It wasn't too big. It was perfect. I still feel him between my thighs…
"Um…what?" I squeak. Surely, she can't tell I had sex, right? I mean, I don't think I look any different. And I'm pretty sure I'm not walking funny or anything.
"Tell Jazz that it's too big," she says again, motioning toward the vibrator display. "We can't have an entire wall of plastic dicks in a bookstore."
"Please," Jazz snorts, her head popping out from behind the espresso machine at the little café on the far side of the store. "Every bookstore should have a massive wall of dicks. It's called self-care, Lilah. We need options."
"Options?" Lilah splutters, marching up to the display to pluck one down. It's probably eleven inches, sparkling pink. The way she lofts it over her head like it's a damn sword makes me laugh. "This isn't even doable, Jazz. It's an annihilator! No one can handle this thing."
Jazz smirks at her, bringing her mug to her lips. "Lincoln needs to step up his game if you believe that isn't manageable."
Lilah looks to me for help, but I hold up my hands, taking a hasty step back. "I'm not getting involved in this. No way."
"Why not? You love toys." Jazz narrows her eyes on me and then gasps. "Oh my gosh! You had a date last night."
Lilah lowers the cock, and I swear to God, my soul leaves my body as they both turn to look at me like they're ready to accuse me of witchcraft in Salem.
"Um…I should really just go…stock things," I mutter, inching toward the back.
"Stop right there!"
"Jesus Christ, Lilah. It's a dildo, not a weapon," Jazz says, rolling her eyes when Lilah points the thing at me. Maybe it is an annihilator. It looks a lot more intimidating when you're staring at it in the sparkly eye.
I have got to get my life together. There's no way I can spend the next sixty years in a bookstore, surrounded by sparkly pink cocks and crazy people…right?
Is it wrong that I want to do exactly that?
"Spill," Lilah demands, shoving the dildo back onto the shelf and then wiping her hands across her pants. "How was last night?"
"Fine," I lie. "It was…fine."
Her face falls. "That bad, huh?"
"We can kill him," Jazz offers. "I'd make an awesome criminal mastermind."
The most terrifying part of that statement is the fact that she isn't wrong. She would be an excellent criminal mastermind.
But I don't actually need one of those right now. I need a therapist or Jesus, or whichever authority it is that sorts out my mess.
Who do you go to when your date turns out to be a creep, so you go home with your best friend's brother and call him Daddy while he makes you see stars? Is there a hotline for that or…?
I think I'm on my own with this one. I mean, it's not like I can tell my best friend that I slept with her brother last night. I absolutely can't tell her that I called him Daddy and loved the way the name felt on my lips.
I'm still trying to process that myself. I've been whispering it in secret for years, so it's not like I didn't know that I wanted it. I guess I'm surprised by just howrightit felt, like I was meant to say it to him.
It wasn't dirty. I didn't feel kinky or like it was just a word we were using to get each other off. It felt…significant. Important, like we'd both been dying to say it for a long time, not to just anyone but to each other. Even now, it feels the same way.
I want to hold that feeling close, keep it just for us. It isn't something anyone else needs to know or understand.
But when he said it last night, for the first time, I felt like I was finally, finally right where I belonged. I didn't have to be braver than I was or louder than I am or anything other than his baby girl. I've never felt that safe before—not ever.
How do you explain that to someone else? I don't think you can. I think it's just one of those things you keep close and cherish because it's not meant for anyone but the man who claims the title and the one who trusts him enough to let him carry it.
But that doesn't solve the more immediate dilemma. And that dilemma is this: Olive doesn't know how I feel about her brother. Not even her brother knows how I feel about him. And the thought of losing either of them has me ready to throw up.
It's not a little niggling worry, either. It's full-blown terror, the can't-feel-my-legs, can't-catch-a-breath kind that invades every single cell, pressing against your chest like an elephant.
"I…um…" I stare at my boss and Jazz, trying to breathe through the panic. Trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say or do here. It feels like the whole world is on my shoulders, and I've never been good at carrying it. That's why I hide in books. It's easier than dealing with reality.
