Todd scrammed and ran toward the exit.
My eyes finally landed on my knight in shining armor, but I almost wish I hadn’t now. How did I not recognize his voice? It was deeper, but still the same voice from our childhood. Fuck me sideways with a ten-inch pole. Scratch that. Please don’t.
“Rebel, are you okay?”
Coen fucking Kidd stood in all his muscular glory, tall, handsome, and sexier than sin. I’d bet my next royalty check that his abs were fucking delicious. His stubble was porn worthy, and his smile, goddamn that smile.
His frown was substantial now, I hadn’t responded to his question. I was stuck in a flabbergasted stupor.
“Rebel, hey.” He waved his hand in front of me, “Did he hurt you?”
My voice wouldn’t come out. It refused to answer because it wanted to say the dirtiest things to him. Somewhat composing myself, I managed to say, “N-No.” My palms moistened from either heat or nerves, I wiped them on my dress in a frantic motion. “He put his tongue where it didn’t belong.”
Before thinking better of it, I burst out in a fit of giggles.
“I think you’ve lost it. Maybe I should take you to the hospital. I don’t know normal protocol for attacks.” He gently held me upright.
“No.” I laughed, trying to compose myself, “Coen, I’m fine. Thank you for coming to my rescue. Just like old times, right?” The bitterness I didn’t have a right to have slipped through. He just saved me, and I was here being bitter about something that I should’ve let go. What I really wanted to say was, “Too bad I pushed you away, huh?”
His face turned grim, his mouth a thin and angry line. I knew then that I set him off. He probably still thought I was a bitch. My face no longer held joy, and I felt like such a shitty person and friend.
Without another thought, I hugged him, my plushiness and his hardness mixing and blending in the perfect way like a Klondike bar. What I’d do for this Klondike bar. I’d be the awesome ice cream in the middle of this Coen sandwich.
I expected him to pull back, but he didn’t. His muscular arms wrapped around me tighter, squeezing me together as if I were a puzzle piece needing solved.
His lips kissed the top of my head. Then his cheek rested atop it. We stayed there in peace for I didn’t know how long or why. My heart raced. Sweat formed from the closeness, and my mind felt at ease. Maybe this was exactly what I required to get over my loveless marriage. Not a fuck boy—I mean buddy. I didn’t need some cheesy dates. I desired true comfort from a man, not a silly little boy wanting to stick his dick in the next girl, but a real man who cuddled like a fucking rock star. Do rock stars cuddle?
“I missed you, princess.”
Fuck. Me.
When we had been kids, I’d always been Ariel, always telling him I’d find my own Prince Eric. My thighs touched, so I was be closer than most to being a real-life mermaid. Coen used to tease me and call me princess. His endearment meant the fucking world to me. When he’d call me that, I was putty. He made my heart melt like clay, cold, protected, and hard until the perfect kind of temperature touched it. Coen affected me, and I felt myself fully soften in his arms.
“I missed you, too.” I couldn’t bring myself to utter his pet name. Handsome. He may be sexier than handsome nowadays, but if I called him that, the waterworks would start.
“How about we relive old times and dance?”
“There’s nothing I’d rather do.”
6
History
Dating a BMX Biker Rule #21: Yes, it’s considered a sport. Don’t question my athleticism.
Coen
Conor convinced me to go out and find, “friends” through Babes & Bros. At first, I avoided it. The sting of Felicity’s betrayal drilled into my mind constantly. What made any of them different?
My first acquaintance was Gisabelle. She seemed sweet enough and just my pace, as in a night on the town with a friend and not some fuck buddy.
She messaged me about wanting to go dancing. Usually the mention of it didn’t affect me, but since Conor brought up Rebel, I’d felt myself mourn the life we could have had. If Rebel didn’t love dancing so much, I wouldn’t see issue in it.
“Sure,” I responded. We’d meet there and have a few drinks, maybe twirl around a bit…if Rebel didn’t consume my every thought.
My normal dress attire should be enough, faded jeans, button-up shirt, long sleeves rolled up to my elbows, my black matching gauges and signature backward ball-cap to top it off.
I could look worse.
Arriving early, I tried to order three shots of Jack. Just my luck. They didn’t have it. Who the fuck doesn’t have Jack? They give me some cheap whiskey in exchange. It sloshed down my throat, burning and making me cringe a little. I chased it down with a little 7UP, but the bitterness lingered in my taste buds. Bars weren’t my thing. I’d always been more of a drink-an-entire-bottle-at-home kind of guy.
After downing my shots, I waited for Gisabelle to arrive. The entire thing felt arbitrary. Dating wasn’t exactly my forte. Most times, I’d go meet a girl at a race, fuck her brains out, and be done. Felicity had been the first girl who didn’t go home. My heart thought it was love. It obviously needed tips on liars. Stop your pity party.
A woman sauntered in my direction. My so-called-date, Gisabelle, maybe? Her name was odd, and until now, I didn’t think of it much. In my mind, I’d only come for one thing, a distraction. Get my mind off my sleaze of an ex.
Her strides were fluid and precise, her curls bouncing in the bright lights flashing above. She seemed too perfect for my taste. Runway model status for sure. Her long, tan legs were smooth and elegant. Her attire didn’t leave much to imagination. It’d been weeks since I’d felt a woman beneath me, experiencing every part of my body on top of theirs. I missed that part of being with Felicity, and seeing this woman walk toward me with all the confidence in the world gave me the deepest satisfaction.
“Coen?” Her feathery light voice was barely audible. She stepped closer, bringing her lips to the apple of my ear, nibbling it. Then I felt her breath and an involuntary shudder wracked my frame.
I hate when women touch my ears. So not attractive. People had this weird misconception that blowing air in someone’s ear was sexy. Those people would be fucking wrong.
“Gisabelle, is it?” My bored question stopped her from her pursuit.
“Belle works.” She grinned, and tried waving the bartender over.
“Would you like a drink?” My gaze roamed her frame, appreciating the way her dress hugged her body. Not bad.
“Rum and Coke, please.”
A woman who didn’t drink fruity shit…that I could appreciate.
Before I made it all the way to the counter, I spotted her. Her fiery red hair, luscious curves, and a dress that put my mind in the gutter. What the fuck was she doing here? My sweet Rebel had several tattoos, and the one that caught my eye was Bambi. Once, I’d called her a nerd and said she was an innocent doe while I was far from it.
I’d taint her precious body in every way possible.
I never held back with girls, but with her, I couldn’t help but keep her pure and untouched. She wasn’t a girl you fucked and walked away from. That was never what I wanted for us.