The Deal Dilemma

I’ve been pacing my kitchen for ten minutes now.

Crew said he was coming over, so I yanked Drew out of the bar and had him drive me home since he insisted on picking me up, but I walked in fifteen minutes ago, and still no sign of Crew.

He should be here by now.

His apartment isn’t that far from mine, so if he left right when he said he would, then he should have knocked no less than—

I jump as my doorbell sings to me; it doesn’t even get to the final note before I’m yanking the door from its frame.

Crew stands there, dominating the small space so much more than I remember. I swear he’s even taller than he was last time he stood on my front porch.

Twenty-five looks good on him.

So did the other twenty-four.

“Um… hi.” I swallow.

Crew raises a brow. “Is your doorbell the theme song to Victorious?”

“My dad still thinks I’m twelve… so.”

He nods, a frown falling over his face, but he makes no move to enter my apartment, so I grip him by the hem of his shirt, pull him inside, and lock the door behind us.

Three or four steadying breaths later, I turn to find him watching me, clear intent calling on the darker shades of his eyes.

Several beats of silence pass and then he blinks.

“Ready?” Crew peels his jacket off, and honestly, he should charge for that.

It’s quite intoxicating, as is the way he runs a hand through his unruly hair. The way he shifts. Breathes.

Exists.

Wait. Did he say…

“Ready?” I ask.

Crew doesn’t respond. He stares.

One at a time, he yanks his shoes off his feet, dropping them to the linoleum with a thud. “Should I take you on the couch, or is your roommate home?”

“Oh.” My muscles freeze, but my core, it heats. Boils. “Um.”

Crew undoes his belt, his eyes sharp and steady, determined. He tears the thick piece of leather from its loops and sets it on the kitchen table with a loud cling, cling, clack.

My core clenches, a tickle zipping up my spine.

“Are you going to use that?” I wonder.

Long, strong fingers clamp around my wrist and my eyes fly to the contact, to the space between our bodies. To where my hand decided to reach for the opening of his jeans without permission.

His fingers flex against me and my gaze snaps to his.

Crew scowls and gives a subconscious shake of his head, and then those hazel eyes widen with surprise.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, but I’m pretty sure he’s speaking to himself.

The realization on his face activates my own, and for once, I’m the one to frown first.

“You have no intention of dicking me down tonight.”

Crew flies back, putting no less than ten feet between us, and when he faces me again, a furious fire stares back. “No. I don’t.”

“You were testing me.”

“Not testing.”

“Assessing. Studying. Hypothesizing. Call it as you please. You wanted to see if I’d go through with this.”

He runs his tongue along his lower lip, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Did you miss the part where I basically begged you to let me pimp you out to myself?”

The vein in his neck pulses, and he shakes his head. “It’s not going to happen, Baby Franco.”

“Why not? It’s a fantastic deal! You get a truck, something you can keep for a lifetime in exchange for five minutes of your time.”

He scoffs. “Five minutes is pathetic.”

“Good to know. I’ll make sure to mention that to whoever signs on the dotted line.”

“Swear to God, girl.”

“There’s a church around the corner for that.” I blindly reach for the handle behind me, tugging the door open.

He widens his stance, his jaw flexing. “If I didn’t call you tonight, would you have begged Drew to fuck you?”

“How did you know I was with Drew?”

“Answer the question, Davis.”

“You’re being annoying,” I tell him, but when he doesn’t so much as blink, I answer his stupid question. “I had no plans to screw your brother tonight, no, but I hear it happens naturally sometimes.”

Crew shakes his head, his big-ass arms crossing over his broad-ass chest. “Why not let that happen?”

My head tugs back. “You want me to ask Drew to take my virginity?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He growls, pushing closer until he’s directly before me. “I’m saying why not wait for it to happen naturally. Why not wait until you find someone you actually want, who wants you back, and let it happen like that?”

Okay, ouch.

