Vanilla. Family. Take your pick.
‘There really is no need.’
‘You’re obviously hungry,’ I retort opening my hands oh-so reasonably. ‘And burgers are on the menu, apparently.’
‘Maybe I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I don’t want a burger,’ she challenges. ‘Maybe I have it in my mind to grab twelve inches on the way home.’
I tried not to laugh—really, I did—as Fin cuts in.
‘I’m just coming to realise you’re as bad as your brother is. She means a sub; you know, a sandwich? Not what you keep in your pants.’ She smacks a sudden hand over her mouth again.
And now I really am laughing, or maybe chuckling, especially as Bea’s head does a cartoon-worthy double take.
‘Not what he keeps where?’ Her brow furrows as she tries to comprehend the string of words Fin’s mumbling behind her hand.
Meanwhile, the waiter is still standing at the table. Probably keen to hear more about that footlong.
‘Do you have any other kind of burger?’
‘We have a beef fillet infused with—’
‘Good. And could we have a side order of fries, and one of the glazed carrots.’ I gesture to both our plates, both a little emptier thanks to Bea’s current ravenous state. ‘Would you prefer them cold or warm?’
‘Warm.’ She sends me an arctic look before adding a sweet, ‘Please,’ in the direction of the waiter. ‘And a beer; Heineken or whatever.’
‘She’ll have the Belgium blonde,’ I amend.
God bless a stubborn woman—the kind who wants to be in charge until it’s stripped from them. The kind who turns compliant once their hair is held tight in my fist.
Fuck.
I should’ve taken a rain check on dinner tonight and gone to the club—put my needs above Rory’s tonight. The lack of control I have on my reactions has to be pent-up sexual frustration—a response to not having gotten my dick wet enough this month.
‘Is he always this bossy?’ Bea hisses to her friend, though I don’t hear her response.
Tip of the iceberg, sweetheart.
‘Here’s an idea. Arrive on time, and then you can order for yourself next time.’
‘That’s rich coming from the man who had to be dragged out in the first place,’ taunts my brother, suddenly appearing and taking his seat.
‘Creeping Jesus much?’
‘Funny, Fin also confuses me with the Lord sometimes.’
‘What are you talking about?’ she asks, turning her confused gaze his way.
‘You scream his name plenty instead of mine.’
‘Oh, God!’ She groans in response.
‘Aye, a bit like that.’
‘Andthat’swhy I call him Randy,’ Bea interjects. ‘Randy Rory is the perfect name for him.’
‘How’s your crotch?’ I ask, hoping to wipe the smug from his face.
‘Perfectly fine. How’s your footlong?’
