Chapter Twenty
“Call her, bro.”
The rhythmic thud of shoes on a treadmill gave the conversation an appropriately ominous backbeat. “No.” Marshall loved his brother, but he wasn’t going to take advice from a guy who avoided commitment with a startling dedication.
“But you want to?”
Fuck, he’d give his left nut—his favorite one—to hear her voice. “It doesn’t matter.” He stared out the windshield of his truck still sitting in his driveway. “She doesn’t want me to.”
“Maybe you misread?”
“No.” He shook his head to the thud, thud, thud. “She made it very clear she wasn’t interested in a relationship.”
“Are you in love with her?”
“I…don’t know.”
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Gus, about what she said about not wanting to be another ex in his life. But what he felt for her didn’t remind him remotely of the love he’d experienced the three times before this. That had felt good and solid and predictable.
These feelings were nothing like that. This was a quagmire of indecision and uncertainty sprinkled with longing. An obstacle course of thunderbolts and lightning and quicksand. And electric shocks to his balls.
This was a fucking Tough Mudder course.
“Well, that’s an interesting answer, considering you’ve been there before. This ain’t exactly your first rodeo, bro.”
“Yeah, thanks for mentioning that to Gus. It was so helpful.” She’d been running ever since his brother had opened his big mouth.
Jeremy chuckled. “What? It was going to come out eventually, right? Might as well bring out the corpses early, I always say. You can’t be accused of concealment that way.”
“Jesus.” Marshall shook his head. “You’re such a lawyer sometimes.”
There was more laughter followed by some electronic beeping and the slowing of the treadmill and the pace of Jeremy’s feet. “All I’m saying is, maybe she’s changed her mind? Ever heard of absence making the heart grow fonder? It’s been what, two weeks?”
Two weeks, two days, and eighteen hours. “Yep.”
“So call her.”
“What if she doesn’t pick up?”
“Leave her a message.”
“What if she doesn’t respond?”
“Call her again.”
Marshall could practically hear the eye roll in his brother’s voice as the treadmill cut right down and the thudding slowed to a walk. He must have sounded like a whiny little kid, but he wasn’t used to this crap. Women usually called him, usually left him messages.
“What if she tells me not to?”
“Then stop and move the fuck on. But don’t die wondering, man. Life’s short. We know that better than anyone.”
Marshall nodded. His brother was right. Not that he was about to admit it. The dude was a hotshot city lawyer—his ego was big enough.
“Fine. I’ll do it. Later. After work.”
Jeremy chuckled then made chicken noises. “Bok, bok, bok.”
“Screw you,” he said grumpily and hung up.
Marshall scrolled to Gus’s number in his cell, staring at it, his finger hovering over the call button, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart thudding in his chest.
Nope.
He threw the phone down beside him and banged his head a few times against the steering wheel. Sitting up, he grabbed the phone again.
Okay, new plan. He’d text her.
It was less confronting because it didn’t involve direct conversation, and given their distance it might feel like an emotionally safer option for Gus. And if he kept it light and friendly, nothing too hot and heavy, something neutral, she might feel at arm’s length enough to engage?
Yep. That was a better plan.
Scrolling to his messages, he pulled up Gus’s number and typed a half dozen different things before deleting each one. What the hell could he say that would strike the right balance between a friendly hello and a sad, lonely desperate fuck pining after a woman who didn’t want him?
Suddenly, he remembered the T-shirt he’d seen online a few days ago that had taken him straight back to Hitchkin.
I would push you in front of a zombie to save my bunny.
He’d thought about buying it for her and having it delivered but had dismissed it as ridiculous and, frankly, a little bit creepy. He found the link to it now and texted it with a brief message.
There. It was in the lap of the gods now. If she didn’t respond, he’d take it as a sign and leave it the fuck alone. About to slide his phone into his back pocket, he noticed three little dots had appeared in the text box and he momentarily forgot to breathe.
His pulse picked up again. She’d seen it already? And was replying? He drummed his fingers on the wheel as he waited for her message to appear on the screen.
Marshall stared at those three words like they were the Ten Commandments. She hadn’t ignored him, and she hadn’t asked him not to text her. It was hardly an invitation to a booty call, but it was a start.
And he’d take it.
Stupidly happy, he texted a laughing-face emoji, slid his phone in his pocket, started the truck, and drove to work.
“So you’re still sexting with her, then?”
Marshall held his cell between his ear and his shoulder as he juggled two boxes and the door handle of his truck. After tossing the boxes inside, he climbed into the seat, and shut the door. “We’re not sexting.”
