“Jesus Christ,” he moans, dragging his hand over his face. “Can you stop bringing up Lydia Samson? It was dark, I was drunk off my ass, and she kept saying, Yes, right there, right there. She was the sick fuck, letting me pump my dick into her armpit. We were in a closet on a boat, for fuck’s sake.”
I burst out in laughter at the infamous story, which I got secondhand from little old Mrs. Davenport of all people.
He points his finger at me, a stern look in his eyes. “You see? This is why I don’t do nice things, because ungrateful people like you bring up situations like Lydia Samson.”
“You tried to screw her armpit, Reid. That will go down in history as the best story of my life.”
“Then you need to get out more, because that shit is stale.”
I shake my head. “Never. All I have to say is Lydia around our friends, and everyone laughs.”
“Because they’re all sick fucks like you. I was sixteen, it was the first time a girl told me to push my pants down, and I was a little overzealous. Everyone should just be happy I was out of my room at that point.”
I cover my mouth just as a snort pops out of me. Oh, Reid. Everyone knows he had his hand perpetually on his penis the minute he found out he could have fun with it—whenever he wasn’t hanging out with Eric or cooking. The Knightly clan would blast him for constantly being in his room to the point that he stopped caring and would actually announce what he planned on doing. His poor parents.
“The horniest of the Knightlys.”
He shrugs unapologetically. “When you’re the most well endowed, you have to do something with all that extra testosterone raging through your veins. It was better to take care of business than go on Hulk-like smashing sprees.”
“Most well endowed?” I roll my eyes. “Please, everyone knows that’s Griff.”
False, everyone knows it’s Reid.
I can remember back in high school when all the girls would talk about the Knightly boys and rate them based on sex appeal and the rumor mill. I would never tell Reid this—why inflate his cocky ego more than necessary?—but Lydia Samson was terrified of how big Reid was when he pushed down his pants and spread it around that he was huge. She really made him screw her armpit because she was too nervous to let his willy anywhere near her lower half. His size was later confirmed by Diane Rebar and Heather Maker, then Nancy Vaughn, who swore she would never go near another Knightly brother after her sexual encounter with Reid.
If the legend is true, then Reid Knightly is a force to be reckoned with in the bedroom.
Do I believe it?
Maybe, but then again, word spreads like wildfire around here, flamed and wafted far past the truth, making every story you hear less and less believable.
“Griff.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Okay, Eve, keep telling yourself that.” Reaching out, he tugs on a lock of my long brown hair. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”
My stomach aches at the thought of food. I’m starving.
“What were you thinking?”
“Franklin’s Deli. His new homemade mustard makes my nipples hard.”
Just because I can, I reach out and rub my hand over his thick pecs, feeling the sharp nubs beneath my palms. He stands there, chest puffed out, almost proud to prove that in fact his nipples are hard from thinking about mustard.
“Not lying. Hard as fucking stones.”
I pull my hand away. “There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
“Yeah, you’ve known that for over fifteen years now, and yet you still hang around me.” He rocks on his heels, grinning.
“Because it’s either you or Mrs. Davenport. Options are slim around here, Knightly. Don’t think too much of it.”
He steps up and pulls me into another hug.
“A leg up on the Daven-ator, that makes me one lucky son of a bitch. Come on, my treat.”
CHAPTER THREE
REID
Typical Eve.
Whenever I say my treat, she really makes sure to go all out with her order. Two different sandwiches with the specialty mustard that Franklin, the dickhead, upcharges now—“Supply and demand,” he likes to point out to grumbling locals—two different soups, a bag of sea-salt-and-vinegar chips, and three cookies, not to mention a bottled water and a bottled iced tea.
With her smorgasbord spread before us, I didn’t even bother ordering anything, knowing full well she’s not going to eat all of this. I pick up a sandwich half and take a large bite.
Shit . . . this mustard is so fucking good.
We’re sitting in the front window, the deli’s prime spot, where every passerby can see us. I swallow my bite and whisper, “Why is this mustard so goddamn good? I swear, I would drink a whole goddamn bottle if I could.”
She leans forward as well, making sure Franklin—the worst gossip in town—can’t hear us. “I think he puts crack in it, legit stirs it in.” She twirls her hand in the air, stirring a fake bowl.
“A crack den posing as a deli.” I snap my fingers. “I could see it.”
“There’s some gossip we should spread around. I can see the headline in the newspaper now.” She holds up her hand and waves it across the imaginary paper. “Crack Den Deli. Flamboyant Mustard Extraordinaire at the Helm.”
“Catchy. I’d read that.”
At that moment, Franklin steps up to our table, a sly smile on his face, hands folded. “Enjoying yourselves?”
Eve coughs up a piece of bread.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, keeping my reply short. No one likes to talk to Franklin because the guy loves to play your conversation on repeat to whoever cares to listen.
“Oh yes,” Eve chimes in, recovering. “These chips are supreme.”
His eyes narrow. We both know what he’s looking for—he wants a compliment on the mustard. It’s like an unspoken rule in town that we don’t let on to Franklin how good the mustard is, though we keep coming back for it.
“Very well,” he says, spinning on his heel and walking back to the deli counter. “If you need anything, holler.”
When he’s out of earshot, Eve says, “Think he heard us talking about his crack den?”
I glance back at Franklin, whose eyes are still narrowed at us.
“I wouldn’t be shocked if he bugged this table so he can hear what everyone is saying.”
“Sounds about right.”
She leans back in her chair with a cup of chicken-noodle soup. “Thanks for being there for me today,” she says sincerely.
I pop a chip in my mouth. “That’s what friends are for, Eve. No need to thank me unless you want to sit on my lap; then I’ll take that as a thank-you.”
“Never going to happen, Knightly. It’s sad that you keep trying.”
“Hopelessly optimistic.”
And that ass of hers is so fucking fine. Sure, we’re just friends, but I don’t think I would ever give up staring at it—or asking for it. It’s fun, constantly having blue balls around her—every man’s dream.
“Ha!” She laughs and swallows a spoonful of soup. “Hopelessly optimistic would be the last way I’d describe you. More like sarcastically pessimistic.”
She has me there. Optimism runs through the Knightly blood, but I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to access it.