But I doubt she would have told me she was in the process of going to court for an assault charge.”

I stop and look his way, my eyes practically as wide as the wheels on the SUV. “Seriously? Assault for what?”

“For throwing a pie at her boss.” Even though he says it with such a straight face, I’m having a hard time believing him.

“Umm…what?”

“Apparently, she was a waitress at a café and when her boss asked her to stay later to help after a particularly busy lunch rush, she quit.”

“And the pie?”

“I believe she was carrying it out to the display case when she tendered her immediate resignation.”

“And it somehow landed on the boss.”

“His face.”

Shock mixes with humor and I can’t help but laugh. I feel a little guilty, but still, that’s funny. “He filed assault charges?”

“Well, not right away. Apparently, she was proud of her pie-throwing abilities until the cops showed up the next day. Then, she screamed it was an accident.”

“Let me guess, she tripped?”

Rueben taps the tip of his nose. “Heard this one before, have ya?”

“Well, no, but that seems like the obvious choice when backpedaling your way out of a possible assault charge.” He snickers from the driver’s seat. “So, what you’re saying is pie is a hard limit for you? No pie in the bedroom?”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and I start to worry that I might have overstepped with my sexual reference, which is stupid of me anyway. Rueben is my friend and never in the history of our friendship have either of us taken it anywhere outside of that neat little friendship box. So when he finally speaks, I’m both happy that he’s talking to me again and a little turned on myself. “Actually, pie is disgusting. It’s mushy on the inside and the crust is always dry. So, yes, pie is a hard limit for me. Now, whipped cream is another story…”

And just like that, my face is burning with embarrassment and my panties are wet.

Clearing my throat, I find myself saying, “I’ll remember that.”

The truth is, I probablywillremember that. Every time I see a can of whipped cream, I’ll forever associate it with Rueben, specifically what he’d do with it in the bedroom. My overactive imagination, mixed with my underused lady bits, is working overtime now, picturing Rueben spreading me out on top of soft sheets, my body completely under his spell. He pushes my legs apart, exposing my bare core. The can of whipped cream isn’t the only noise filling the room as he shakes it and squirts a dollop under my belly button. My breathing is labored, a mix of excitement and nerves. The dessert draws a downward line to my clit, a welcome cold hits against my overheated flesh. Then, his mouth descends, gently sucking and licking…

“Earth to Cricket,” he says, pulling me from the fantasy that was just starting to get good.

“What?” I ask, adjusting myself in my seat. If I were a guy, I’d have the biggest case of blue balls known to man.

“I asked if you need to stop anywhere before we hit the hotel,” he says.

I notice we’re approaching our exit, our destination within reach. That’s good because I’m in need of a cold shower and maybe a nap. Hopefully, I’ll wake up as the same ol’ Cricket who sees her friend as just that and not someone she’d love to get tangled up in the sheets with. Because those images, oh, those images aren’t ones I should be picturing right now, or ever. “Uh, no. I’m good. Just the hotel,” I confirm.

“Are you sure? You’re looking a little flushed. Are you feeling okay?” he asks, his eyes assessing me. I’m terrified of what he’ll see. Maybe a note across my forehead that says “I was picturing you eating whipped cream off my pussy?” Yeah, nothing about that screams “we’re friends.”

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