Who am I kidding? They probably hear that line all the time. And I bet most of the guys say it to give themselves a clean conscience like theytriedor something.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell your ball and chain. Take it to my fucking grave.”
I groan as Paul drags me toward the tent.
“Thanks,” I say, my stomach in knots.
Savannah would kill me if she found out I was at this strip club tonight—period.
Despite the fact she’s drop dead gorgeous—I mean, she’s done pageants since we were in middle school—and I’ve told her time and time again, I have no desire to even look at anyone else, she refuses to believe me.
Savannah and I have been together since our senior year of high school. We were together for a few months before I finally pulled the trigger and slept with her. I knew it was something Ineededto do, if only to fit in, but also because I didn’t want to be the lame case and laughing stock of the locker room.
How many football players do you know are a virgin by the time they graduate high school?
Scratch that, how many college football players do you know who are virgins?
Exactly.
Cam was the only person who didn’t think I was crazy for wanting to wait until I found the right person—even if he had been doing the opposite for years. But in the end, peer pressure made me cave, I guess.
Savannah and I fooled around a few times over the course of senior year, mostly at parties and while we were drunk. I thought maybe if I was drunk, I’d enjoy it more, and so would she. Loosen up the inhibitions and all.
But really, I just felt like shit afterwards.
We spent the summer together in Cape Cod after senior year, right before college started, and things got more serious. Then half-way through the first month of classes, Savannah told me she was pregnant, and suddenly nothing else mattered.
So I did the respectable thing and proposed. Everyone was thrilled, even though we hadn’t told themwhy.But I guess it didn’t matter, because we were both young and had been together long enough post-high school that people weren’t going to say anything rude or ask. At least to our faces. That’s how this town works, after all. Everything is about what you see on the outside.
One month after our engagement, Savannah told me she miscarried, and ever since then, we agreed that waiting until our wedding to be intimate again was a good idea.
And honestly, a relief. I never felt like I wasgoodat getting her off unless I had something to take the edge off, so I wouldn’t second-guess everything I did. Asking her to tell me what she wanted or to direct me never worked. She’d only get mad atme and tell me “I should know,” like I’m a mind-reader or something.
Cinnamon greets us at the velvet curtains, and Paul grins wickedly.
“Treat him good, baby, he’s a first-timer.”
Cinnamon smiles as I pass her the bills, Paul waxing on drunkenly about how “they grow up so fast,” like I’m some nerd virgin or something.
I roll my eyes, casting Cinnamon a smile as I follow her into the tent.
I let her lead me to the large cushioned couch and take my seat, trying my hardest to focus, but my mind is a mess. The alcohol isn’t helping either.
Cinnamon parks herself between my legs, bending over to shake her ass in my face. I watch her movements, trying to dispel the thoughts permeating in my brain.
Who was that guy Cam was with? Is that why he bailed on me? To get laid? Is he seeing someone? No, probably not. He’d definitely tell me if he was seeing someone. I mean, we tell each other everything.
Unless… unless it’s purely just a friends with benefits thing or a hookup. Something akin to anger flushes through me at the thought.
What about the code? Bros before hos, and all that shit? He knows how I feel about this stuff. I’m not some tightly-wrapped virgin like Paul acts like I am, but that doesn’t mean Ilikebeing thrown into a circle of sex and alcohol where I know Ihaveto put on a show. That should matter, right? At least, where my best friend is concerned.
“You seem tense, sugar,” Cinnamon says as she runs her hands along my shoulders and down my chest. She pushes me back into the cushions as she straddles me, and I don’t know what to do with my hands.
Am I allowed to touch her?
She must read my stiffness as a sign to keep going, an invitation to be loosened up. Despite the several drinks I had, I don’t feel loose at all.
I still feel like I’m pretending, keeping up the disguise of being the Austen Brewer everyone knows.
