“Don’t you have to have a cock to block?” I ask, teasing my sister. “Or are you using your boyfriend’s cock as the proverbial cock in this equation?”
Mom groans, looking at me and pointing toward the living room.
“Sorry, Mom,” I say cheekily. “I’m just trying to understand what’s happening.”
“Get out of here and go say hi to your father,” she says.
Evie sticks her tongue out at me as I walk away.
I make my way toward the sound of a gunfight over a card game, taking my phone from my pocket. I glance at the screen, wondering if Mario texted me back. A grin splits my cheeks when I spot Gianna’s name on the top of my alerts.
Sorry, Mario. You’re going to have to wait for a reply.
Gianna: Have you checked your socials? O M G
I lean my shoulder against the wall and type out my response.
Me: No. Why?
Gianna: Francine called me this morning and told me to look. I’ve gotten fifteen THOUSAND new followers since Thursday, and I’m pretty sure I can never use the direct message feature again. Do you know how many dick pics I’ve received over the past few days? Do girls send you pics of their boobs?
Laughing, I shake my head.Only Gianna would ask that.
Me: On occasion. They’re never solicited.
Gianna: Well, you tell those hoes that you have a girlfriend now and the only boobs you’re going to be seeing for the next six weeks are mine. I mean, theoretically. You don’t seem like you want to see them.
Me: You don’t appreciate that I wanted to focus on your mind first?
Gianna: I did have a great time at dinner. The drop-off afterward? Not so much. But you did pick out the perfect first date spot. I keep thinking about those chicken skewers.
Me: Any requests for our second date?
Gianna: Is sex off the table? If so, boo. But I also love your taste in restaurants, and feeding me is never the wrong answer. But inside. Eating and fighting bugs on picnics is not my idea of a good time.
An idea crosses my mind, and I can’t type fast enough.
Me: Do you have plans for Friday night?
Gianna: Is this your way of asking me out on a second date?
Me: I’ll pick you up at six. Wear closed-toe shoes, jeans, and a cotton top.
Gianna: That does not sound sexy at all. I’m guessing sex is out of the question.
Me: You could wear a trash bag and be sexy.
Gianna: Charmer.
She’s going to want more details, and I’m not going to give them to her. Anticipation is half the battle. So I slide the phone back in my pocket and round the corner into the living room. The gunfight has stopped, and the cowboys appear to have swapped the saloon for a brothel. Dad is stretched out in his recliner, the remote in his hand—dead-ass asleep. His breaths sound like he’s blowing raspberries.
“Is he asleep?” Elodie whispers from behind me.
“Yeah.”
“Mom is on the phone with Aunt Vivi. Wanna take a walk?”
I nod. “Sure.”
