***
Ten months, one week, eight hours, twenty-one minutes, and seventeen seconds since I’ve had sex.
Not that I’ve kept track or anything.
Holy shit, has it almost been a year? No, that can’t be right. Closing my eyes, I try hard to think back to the last time my vag saw any kind of action that wasn’t battery operated. His name was Kurt…or was it Kyle? Hell, maybe it was Kurt Kyle, I have no idea. All I can remember about him is that he stuck his fingers inside me as if he were mining for gold and used phrases like “giddyup” and “boink.” I don’t care who you are, you can’t respect a guy who growls that he’s going to boink the fuck out of you.
But this guy? I’ll bet money he’s never said the word boink in his life. I’ll bet my life savings—which currently stands at about one hundred thirty-two dollars and sixty-eight cents—that his bedroom dirty talk would make my eyes roll back into my head.
He sits about twenty feet away from me at the western corner of Heckscher Playground, his chocolate brown hair sticking up every which way and dusting carelessly over his ears. A sexy as hell beard fills in his cheeks and skims his chin, giving off a clear rebel with a few worthy causes look. I usually go for the darker, brooding types, but something about the way the sunlight reflects off the strands makes him seem like a breath of fresh air.
That has to be the corniest thought I’ve ever had, because I honestly gag a little.
However, gagging doesn’t stop me from forgetting all about cramming for my business law exam and concentrating more on the way his hunter green t-shirt clings to the muscles in his chest and strains against well-defined biceps.
He’s alone, which is a bonus. Trust me, I’ve watched him long enough to make the assumption. He also has a habit of licking his bottom lip, then biting down on his tongue when he stares at something. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him? I bet he’s a good kisser. Men who absentmindedly play with their lips and tongue usually know how to use them in other ways. The whole package is delicious and almost makes me ignore the fact that he’s holding a camera and taking pictures of little kids.
Oh. Well.Ew.
Perfect, pretty, and pervy. Two out of three don’t win the race, sorry, dude.
“Whatcha doing?” Knocked out of my lusty trance, my face flames as I refocus on my entire reason for being in Central Park in the first place. Preston wrinkles up his red nose and sniffles as he pushes his falling glasses back up with a crooked finger. Springtime in the city is murder on a kid allergic to everything but sleep and water. With glassy, watery eyes, the poor kid looks like he’s gone a couple rounds with a joint and lost.
“Studying,” I answer with a groan.
He cocks his head and sneezes. “About bugs? I can help.”
“Bless you.” He looks so serious, I can’t help but ruffle his perfectly gelled hair. “Thanks for the offer, but this is more like statistics and due diligence laws.”
He seems to mull it over in his head. “A roach can live nine days without a head,” he says after a long pause. “Did you know that?”
“Nope,” I say, unable to hold the laughter in. He stares at me, blinking rapidly as if I’m a complete moron. “I wasn’t aware, but I’ll keep that in mind for my next beheading. Thanks, Pres.”
His answering grin forces one of my own right before he sneezes again, spraying snot all over my textbook. “Laken, can I go play on the slide?”
I nod, feeling a smile stretch across my lips. “Stay where I can see you. I don’t want you getting so popular that all the other kids fight over you.” I give him a wink and he rewards me with a wider smile.
“You’re so silly.” Giggling, he bounds off happily in search of his next big adventure.
Returning to the exam I’m destined to fail, ensuring my future as Lady Hammerle’s foot soldier, I push tall, hot, and twisted out of my mind. My stomach churns as I remember the balled-up rejection letter, causing me to grip my pencil so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t snap. My life may be on constant derail, but I still have a 4.0 GPA going for me. It’s not much to hold on to, but if I play my cards right, and stay on track, I could live out my days as the smartest, most frigid Waffle House waitress to ever flip a pancake.
I continue berating myself well into the third chapter of my text book when five solid years of my life are cut short. The minute that Preston’s congested cries for help hit my ears, I fling my pencil across the grass in a panic and scan the playground for his preppy vest and tailored khaki pants.
Because God forbid the kid is caught dead in a pair of shorts.
The moment I see him on the ground, my mouth drops open, and I take off in a full sprint toward the playground like my ass is on fire, swearing the whole time. Preston lay on his back in the sand, his glasses twisted and bent, fending off punches from another kid who’s straddling him. It’s like a scene fromThe SandlotmeetsOrange Is the New Blackas a group of elementary school kids crowd around them chanting and egging it on.
“Preston!” In a blind panic, I grab the bully’s wrist and pull him off Preston’s waist while the kid still swings in the air like some tiny version of Rocky.
Hurried footsteps crowd in from behind. “Get your hands off my daughter!” A defined, tanned arm snakes in from the side, scoops the brawler out of my grasp, and runs an attached hand down the boy’s pigtail braid.
Oh, yum. Pervy guy has a hot accent. Scottish? Irish? Hell, he could be from Mars for all I care. So long as he kept—
Wait. Backup—daughter?
Unable to process what happened, I loosen my hold and step back, forcing my mind to focus on his words and not his delicious accent. “Your what?”
Pervy, hot accent guy with the camera hugs the bully kid to his chest, raising his eyebrows as if I’d just asked him to smell the number nine. “My daughter. Are you finished manhandling my kid, for Christ’s sake?” His last words trail off as he brushes a hand over her cheek. “Sophie, are you all right?”
