“Yeah, a whole weeks’ worth of business days later,” I scoff, jokingly. “I need you to stop getting railed on her world tour by her famous chef boyfriend and be home long enough for me to divulge every delicious detail of my latest hookup.”
“Sorry, we’ve been so busy. But I’m free now.”
“I meant in person. Not on the phone.” I pretend gag. “You know how I feel about phone calls. They give me anxiety.”
“I know, I hate talking on the phone too, but when I’m traveling with Tino, there’s only so many voice messages we can send back and forth before a phone call would make it easier.”
I dramatically shriek in horror. “What kind of millennial are you? Preferring phone calls to voice messages? Shame!”
“All right, I get it. So, are you going to tell me about your latest hook up or what? Me and Tino have to head to the airport soon.”
I don’t know where to begin. To say me and Mr. Armani’s evening together was eventful would be an understatement. I highly doubt most one-night stands start with a stranger protecting you by pretending to be your husband, and end in him taking care of your needs over his own. I’m used to hook-ups being transactional, and nothing like what I experienced with him. But if there’s one thing I know about Lorena, no matter how guarded she has been in the past when it comes to relationships, she does not share that same sentiment when it comes to me. She’s always pushing me to let go of the hang-ups I have from my past and give love a chance. In short, she’s a bit of a hypocrite, but a lovable, good intentioned one at that.
Knowing I need to play this carefully so I don’t let on that I would love nothing more than to break my own rules and pursue Mr. Armani, I begin to spill the details, speed-talking my way through the whole‘She’s my wife’moment to the mirrored room at The Withered Flower.
“Sarina,” she playfully scolds. “Tell me you did not hook up this man in a bar.”
“Oh, my bad, would the location be more to your standards if it were on a second-story glass floor?”
My point is proven from the way she’s sighing into the phone.
“Exactly. And I love how that’s the part you’re stuck on, and not the whole him pretending I was his wife thing.”
“Honestly, that sounded pretty hot, him swooping in because of some asshole bothering you.”
I don’t bother telling Lorena who that asshole is or who he was to me. I haven’t shared much about my family or life back in Colorado. With good reason. That life —otherwise known as my entire existence up until leaving it behind for good— isn’t something you openly share with others. It’s better off that I keep things vague. I don’t need Lo, or anyone else for thatmatter, to get caught up in my family drama. Nothing good comes from it.
“You’re telling me. So, as I was saying, we went into this back room that used to be an art installation I loved years ago, and all I can say is, I feel bad for Pedro.”
“Wait, I’m confused, is that his name?”
“Who?”
“Gray Suit Pants Guy.”
“Oh no, Pedro is my vibrator’s name,” I say with a bit too much pride.
“You name your vibrators?”
“Yep, and they are all named Pedro.”
“I realize that we’re veering off topic here slightly, but dare I ask why they are all named Pedro? Also, how many do you have?”
“Clearly more than you, if you’re asking,” I joke. “And if you must know, they’re all named Pedro after our lord and savior, the daddiest of the daddies…”
“Pedro Pascal, got it.”
“Yes, exactly. And let me tell you, this man, he might just be the daddiest of anyone I’ve ever dealt with, because the way he can fill out a suit and then all the secret treasures he has hidden underneath. I’m talking tattoos, piercings, a pleasure kink that had me recovering for days.”
“He sounds hot.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Okay, so what’s the mystery man’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Seriously? Did you get his number at least?”