My chest pinkens, and I look down, but he hates when I do that, so before his knuckles can lift my chin, I reach out and catch his fingers in mine, holding them between us.

“I get it,” I whisper, slowly looking up into his dark, scornful eyes. “Honest, I do, but I don’t want that. That’s just a whole new level of anxiety for me.”

“What do you mean?” he wonders, the muscles in his palm relaxing.

“If I answer that, it will be a whole new level of embarrassing for me.”

Crew’s still for a moment, and then the corner of his lips quirk up a bit.

“Oh, this must be good, Baby Franco.” His words are forced, as is the half grin, both completely for my benefit, but that’s the beauty of it. Of him. “’Cause you didn’t so much as blush when you told me to slide inside you and ‘pop’ your—”

“Oh god!” I cut him off, my hand releasing his and joining the other to shield my face. “I totally said that. Sound effects and all.”

His body jostles as if to laugh, but no sound escapes.

Stretching my fingers apart, I peek at him through the small gap. His amusement hasn’t fully faded, so I allow my arms to fall.

“Are you hungry?” I blurt out instead. “I have frozen pizzas?”

He looks away, and I’m sure he’s about to leave, but then he looks back, something I can’t quite reach hidden in his eyes. “What kind?”

My smile spreads, and I skip to the freezer.

This is good.

A start.

Now to find a way to get him to deflower me…

Crew

“Are all those pizzas in there yours?” I joke, finishing off my water. “Your mom would have a fit if she knew you were eating frozen shit every day.”

Davis leans forward, snagging a pineapple off the lone piece left and tossing it in her mouth. “I do pizza and movie night with my friend Jess next door at least once a week, but I bailed last time when I woke up with a jackhammer attached to my temples.”

“That’s what you get for letting Drew serve you after seventy-seven percent of a wine bottle.”

“Yeah.” She grins to herself. “That didn’t go well with the froufrou vodka drink he gave me. It was delicious, but my body was really pissed at what I did to it.”

“About that body of yours and what you want me to do to it.” I shift, facing her fully from the opposite side of the couch. “Why are you so serious about us fucking?”

She knocks back what’s left in her orange soda can as if she’s shotgunning a beer and looks to me. “Is it necessary to discuss this in dirty terms?”

“Is it necessary to fuck under dirty terms?”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah, women say that when it’s good.”

“Okay!” She throws her hands up, adjusting as I had, so she’s facing me. “I get it. Got it. You want me to get to the point, blah blah blah. On it.”

Davis takes a long breath, and finally, her almond-shaped eyes meet mine.

“What if I find someone, fall into this epic love, like The Notebook kind of shit, and everything is perfect and then we have sex and he hates it? Or what if I hate it?” She scoots forward. “Holy crap, what if it’s catastrophically awful and—”

My laughter is unexpected and has her mouth closing, a small smile pulling at her lips.

“Okay, rare, epic love aside.” She folds her hands in her lap, her shoulders falling. “Is it really that horrible of an idea?”

An instant sourness coats my throat, but before I can say anything, she rushes to continue.

“Okay sure.” She tips her head back and forth. “One day, you’ll look my future husband in the eye and think, ‘I fucked your wife,’ because that is just so you, but who cares? I’ll be thinking the same thing every time you introduce a new girlfriend.”

“Oh, so you get a husband, and I don’t get a wife?”

“Oh please, Casanova.” She draws her feet up onto the cushion, laying her chin on her knees. “You’d have to allow yourself to love someone to have a wife, and before you say you do love someone, my family doesn’t count.”

She’s not being mean; in fact, the entire conversation is slightly playful, even though I’m damn sure she’s serious. She’s an oddball like that, but still. That last part stings.

Truth always does, even if it’s only the half of it.

She and I stare at one another a moment, and then I move to the edge of the cushion, leaning forward with my elbows on my thighs. “I get what you’re saying, and I know you well enough to know nothing I say will convince you not one of those things will happen, so I won’t bother.”

