Cricket.
FuckingCricket.
And my goddamn dick.
My goddamn dick that I saw the doctor about six months ago because I thought it was broken.
Stress.
That’s what he said.
Stress is why you can’t get a hard-on.
And now I’m stressed because I can’t control the goddamn thing when I think about Cricket.
When I smell her.
When I dream about her.
When I hold her while she’s sobbing.
I sprouted my biggest woody in years and scared her away this morning, and I can’t—I don’t—justfuck.
She thinks she’s broken?
She thinks I’m patient?
She has no goddamn clue.
My body sags, and I fall back on my ass in the middle of the concrete floor, completely spent.
I had good role models, I told her.
I did.
The best.
And I’m not built the way my parents are.
No matter how hard I try, I never feel as patient. As understanding.
Asfun.
I try and try and try, and it’s never enough.
“Are you okay?” a soft voice whispers.
Everything inside me goes rigid as my dick tells me who’s standing in the interior doorway that leads to the bar and tasting room before my brain registers the sight of her, backlit by the lights that are on beyond the storage room in the gift shop and tasting room.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, hunching over, dropping my head into my hands and trying to breathe again.
“I didn’t mean to overhear,” Cricket says. “I was, erm, looking for a quiet spot to read this book Pip recommended. She kept telling me it was the bestwhite shoesbook she’d ever read, but I think she—never mind. I’ll shut up and leave you alone.”
Why choose.
Pip got awhy choosenovel from a friend and read it and all of the sequels and still calls them herwhite shoesbooks.
Even though, as she says, there aren’t any references to white shoes in the whole series.