“But you’re definitely flirting.” Jeremy’s voice was raised a little to be heard over the thump of his feet on the treadmill as he ran flat-out.
Bastard wasn’t even puffing.
“I think it’s fair to say we’re moving into the flirting zone.”
Marshall grinned just thinking about it. Two weeks of trading cute bunny pics and funny T-shirt slogans had morphed into another two weeks of how’s your day been (usually always good, often accompanied by pictures of extracted bunny testicles) and pineapple on pizza or not? (pineapple!) and Star Wars or Star Trek? (Captain Kirk forever).
It wasn’t what are you wearing or I wanna do bad things to you but many of them had been initiated by Gus and Marshall looked forward to their messages, smiling at his cell like an kid on Christmas Eve whenever one landed in his inbox.
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” Marshall was pleased his brother wasn’t here to see the goofy expression on his face right now—he’d never live it down.
“Why don’t you kick it up a notch?”
“Forget it. I’m not sending her a dick pic.” He’d never snapped a picture of his genitals and sent it to anyone, and he wasn’t about to start.
Christ, who did that? Why?
Jeremy chuckled. “I’m insulted that you would even think I would suggest such a thing,” he said, not sounding remotely insulted. “I am an officer of the law.”
Marshall snorted far too privy to his brother’s filthy mouth and filthy mind to buy into his protestations. “What were you thinking, then?”
Whatever it was, Marshall doubted he’d be on board. The last thing he wanted was Gus in retreat, so any notch-kicking had to come from her. He could take it from there, but she had to take the first step.
“Well… She lives in Chicago, right? And… I live in Chicago, right? And I have two tickets to the Cubs game at Wrigley in a couple of weeks. Maybe you could come for the baseball and just…drop in and see her at work?”
Marshall chewed over it for a beat or two. As far as ideas went, he’d heard worse.
“Not bad, huh?”
“Better than a dick pic.”
Jeremy laughed. “Think about it.”
Marshall assured him he would as he hung up, and he did think about it over the next week as he and Gus texted back and forth. A lot. If they were still communicating next week, maybe he’d book a flight?
A few days later, Marshall went into Walmart for socks on his way home from work. The store was already getting into the swing of Halloween, and he passed aisle after aisle full of decorations and costumes. A furry, psycho-bunny mask caught his eye and he laughed. It had ears that pointed straight up, evil red eyes, and a mouthful of jagged teeth.
Performing a quick check behind him, he plucked it off the shelf, shoved it over his head, and snapped off a couple of quick pics.
After placing it back on the shelf, he attached the image to a text, smiling as he tapped out a message.
He waited for a minute or two for a reply, but none was forthcoming. That wasn’t particularly unusual—Gus could be in a meeting or driving or in surgery—so he tucked his phone in his pocket and went in search of socks.
Marshall was in the shower later that evening when she replied. His phone, which was on his bed, chimed the Looney Tunes theme song as he stepped out of the cubicle. Smiling, he reached for his towel, quickly dried himself off, and slung it around his waist.
A spurt of relief flowed through his veins as he strode into his room, scooping the cell off the bed. He’d never waited more than a couple of hours for her to answer one of his texts and, he had to admit, he’d been starting to go into withdrawals and worry over the radio silence.
Was everything okay? Was she getting skittish on him again?
He sat, his heart thudding a little harder as his fingers scrolled to the message. He read it and laughed, relief a dizzying high.
Marshall’s fingers flew over the keys.
A small part of Marshall did wonder if he should send something so blatantly evocative of their time on Hitchkin, given how tentative he’d been until now. But relief and the thought that she was probably also in bed at this hour made him reckless.
He hit send. And prepared for more radio silence. His groin stirred as three little dots appeared.
He laughed again, shaking his head. Yeah…of course she had.
He hesitated over the nickname. He hadn’t called her that since their last day on Hitchkin, but it felt right. So he sent it into the ether.
Her next response was slower, and he figured she was writing a long-ass reply, but when it came it was seven words long.
Pretty fucking short for the amount of time it had taken her. Had she written and deleted it a few times? Had she deliberated over using his pet name in return?
Marshall tried not to get too excited.
Falling backward, he held his phone at arm’s length as he tapped out his response, which did not involve him telling her it was his heart not his ego he was worried about.
He went for safe and generic instead.
Why else had it taken her hours to get back to him?
Marshall laughed.
