Page 12 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“Henry?”

“Yes, Julian?”

“Didn’t you park there?”

Sigh. “Yes.”

“I wish you would have called. I could have taken an Uber and driven you back. Now you’ll have to trek back to O’Hare and pay an extra day of exorbitant parking.” Julian takes his job responsibilities seriously. He’s even added duties never included in his contract, such as being an obnoxious mother hen. “Did you get any winks on the plane? I booked you one of the high fancy seats that turn into a bed so you would rest.”

“No.”

“Did you sleep last night?” he asks.

“Not so much.”

He gives me a knowing nod.

“I still submit that you should call that Bedtime Stories place,” he says with a mischievous grin and an innocent tone.

I don’t respond. I give him a hard look, but instead of being chastened, Julian laughs. Sometimes I wonder who the boss is here. I’m increasingly certain it isn’t me.

“I’ll drive you home,” he says, looking me over. “You shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re barely sentient. I’ve seen worms with greater brainpower than you possess right now.”

He’s not wrong.

“Give me your keys. I’ll go get your car while you get some sleep.”

I protest him going out of his way like that, but he insists. “You’ll be doing me a favor. I can grab some tea on the way back from the Other Bean and get some fresh air.”

“Fine.”

He hustles me to his SUV, and I’ve already touched the fabric on the passenger seat to move it when I realize it’s a pair of thong panties and drop them. Julian shoves them in the glove box, where there’s a strip of condoms and even a little wallet-size packet of lube.

“Have you considered having sex in a bed? Or with the same woman more than once?” I sound like an ass. A jealous ass. But that doesn’t stop my mouth from working. “You could start a side hustle selling used panties at the rate you collect them.”

“Maybe. Have you considered having more sex and less judgment in your life?” he snarks back at me.

“Maybe. Have you considered knowing the names of the women you have sex with?”

“Maybe you’re a stick in the mud.”

“Maybe you should give me some hand sanitizer. Jesus, Julian, if anyone ever uses one of those Law & Order lights in here, the whole thing is going to glow.”

He starts the car but doesn’t put it in gear; he just raises one eyebrow at me and waits. Maybe he has the right of it, not giving women any more chances to hurt him and being a good-time guy.

“I’m sorry,” I say, with sincerity. “I am both tired and grumpy.” And maybe a smidge envious.

We’re not even out of the parking lot when he starts in on the therapeutic value of orgasms. “When was the last time you got laid? Was it that awful girlfriend of yours who⁠—”

He stops talking when I start to bang my head against the glass of the passenger window, like a demented zoo animal attempting escape via blunt force trauma.

“Fine,” he says. “We can talk about something else.”

“Fine,” I agree.