Her eyes narrow spiritedly as we both knew this was my way of saying exactly that.

“What if…” Fuck me, I should shut up now. “What if I say yes”—her eyes light up, but I lift my hands, halting whatever it is she planned to follow with and finish—“but instead, I help you find someone else.”

I brace for her horror. For her shouts of refusal.

But Davis fucking Franco does neither of those things.

She squeals, loudly, and then she jumps up on her feet, staring down at me with a giant, full fucking smile on her puffy, full fucking lips. “Are you serious?”

I frown, and the nod I give is forced when it should come easy.

“So you’ll be my wingman?” she asks.

I bite back a grimace. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no, but is that not what I offered? To “assist” her in finding a man worth her time.

Worth a spot in her memory.

Worth being inside her?

A cough fights its way free, but I swallow it down.

You can control this shit, my man.

It’s with that thought in mind, I nod. “Yeah. Like a wingman.”

She claps her hands, lowering herself onto the coffee table in front of me.

Right in front of me.

I’m talking knee to fucking knee, face to face.

“Okay, what exactly do we do?” Her brown eyes sparkle, her teeth sinking into the corner of her bottom lip.

I’m tempted to free it.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you going to give me tasks or a list or homework or something and grade me on it? What’s the grading scale? Are we talking a letter grade or a percentage or what should I work toward? And what do you think is a good baseline to start, like how do I know if I’m getting better or ready or whatever? Oh, and do you think you should show me some moves before I play jelly on toast and spread—”

“Whoa, back up.” I gape at her, at the wild excitement buzzing across every inch of her satiny skin. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The lessons.”

“What lessons?”

“You said you’d help me, remember?” Her eyes widen as if her shitty explanation should make perfect sense.

It doesn’t.

“It was less than sixty seconds ago, so yeah, I remember.”

“Then you should be following.” She pauses, cocking her head with a single, swift blink. “If I’m going to go get a guy to have sex with me, I need to know how to first get a guy. I’m pretty sure that’s simply stated.”

“No, it’s not. Not at all.”

“Well, now you know.”

Leaning even closer, I bring us eye level, and her knees knock mine in a stubborn attempt at dominance I’ll never give her.

“Are you really sitting here acting like you don’t know what to do to get a man’s attention?”

“Did you somehow miss the entire reason I wrote a two-thousand-word, double-spaced essay trying to convince you to have sex with me?” Her features pull, her tone a mix of sass and frustration. “If I knew how to rope a guy in on my own, I wouldn’t be standing here pathetically happy to have a less than eager man help me convince another man to have sex with me.”

“You have to fuck them right back, you know?” I spat.

“You know what I mean, Crew Taylor.” She glares, crossing her arms over her chest in a pout.

My eyes follow the movement, and I frown at the swell of her breasts, at the soft sweep of skin that curves down, disappearing beneath the yellow tank top she’s wearing.

“This is a bad idea.” I push to stand, slipping past her.

Moments after I’m on my feet, she leaps up, jumping over the back of the couch to block my path.

“Davis. Move.”

“You cannot back out now. I need your help.”

“Bring your next date home and it’s a done deal. Problem fucking solved.” I press my lips together firmly. She’s driving me fucking mad.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll just take out my little black book and magically find someone to take me out to fuck.”

“It’s called Tinder, sweetheart. You’ll bleed in a click of a fucking button.”

“Ew.”

“That’s what you want, is it not? To be fucked for fun?”

“And potentially be on the next episode of Body Cam? No, thank you.”

My jaw clenches, and I want to fucking scream at her, but I hold back, and she shakes her head.

“Crew,” she breaks off. “I’ve never dated before.”

“Bullshit,” I snap, stepping into her. “You’ve always been up front. Don’t start lying to me now.”

“I’m not lying to you,” she snaps right back. “When I say never, I literally mean never. As in not once. I’m as clueless as a church-born nun.”

