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“Candix! Did u see the new pic?” she writes, adding an emoji of a dog, complete with lolling tongue. “I licked it, btw.”
I huff as I type back. “I met J-One in the flesh, biatch.”
“Joel? Did you, now?” I wait as three dots appear, indicating she’s still typing. “Did he do you behind the store shelves? Did J-Two join the party?”
“Don’t I wish!” I add a crying emoji. “He bought a book for him, though.”
“How thoughtful.” Jumping emoji. “Something like, How to Do your Sexy Roommate?”
“Actually… bananas.”
“He went bananas?”
“He bought a book about bananas.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I’m serious!”
“There’s something between them, I can feel it.”
“A banana.”
“Shut up, Candy.” Emoji sticking out its tongue and dancing. A banana emoji, no less, with legs and everything.
I crack up. “Go away. I need to appreciate the new pic in peace.”
Appreciate it a bit more. Maybe it’s time to break out my favorite dildo.
“Girl, what you need is a piece of them.”
“You have a specific piece in mind?”
She vanishes from online for a bit, and I lean closer, taking in Joel’s grin, the twinkle in his eyes, his messy hair. The taut abs, the shorts hanging way too low on his narrow hips. Jethro’s body is a shadow beside his, his biceps impressive enough to show through the blurriness.
The fantasy returns, the fantasy that torments me and delights me and accompanies me to bed every night. A dirty, dirty fantasy of Joel pushing into me as I lean back on the bed, while Jethro—always blurry, always mysterious and half-formed—claims his mouth in a filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth and a sexy growl that I feel in my bones, in my pussy, everywhere.
Then he moves behind Joel, runs his big hands over Joel’s taut ass, and he—
“You still there?” comes a message from Connie, and I blink, the image shattered beyond repair. “Tell me everything.”
“Everything?” I type back, baffled.
“About meeting Joel Kingsley, stoopid. What did he say, how did he smell, how did he speak? What did he say? Help me improve my sexual fantasies. Help a friend out.”
What can I say? In her shoes, I would have asked exactly the same.
Besides, I recall clearly the intense blue of Joel’s eyes, the faint scent of boy musk wafting from him as he took the book from my hand. This is no hardship at all…
“Hey,” she types after I tell her everything, “you going to the Indie concert tomorrow?”
Oh holy crap, not her, too. “No.”
“That’s a shame. I heard through the grapevine that J-Two will be there.”
“Yeah right.” Ha. “You’re worse than Bry. I bet you’re making this up to see if I swallow it. Shame on you.”
“Listen, biatch. My brother lives near Madison, you know that, right? So he’s best buddies with Mason Archer, owner of Archer’s Own, one of the sponsors of the concert. He will have a couple of stalls selling drinks there.”
