Page 211 of Mad Girl

“Michael said? Oh, please. Tell me. What did Michael tell you about my dad?” I’d hit a nerve there, though I wasn’t sure why.

“Just that he seemed disgusted by the idea of you having a boyfriend. Does he…make you feel ashamed of your sexuality or something?”

“No. He just uses it to remind me how disgusted he is by my very existence. I’m not ashamed of who I am or who I’m attracted to, Elliot. I just don’t particularly want to discuss it with you.”

Your emphasis on you stung like a bitch, Casey. “With me? Why not?”

“Because I know you. If given the chance, you’ll turn it into something that’s hugely inappropriate.”

“Oh,” I said, drawing the word out with a bitter laugh. I curled my fingers around your phone, gripping it extra tight. “Yeah? Hey, Casey, how many dicks have you sucked? How often do you, like, prefer dick?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, muttering, “Dear God. I shouldn’t have said that. I should never have said that.”

You definitely shouldn’t have. Your comment had me ramped up to be as hugely inappropriate as possible. Challenge accepted.

“Let’s bond over our mutual appreciation of dick. Dicks are fun, right? Dicks are great. Me, personally, I prefer a dick of a certain size, you know? But who doesn’t?”

You swallowed pretty hard. “So you’ve…had some experience in that area, have you?”

“Oh my God,” I said with a grin. “Loads of experience. You have no idea.”

A huge lie. A definite exaggeration.

Wisely, you remained skeptical. “Really? Because I’m wondering how that’s even possible, unless you were sneaking off with random guys for the last two years rather than hanging out with Tinsley like you’ve said.” You eyed me carefully. “Or were you lying about that, too?”

“Not lying, no. I just had this wild habit of blowing guys in the utility closet at school. It was a real problem, actually. An addiction, some might say.”

You laughed. But the tone of your voice, when you spoke next, sounded sort of ominous. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Totally joking. Never happened. Not one time. “What, like you’ve never blown someone in a utility closet?”

You ignored my question to ask one of your own. “And Willoughby’s alright with that, is he? This…addiction of yours? Where you claim to have blown several of his mates?”

“What reason would Willoughby have to complain when it clearly benefits him? A girl’s gotta perfect her dick-sucking skills before she heads off to college, you know what I mean?”

You did not know—or maybe you just hated the implication. Because the way you looked at me, Casey, could bring a girl to her knees.

(Ha! See what I did there?)

“Hey,” I said, “maybe you could give me some new pointers. The way you kiss, I bet you know your way around a dick.”

“Wow,” you said, eyes wide, jaw ticking. “I mean, my God. That mouth of yours really knows no bounds, does it?”

I had you squirming a little on that sofa, Casey. Had you fighting to keep your composure. Had you shocked, angry, and maybe even a little turned on.

“Look,” you said. “I know you were never sucking people off during your free period, okay? So stop it with that shit.”

“Fine. Enough about me. Let’s talk about you. If I were to check your DMs right now, would I catch you exchanging dick pics with a local hottie or two? Or maybe some full-frontal nudes?”

“Right,” you said with a snort. “That’s all I need—pictures of my dick floating around.”

At the mention of your dick, my throat tightened. “So you’re saying you’ve never taken a nude photo of yourself?”

“Call it intuition, but sharing nudes with someone has always seemed like a monumentally bad idea to me. And, anyway, I find it sort of sleazy to even ask a complete stranger for photos like that in the first place.”

This surprising information caused me to forget myself for a moment. You and I didn’t talk about things like this. We never veered into the racy or ribald. This topic of conversation had given me a rare glimpse into the treasure trove of things you hid about yourself. Things I desperately wanted to know. The deep stuff. The intimate stuff. The real Casey.

“Okay,” I said. “So you’re a prude.”