“I don’t believe that.” My eyes flick to her lips, to her sleek, slender neck with a candy necklace tightly wound around it, the ice cream pendant I gave her for her birthday years ago hanging beneath it, to the inviting indent of her creamy collarbone, and the arc of her soft, silky breasts. My eyes settle on the deep dip of her waist. “Not for a fucking second.”

“It’s the truth.” Her hands find her hips and she straightens. “I’ve gone to the movies and dinner and other places with friends or in groups over the years, where I maybe gave my attention to one person for the night, but that’s it. I’ve never gone out with someone, one on one, with the potential of naughtiness following. I might as well be wearing a chastity belt ’cause I’m beginning to believe every guy sees one when he looks at me anyway.”

“Not a chance.”

“Then what makes me so undickable?”

“Stop,” I rush, dragging my hands over my face. “I need a fucking drink for this shit.”

“Okay, you’re obviously getting stressed out, so let’s take a breath and regroup, start simple. With the basics.”

Almost afraid to ask, I turn to look at her. “Basics?”

“Yes.” She steps backward, holds her hands out and does a slow spin. “Okay, go.”

I blink. “What?”

“You know, tell me what you see. It’s always best to start with the root of the problem. If we do that, we should be able to break it down in a way that makes sense, analyze all components, and put it back together more effectively. So, look at me, and tell me what’s wrong with what you see.”

“You’re not some class project, Davis.” My voice is rough. Hard.

She says it so matter of fact, so emotionless, I want to grip her and shake her. Yell at her.

Davis flicks her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh my god, come on.” She laughs. “It’s called problem-solving. You agreed to help solve my problem.”

“No, I agreed to find someone who will.”

“It’s the same thing, Crew! Same outcome. I got you, you get guy, I do guy, and right after the big fat equal sign of the equation, in gorgeously golden ink, it’ll read ‘hymenless.’”

“Fucking Christ.” I drop my head back, a low growl working its way up my throat.

She’s fucking with me. Has to be.

“Let’s not play games, okay?” she suggests. “It gets us nowhere to tiptoe around. It’s not like you’re being mean by answering. I’m literally asking you a direct question. That’s it. Promise, I can handle it.”

Angry, I turn my body so it’s facing hers again, crowding her in. Her hands fall to her sides with my approach, her neck cracking up to keep our gazes connected.

“First of all, there’s nothing wrong with you. Second, I don’t know a single man, pun in-fucking-tended, who wouldn’t fuck you if given what I guarantee is the pleasure of doing so, so do not stand here and pretend if you wanted to have sex right now, you couldn’t walk into any damn bar in this town, leave with a man in mere minutes, and wake up without what you’re trying so hard to be rid of.”

Not that I’ll let you.

With that, I jerk away, taking two steps at a time until my hand’s wrapped around the doorknob, but right as I yank it open, she shouts at my back.

“I’m afraid!”

I tell myself to keep moving, to slam the fucking door and get the hell out because the shit she’s saying, what she’s said, it’s too much. Instead, I look back at her.

“There, I said it. I’m scared, okay?” Her shoulders slump with defeat, and she glances off. “Crew, I’ve… never done anything with a man. Or a woman, for that matter, but seriously I…” Hesitantly and clearly embarrassed, she finally meets my gaze.

“I have kissed two people in my life and we both know who one of them was. I’ve never touched a man, never seen below the trunks of one, other than in a movie or two, so, yeah.” She nods, her arms crossing as her cheeks grow bright red. “Maybe it would be as simple as throwing myself at a stranger at a bar, but I’m afraid. I don’t want to be, and I don’t know why, but I am.”

Davis begins pacing the short space between the couch and kitchen table, and all I can do is stare. From the jerky steps she takes to the way she chews her nails. She’s a ball of anxiousness.

