Here's a little something to perk up your Friday morning. Trevor, from
Random Acts of Fantasy, coming April 15:
Trevor
There are three words no guy in his early twenties
ever wants to say to his parents.
Bet you thought I was going to say “She is
pregnant,” right?
Nope.
(But she’s not, thank fucking God. Let’s not
even go there).
Those three little words are:
You
Were
Right.
Law school was so much better than I ever
imagined. A million times more interesting than undergrad, and high
school was like being water boarded by comparison. Sure, the law
professors were, by and large, pompous people who thought they were
the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s gift to law. And a few
were—especially the ones who went on to become senators and Supreme
Court judges.
The rest—especially the theorists—were just
assholes. And then there was the international law expert who was a
secret Brony. Let’s really not go there.
Quirky people weren’t new to me. Look at my
girlfriend. And my, uh…whatever Joe was to me. We had a man-code
agreement that we wouldn’t—couldn’t—name each other. No
labels. No boxes (except Darla’s). If we didn’t call it
something, it didn’t have any power over us.
And power was a tricky topic between me and Joe.
He had less than I did, and he hated me for that.
What the hell was I supposed to do, though? Not headline the band?
Not go to Harvard Law? Not be the one to stay in Boston with Darla? A
thousand little choices we make every day led us to this moment, and
Joe had made one big choice—moving to Philly to go to Penn Law—that
led to the imbalance of power.
Not that I minded, because I had a sweet deal. All
the ass and tits I wanted, plenty of sweet sugar from Darla, an
interesting future career and right now, a case about whether a guy
who shoved his cell phone up his ass had a claim against the cell
phone carrier for legitimate damage that was under warranty.
Seriously? You couldn’t make this shit up, could
you?
Researching tort law and contracts should be dry.
Boring. Ennui on top of brittle despair, and yet…it lit me on fire.
My mind went down so many legal mazes and what-ifs, like playing
chess with my brother Rick, except real life, real laws were at
stake.
I loved every fucking minute of it.
Ding! The doorbell rang. Who rang my
doorbell but didn’t text first? Darla was at work, plying people
with sweet talk to get them to sign up for the threesome dating
service where she worked. Joe was in Philly. Liam and Sam were—who
the fuck knew where. Taking their clothes off for random strangers as
strip-o-gram dudes and making bank doing it, I supposed.
A glance at the clock as I stood and went to the
door to buzz the person in told me that they couldn’t be stripping.
Maybe—
“Mr. Connor?” a sultry woman’s voice asked.
My dick twitched a bit. Don’t blame me. Dicks do that when they
hear the female voice, like Tom Brady cries when he loses.
“Yes?” I tried to keep the sex out of my
voice, my cock failing me. When did Darla get home?
“I have a special delivery for you,” she
crooned. Ah, fuck. This was Stacey the delivery chick. The one who
wore that tight little brown uniform like she was dressed for a
quickie porno video job.
Bzzz. My finger reached for the button to
unlock the door as if guided by my now-throbbing cock. Not my fault.
The penis did it. When it doubt, blame my pants.
The thump of her footsteps made my palms sweat, my
heart palpitate, and as I looked through the apartment door’s
peephole I felt like a pervert in the back of a sex-toy store,
peeking at a nudie show. Yes, they still have those.
Knock knock knock. “Hi, Trevor,”
Stacey’s breathy voice intoned on the other side of the door.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and steeled myself as pulled
the door open, arm flexed and occupied, the grip on the doorknob
about as strong as the grasp of Darla’s hand at the root of my cock
when she—
“Someone has been a very, very good boy,” she
whispered. Doe eyes the color of brown silk stared up at me from
under silken eyelashes, and her long, straight hair was puled back in
a ponytail that made her look about sixteen. Athletic calves flexed
as she bounced in place, pulling up to her tiptoes in running shoes,
breasts bouncing like melons caught in a giant popcorn popper.
Agony. She was sexual agony in a brown paper
wrapper.
Could you fuck a woman sideways? Because Darla was
getting every orifice for the next three days. And two dozen roses.
And all the takeout Thai and Ethiopian food—her new favorite—she
could handle if she’d just stay naked and in bed with me.
“I’ve…what?” I muttered. Her last words
hung in the air between us.
She reached toward me and handed off a thick
delivery envelope. The movement of her body made the scent of cotton
candy and lemon fill the air. God, she smelled like a candy shop.
Which made me think of lollipops.