The thought of Gus having babies did funny things to his breathing.
A red angry face appeared on the screen.
His smiled died. He was thrilled she was opening the door to more personal topics, but the thought of her being set up with someone else, maybe having someone else’s babies, made him all kinds of tense.
Marshall congratulated himself on such a measured response, when deep inside he wanted to go all Incredible Hulk and tear his skin off. “Please let him be a dick,” he muttered under his breath as he waited for the three dots undulating in the text box to take shape as words. Knots tightened in his shoulders. An elephant sat on his chest.
Christ…what a sad indictment on men if not talking to her boobs was one of her considerations. He got it, sure—she had amazing boobs, and he’d very much like the opportunity to get to know them really well—but she was more than a life support for a pair of mammary glands.
His fingers furiously tapped out words to that effect, but maybe it was just a flippant remark and she didn’t want to dwell on the topic. He deleted his rant and went for something flippant in return.
Her reply was swift.
He smiled as a vision of her pulling up the top lips of dates to inspect teeth came to mind. But it diffused quickly as he brooded about her boob remark. He felt the need to say something. And she’d brought the subject up, right?
He could always back off if she wanted.
His thumbs hesitated over the keyboard, then he wrote.
Another rapid-fire response.
Marshall tapped again.
He hit send.
She took an age to reply, and Marshall’s arms started to ache from holding the phone up, waiting. He wondered if he’d pushed too far. Or was she thinking how impolite he’d been the day he’d ripped up the contract?
And that time he’d exploited its weaknesses.
Marshall blinked. Okay…that he hadn’t expected. Was she teasing? Was she flirting?
Was she drunk? He smiled as he sent his reply.
A smiley face with red cheeks appeared on the screen.
Then another text a few seconds later.
A prickle of awareness spread across Marshall’s belly as his loins heated and his dick stirred beneath the confines of the towel, and he sat up. He had no idea where this was heading. Was it some kind of test? Maybe she wanted him to say something like, I prefer brains to boobs, which, of course he did.
Or maybe she was…sexting him?
Confused, he sent her a big blue thumbs-up. It was a measured response admitting to being on Team Boob without revealing the deep, dark secret of most straight guys—if they had their own pair, they’d never get out of bed.
Her reply appeared on the screen.
Marshall laughed as anticipation fluttered light fingers down the V of muscle that disappeared behind the towel. So they were flirting? That he could do.
He held his breath and waited for her reply.
Jesus. Heating and stirring became full-on blooming as Marshall typed.
He didn’t hesitate this time—he pushed send, his breath quickening a little.
Her response was gratifying.
He smiled, remembering, too. Remembering how hard her nipples had been as she’d arched her back.
It took her forever to reply and Marshall sat in an agony of indecision. Had he gone too far? His dick voted no.
Oh…Jesus. Her words thumped into his chest then used his erection as a slippery dip, sliding from tip to root and burrowing in there. Had she taken that long because she had, in fact, already snapped that pic and was debating about whether to send it or not?
He gripped the phone, hyperaware the conversation was teetering on a precipice, and he was torn between pushing forward or pulling back. He went for somewhere down the middle.
Her reply wasn’t a surprise.
Marshall laughed. No shit? He couldn’t believe she’d come this far. Who knew, in her tipsy state maybe he could persuade her to go further? But that was a dick move. She’d probably hate herself in the morning and, by extension, him.
The dots appeared for a long time again, like she was composing a soliloquy, but when the words appeared there were just four.
Marshall groaned as he fell back against the bed, tossing the phone on the mattress beside him. He doubted very much any dreams he had tonight would be sweet. But he figured if any part of her was sober, she probably already knew that.
His heart was still beating a little fast at their text exchange. He’d occasionally sexted with women before—dirty, explicit stuff. But none of them had been as hot as this tentative, flirty, tipsy, funny back and forth from a woman who usually kept herself in check. It had hinted and suggested only, a tease that had set his imagination running wild.
That was it. He was definitely going to Chicago next weekend.
But first… He grabbed for his phone again and quickly scrolled to the image of him and Thumper that had caused such a sensation online. The one where he was shirtless and laughing, his teeth on good display. The one he’d caught her staring at that day on Hitchkin.
The one she’d deleted.
He attached it to a text—Good teeth. Not talking about the bunny —and sent it. It’d be there for her when she woke up.
Maybe she’d delete it, but maybe she wouldn’t.
Maybe she’d keep it on her phone and stare at it some more and think about him.
Think about them.