“Jesus jumped-up Christ,” he blurted. He straightened his posture and clapped his hands together. “That gal’s a keeper.”
“Because she swallows my spunk?”
He raised his index finger. “She’s motivated.” He raised his middle finger. “Devoted to her job.” He continued extending his fingers with each point he made. “Financially stable. Gorgeous. She’s got a nice rack. She’s got a great personality. And she’s willing to do what she must to keep you happy.”
She might have taken a ride on my motorcycle, but that didn’t make her willing to do whatever it took to make me happy.
“I’d agree with all of them except for the last one,” I said. “It has yet to be seen.”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “There’s not a girl on this planet who sits in front of the television at night thinking to herself, damn, I wish I had a mouthful of come. If they sold that shit in stores, nobody would buy it, even if they set it right beside the Coca-Cola. If restaurants offered it by the glass, nobody’d order it, either.” He shook his head as if disgusted with me. “That shit’s nasty, and you know it. If she swallows it, she’s doing it for no other reason than to keep you happy.”
I’d taken her willingness to swallow my load for granted. He had a good point. I doubted anyone yearned for a mouthful of come.
“You’re probably right,” I said in agreement.
“If she can choke down a mouthful of that shit without complaining, that damned woman’s willing to go out of her way to please you,” he said, seeming upset that he had to mention it again. “Women like her are few and far between. Understand that. A woman’s desire to please a man is worth a lot more than looks or money, that’s for damned sure.”
“So, I should keep her because she swallows my come?” I asked, my tone coated in sarcasm.
“No,” he snapped back. “You keep her for all the reasons I gave you a minute ago, one of which is that she’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep you happy.” He picked up his plate and stood. He gave me a flippant look. “You might be intelligent, but you’re slowly proving that common sense isn’t something you possess.”
“Fuck you, old man.”
“I made my point.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Now you need to prove your worth by being man enough keep her.”
I had no immediate plans to get rid of her. If nothing changed, I could see us staying together until I was free to decide where I chose to call home.
“I’ll probably keep her around until I’m free to go to the other side of the state,” I said. “Then I guess we’ll see what happens. I doubt she’s up for a move to Miami.”
“Miami?” He tossed his plate into the sink. “There ain’t one of those pricks you used to run with who gives an honest fuck about you. Your best bet is to make a change with who you run with.”
“They’re a good bunch of guys,” I said. “They really are.”
Now facing me, his disapproval of my claim was apparent. He looked like he just swallowed a cat turd.
“Are they?” He put his hands on his hips. “How many of ’em came to visit you in the joint?”
“Bikers aren’t much for visiting prisons,” I replied.
“How many of ’em wrote you letters?”
The only person who wrote me while I was locked up was Herb. I’d looked forward to his letters as much as I’d anticipated the arrival of Christmas as a child. Without them, I would have had no connection to the outside world.
“I’ll take that dumb look on your face as a response that none of them did,” he quipped. “Any of ’em send you a few bucks for snacks?”
They hadn’t, but I hadn’t expected them to, either.
He coughed a dry laugh. “That’s what I thought.” He turned toward the living room. “You’re like that Ferrari that’s always parked down at that crappy car dealer on Pine Ridge. Your presence elevates their worth. They keep you around because it makes them look good. Rest assured, none of those worthless bastards will be at your side when you’re drawing your last dying breath.”
I felt the need to rebut his statement, but I couldn’t. As much as I didn’t like hearing them, the points he made were all valid.
None of them, however, were what I wanted to hear.
Chapter Eighteen
Teddi
Seated beside me on the couch, Devin held his phone at arm’s length. He gave me an apologetic look. When the voice on the other end went silent, he raised it to his ear. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. You can stop calling. Everything’s fine.”
Having Devin stay in my home was a huge step for me, even if it was only for one night. My life’s sexual encounters hadn’t been infrequent by anyone’s standards, but I had a rule I followed with each man I slept with.
I didn’t bring them into my home.
The exceptions were the two long-term relationships I’d been in. Having both of them end poorly supported my belief that allowing men into my home was a precursor to a relationship’s failure.
I hoped that this time things were different.
“Fine,” Devin said, his voice thick with frustration. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
He hung up the phone. He tossed it to the far end of the couch and shook his head. “That old man drives me nuts.”
“I think it’s cute that he cares enough to call.”
“Three times?” Devin asked. “Since we got off work?”
“What do you two normally do on Friday night?”
“Same thing we do every night. Watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. Talk about whatever is in the news. Get into an argument about our differing opinions. I go to the gym at the clubhouse and work out, and he goes to bed. Same thing every night.”
“He probably misses you.”
“I’m sure he does,” he said. “But I’m not going to live with him forever.”
A tinge of hope ran through me. But I feared asking where he intended to move would produce an answer I didn’t want to hear.
“How long has it been since his wife passed?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Ten years, maybe?”
“I’m sure he looks forward to your company. This is the first night you’ve been away, isn’t it?”
“Since I moved in? Yeah.”
Being in a relationship required maintenance, part of which was provided—to me at least—in the form of advice from friends who had been through the same experiences. I wondered if Devin relied on Herb for advice, or if Kate was his go-to sounding board.
“What do you guys talk about every night?” I asked.
“Dumb shit.” He chuckled and then looked at me. “What’s a hand job worth?”
I gave him a look. “A what?”
“Hand job,” he said. “You know. Giving a guy a handy.”
I repositioned myself to face him. “Jacking someone off?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it worth? Like what should a prostitute charge?”