“It’s annoying and I don’t get it.” She shakes her head, working through things out loud. “Nothing’s ever happened to me before, and I don’t know anyone who’s been assaulted or anything like that so it’s not that. I’m on birth control for girly reasons, so it’s not fear of pregnancy.” She pauses. “Maybe it’s because all I ever did was focus on school. Guys’ll get you grounded, grades’ll get you to graduation,” she mimics her dad’s voice as best as possible, rushing into her next words without a break. “Maybe I didn’t put myself out there enough to allow myself to get comfortable with a man’s attention. I mean, I did spend all of high school following you and Memphis around, and you guys were too psycho to let me out of your sights, so I stood no chance then.” She stops suddenly, leaning her back against the wall.

A long, dramatic sigh escapes her, and she gives a feeble shrug.

There’s so much I could say right now, but my lips remain sealed.

“You have always been confident, Crew, charismatic and mysterious almost. Effortlessly attractive and an expert flirt.” She shakes her head. “I’m not. There isn’t an intriguing or interesting thing about me. I’ve had study groups and class projects with assigned partners dozens of times, more than half of those being male partners, and never once did any of them ever try to so much as cop a feel or steal a kiss. Not once did any of them ever ask me out for lunch after or anywhere at any time, if it wasn’t directly related to getting our work done. I just need your help to…” She pauses, swallowing, and when she speaks again, it’s a low, broken whisper, “God, I don’t even know what I need help with because I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

I don’t know why, and I know I’ll question myself later, but later is later, and now is fucking now.

I go to her, grab her by the hand, and tug her to me.

At first, she smiles, that tight-lipped, sad side smile, the one she gave me when I finally looked up at her that day at the café, after years of staying away. But that smile smooths out, as does the tension in her gaze, replaced by something deeper, darker, when I lift that hand up. I press the tips of her fingers to the edge of my throat, just beside my Adam’s apple, right over the beat of my pulse. It kicks up then, and I step in more.

My left palm closes around the dip of her waist while my right snags a strand of her silky, copper-colored hair as I lean in, closer and closer, until I can whisper in her ear, but I don’t just yet.

I wait, dipping my chin a bit as I breathe, slow and long, through my mouth, allowing my warm breath to tickle along the exposed skin of her neck.

Only when her fingers curl into the arm of the couch I’ve got her against, do I speak.

“I can promise you, Sweets, there isn’t a damn thing wrong with you. Quite the opposite, in fact.” I give that strand a tug, and her huffed little breath brushes my collarbone. “See, men can be real dumb creatures. Sometimes, if we’re feeling inferior and think we’re not equipped with the tools needed to win over the woman we want, the one that catches our attention the second she’s spotted, then we simply choose not to try.”

My thumb sneaks beneath the hem of her shirt and I draw slow, skimming circles along her hip.

She gives a short, sweet gasp, and I lick my lips.

“I’ve watched guy after guy look at you the way you’re craving to be looked at, Davis. They see you, want you…”

“Don’t lie to me, Crew.” Her voice nothing more than a raspy whisper.

“No reason to, Sweets. It’s the truth. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” I turn my face into hers a bit, yesterday’s shave grazing the curve of her cheekbone.

The slightest of shivers works its way through her body, and her hands come up to clutch my biceps.

“They used to look at you and see this bombshell with long legs and lush lips… then everyone else grew, caught up and passed you, but you were done getting taller. You went from a long, lean dream to a short, sweet little thing, but one thing that has never changed is the pull you possess. Men want you, but they know without daring to swing, a strike is coming, because how could a woman like you, who is so adorably fucking clueless of her own appeal, possibly feel the same?”

“Crew.” Her fingertips dig into my skin.

I shuffle closer, dipping my head into her neck a bit. “I feel you shivering, your muscles tightening. Feel my own body heating… hardening. So, there you go, proof there ain’t a damn thing wrong with you, Davis Franco.” I hold a moment, slowly pulling back to meet her dark, dilated eyes. I release her, stepping out of her grasp, out of her reach. “We’ll call this lesson one. Remember it.”

This time when I move for the door, she doesn’t stop me, and thank fuck for that.

Pinning her against it would be a shit idea.