Which made me imagine her licking one.
Groan.
“You okay?” she asked, taking a torturous step
forward, breasts leaning toward me, her cleavage on display. What a
uniform violation. I’m sure the delivery company she worked for
didn’t allow the edge of a rosy nipple to jut out. What a bad
employee. A bad, bad girl.
She needed a spanking.
“Yeah.” I took a step back and ran my hand
through my hair. It made me look down. Sweatpants, going commando,
and Stacey didn’t mix well. My erection could have stood out so
straight and hard it could have signed for the fucking package by
itself. Who needed a stylus?
“You groaned.” She lifted the stylus to her
lips and worried the plastic between her tongue and teeth. “Something
troubling you?”
Bzzzz. My phone was in my loose pocket and
vibrated against my unleashed cock like something out of an Adam &
Eve catalog.
“Holy fuck!” I shouted.
Stacey snickered as I fumbled for my phone. Joe.
Texting. I ignored it. Something about an invitation.
“Here,” she said, sidling up to me, rubbing
the edge of her breast against my arm. Darla Darla Darla, I
chanted inside my head. Stacey licked her lips and held the
stylus out for me to sign her little brown box.
Er…you know what I mean. My stylus wanted to go
on…in…her little brown box.
Bzzzzz. Joe again. Whatever.
“Trevor, I saw you perform down at that festival
last summer,” she rasped, her breasts taking on a life of their
own, as if they had eyes. And lips. Vertical lips.
“You—what?”
Bzzzzz! I grabbed the phone out of my
pocket and flung it backwards onto the couch. The thwack it made
after it bounced off the cushion and his the end table shook me out
of this Tucker Max-like experience.
What was I doing? She was just some random chick,
like all the random chicks who hung on after performances and wanted
to blow us for some kind of groupie street cred. This time, two
shaking hands whipped through my hair as I realized I was way, way in
over my head.
Both big and little ones.
I thumbed toward my apartment, my left hand
occupied by the thick envelope she’d delivered. “That was my
girlfriend, probably wondering who I was doing—uh, what I
was doing.”
She made a snorting sound from the back of her
throat. “Girlfriend? That big blond beast who slobbers all over you
and your bass player at concerts?” The noise of dismissal that came
out of her mouth made my blood run cold.
So that’s how it was.
I shot her a grim smile, one corner of my mouth
curling up in what I knew was a sneer, but she took it as agreement.
“That big blond beast,” I murmured, tipping
down and whispering in Stacey’s ear as I carefully placed one hand
on her shoulder, her scent now nauseating me, “has me. Cock, balls,
heart and all.” I pulled back and turned away.
“What a waste,” Stacey shot back.
“The only waste,” I answered, my chest
expanding with anger at her mischaracterization of Darla, at the
notion that someone would think it was acceptable to trash-talk the
woman I was in love with (even if we hadn’t said it yet), “is
this conversation, Stacey.”
Too many snapbacks. Too many angry words were
right there, ready to be thrown out at her.
But why bother? She wasn’t worth it. The bitchy
ones never were.
I’d already given enough of my energy over to
her. As her ass sashayed down the hall, though, my little devil dick
gave a final-death-throes shudder.
It felt like a reverse orgasm.
Fuck.
After stepping back in the apartment, I closed the
door and ripped the envelope open. Weird. A fancy invitation, on
graduation or wedding paper, was all that was in there. I started to
open it—was yet another classmate bowing under the pressure of the
parents to marry? It seemed like open season as we all slipped from
twenty-two to twenty three, undergrad years gone, degrees earned, and
expectations high.
You have a life list, right? Twenty-three is the
perfect time to check marriage off, for those who’ve been dating
each other since high school.
Just as I was opening the linen envelope, my phone
buzzed again. Shit. I leaned over and found my phone under the end
table, along with Amy’s lost bullet thermos she’d been bitching
about for the past two weeks. Sam had torn the place apart but never
found it. Cool. He owed me now, and Amy would give me more than a wan
smile next time she came over.
Nineteen text messages. Joe, Joe, Joe, Darla,
Darla, Joe, Joe, Darla, Darla, Darla, Darla, Liam, Darla, Darla, Joe,
Sam, Joe, Joe, Darla.
Was the fucking world ending?
And then the door flew open, and my big blond
beast stood there, wild-eyed and clutching an envelope that looked
exactly like mine.
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Random Acts of Fantasy now on Amazon, and it's coming soon on other bookstores!
