“That’s not the only thing I want to fill,” he says, and I choke on air.
My mouth opens.
Closes.
“Are we getting along?”
Before either of us can respond, the clatter of heels on tile interrupts us and Georgia slides back into the booth beside him with all the grace of a college student who’s been dragged through a lecture hall.
Nova rests her hip on the table.
“Wow,” Georgia says, surveying us like a scientist observing two suspicious lab rats. “What’s this? A moment?”
Nova narrows her eyes at me. “Why do you both look guilty? What’d I miss?”
Turner smiles at my best friend. “We were just saying how we’re going to get out of here, go back to her place, and bang one out.”
His sister’s jaw drops. “COULD YOU NOT?” She pauses. “Wait. What about me? I’m not done wallowing!”
turner
. . .
Two months later…
Idon’t knock.
Haven’t in weeks. Not when I’ve been living here for two months—long enough to know the rhythms and quirks of this brand-new apartment. Take the fridge for example; it makes a tinypingbefore it kicks on. The bathroom door sticks if you close it too hard. And Poppy? Has exactly one of three settings when I walk in after a long day:
Wearing sweats, messy bun, ready to chill on the couch.
Still dressed from work.
Or…
Nearly naked.
Bare feet.
Bare legs for days.
Hot pink thong underwear riding low on her hips and eaten between two, perfectly round ass cheeks.
She takes a plate out of the cabinet. Leans forward, opening the refrigerator with the casual grace of someone I know is very used to being half-naked in the kitchen.
Her head disappears into the fridge, giving me an absolutely devastating view of her lower half.
