“Is that what we’re calling the dickhead now?” Forest questions.
“Works for me.” I take a sip of the dirty martini they ordered for me as I look around the restaurant, people-watching while noting the couples and non-couples. Valentine’s Day is such a strange holiday.
Quinn whistles through her teeth and tugs the box in her direction to slip the lid off. “All dark chocolate. Of course. Couldn’t you like milk chocolate? You know, for the rest of us?”
“Sorry. My parents only get me the good stuff.”
“Pass them here,” Crew demands of his twin. Without waiting for her to comply, he slides the box over, picks one up, and takes a bite. His face pinches up in disgust when he realizes it’s orange cream and spits it out into a napkin before he goes for another. “Fudge. Better. They’re good. It was nice of your parents to get you these.”
A round of appetizers is placed in front of us, and I close the box of chocolates in favor of a tuna and avocado wonton.
“Hell, I have a fiancé, and all I got from him was an orgasm this morning before he left for work,” Braelyn jokes.
Hayes laughs and tosses his arm over the back of the booth behind my shoulder. “You’re telling me your billionaire fiancé didn’t get you a present?”
“Don’t start with that again.”
“You brought it up.”
She sticks her tongue out at him. “Considering we’re getting married in a couple of months and will have more gifts than we know what to do with, I don’t need much else right now other than the orgasms.”
Roman, usually the quiet one of us, makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. “Please don’t make me hear more about sex with Adam. My ears are still bleeding from the last time.”
“Or maybe that’s from your last opponent,” Forest teases. Roman is not only a famous Michelin-starred chef and owner of several restaurants here in Boston and around the world, but he’s also part of an underground boxing ring. Except the joke is, he rarely, if ever, gets hit. “Still, he’s right. No talking about sex,” Forest laments, sipping his soda. “It’s been way too long for me.”
I snort. “Try never having an orgasm from your partner.”
Everyone grimaces, and for good reason. My vagina is broken. Or at least men don’t speak its language because I can make myself come, but thus far, I haven’t met a man who can meet that challenge.
It frustrated the hell out of Josh. It didn’t take long before he started criticizing and blaming me for it. The man was nothing if not mean and belittling while packaging it as love. The best thing I ever did was leave him, and my main regret is that I didn’t do it sooner.
“Probably better off with toys than boyfriends,” Quinn states. “Trust me when I say, even the non-asshole ones tend to be disappointing in the flesh. Think about my ex.”
I point at her. “Exactly.”
“How about we not talk about this anymore? Particularly about you using toys,” Crew groans, and Quinn tosses a piece of ice from her drink at him.
“Forget that bullshit,” Braelyn exclaims, turning back to me. “We need to work on finding you a real man. A man who loves and appreciates you for who you are.”
I sigh.
When you grew up as the awkward, nerdy girl who didn’t come into her own until very late in the game and was subsequently teased and criticized relentlessly, or used for your family name and connections, sometimes trusting a person in bed takes a bit of time. When I first started having sex in college, I didn’t have a lot of self-esteem to pull me through in a healthy or positive way, and I mostly did whatever my partners wanted. They were drunk guys at parties. Not boyfriends, and I wanted them to like me.
So, I faked it.
Then it became a thing. I couldn’t come with a partner. Josh was my first boyfriend. He showered me with love and adoration until he didn’t. Until he became cruel and I was weak, and when he still couldn’t make me come, I faked it with him too because it was easier and safer than facing his reaction. The eggshells that man always had me walking on could make feet bleed.
Whatever. I don’t want to talk about Josh or any other guy.
“Or we could just not tonight,” I grumble.
“To being single and anti-Valentine’s Day,” Quinn jumps in, saving me as she holds up her Manhattan, and we all toast to that.
“All I know is, the next guy you end up with shouldn’t be some random dick,” Hayes states. “The guy who takes your orgasm card will be a lucky bastard and better know it, or he’ll have to face us.”
Crew gives him a fist bump. “Damn straight.”
I blow them each a kiss and change the subject. “Speaking of random dicks, I bumped into Aston Hughes outside. Actually, I nailed him in the nuts with my purse.”
