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I was squirming, laughing, and begging, tears prickling my eyes as I tried to escape his fingers, but they were everywhere. My ribs, my neck, and behind my ears. I was horrified and delighted that the grumpiest human alive had managed to put a smile on my face on the saddest day of my life.
I was dangerously close to peeing my pants and coming, and needed Mom to come down right now before I did something I would never recover from. Desperate, I sent a silent prayer to the universe.
Dear God,
I know I’m not much of a devout Christian. I also know I only gave up something for Lent once, and it was Skittles (and even that was because I’m allergic to Red Dye 40), but I really need a solid right now.
Please make Row stop tickling me. I really can’t handle another humiliation, and I have a feeling beginning my stay in Staindrop with a pee stain the shape of Nebraska on my dress and convulsing with an orgasm while he wrestles me into submission is going to make my time here challenging to say the least.
I promise to be good. To donate what little I have to charity. And to not shut the door in Jehovah’s Witnesses’ faces when they tell me You want me to do something special with my life.*
*Is starting a true crime podcast special enough? Just being pragmatic here. Your girl has bills to pay and has a scented-candle addiction to subsidize.
Faithfully, Cal
P.S.
Please send my regards to Jesus and tell him I’m sorry he died for my sins just so I could sleep with my bestie’s brother, then borderline assault him in my mom’s kitchen the day of my dad’s funeral. He deserved better.
—C. x
God must’ve had a slow day because he heard me. Suddenly—eureka!—Row’s front pocket began vibrating. His phone flashed through his dark pants, and we both stopped, staring at it.
Fine, I was staring at his baseball bat-sized hard-on. His zipper looked so strained it was a wonder it didn’t dislocate to a parallel universe.
Row leaned backward on his shins, releasing me from his grip as he pulled out his phone and swiped the screen, scowling. “Now what?”
Dude made the Grinch look like Phoebe Buffay.
His jaw clenched, and he straightened his back, running a hand through his floppy, shiny hair. His shirt rode up, offering me a glimpse of his rock-hard, bronzed abs. “You’re shitting me,” he bit out.
“That explains the smell,” I quipped, smoothing my dress down and patting my wild hair into submission. Row ignored me. The person on the other line continued talking. My archenemy rose to his feet, letting out a puff of air as his frown deepened.
“I’m going to make a nutcracker out of their bone cartilage.” Oof. “On my way.”
“Hey, where are you going?” I growled. “You didn’t even apologi—”
He grabbed his jacket from the back of a dining chair, not even bothering to put it on. The door slammed abruptly, shaking on its hinges. Leaving me to pant on the floor, feeling empty, confused, and with two brand-new pieces of information to digest: 1) Tomato is a fruit, and 2) Row Casablancas was hotter than ever and burning with hatred for me.
CAL
Excerpt from Androphobes Anonymous forum:
oBITCHuary: Legit gonna hurl myself off a cliff.
McMonster: This better be a figure of speech because I’m about to find your address and have someone bust your door down. My conscience can barely fucking cope as it is.
oBITCHuary: Aww. Who did you kill?
McMonster: Don’t change the subject. Are you okay?
oBITCHuary: If you are asking whether I’m suicidal, the answer is no. I just need to vent.
McMonster: Vent away.
oBITCHuary: Do you want the long version or short one?
McMonster: Short.
