Acosta lay on the floor, laughing hysterically.
Despite the knowledge that I’d just French kissed a duck, the sound of his laughter did funny things to me. Giggly, silly, exciting things that I should not be feeling, but there they were. I gargled several times, brushed my teeth using his brush—he would just have to deal—and then sat down on the floor. He was still snickering when I settled myself beside him and brushed some hair from his cheek. I lifted his head and placed it on my lap.
“This is really bad,” he whispered. “Yet I just can’t seem to stop wanting you.”
“Yeah, I feel the same way.”
Ho-ho-ho. Guess Santadidbring me something after all. Now I just had to figure out where to go from this bathroom floor when real life raised its ugly head. And it would.
Tomorrow.
I’d pull a Scarlett O’Hara and worry about that tomorrow.
ChapterTwelve
“Llamas are not ruminants,as they have a three chamber stomach and not four. They are called pseudoruminants.”
I glanced up from forking clean hay into Millicent’s pen a week later to see Acosta leaning on his fork, his sight on me as I worked.
Yes, I said a week later. My boss wasn’t able to sign off just yet. Okay, fine,Iwasn’t ready to sign off yet. Also, the Melios family was doing New Year’s Eve tonight, and I wanted to be there for that. And tomorrow would be a big feast to honor Saint Basil and I had to be here to partake. No one back in Pittsburgh cared if I was there or not. The work team was doing what needed to be done, and my family was still off cavorting. None of my friends in Rio were too worried about me not being there, which actually made me all kinds of sad. You’d think one of them would be texting me to find out where the hell I was. But nope. Nothing. Just shots of them all sunburned and drunk in their Instagram feeds. What. Ever. I was having just as much fun here in Miller’s Lake. Thank you very much.
Acosta and I were having tons of sex. We both loved dick. Giving and getting dick. Sucking and stroking dick. No matter how dick was presented, we were into it. We sparred verbally over dinner every night. He tried to show me the errors of my ways working for a fracking company and me informing him about the good things that Fitzgerald & Sons Well Services was doing for his community as well as the planet. He was incredibly stubborn. I doubted I’d ever get his signature on that contract and truth be told, I didn’t care all that much.
“Okay. Thank you for that factoid. Millicent, did you know that about yourself?” I asked the llama. She gave me a death glare and laid her ears down. “Hey, I am just trying to make conversation here, you fake ruminant.”
She spit at me. A fine mist of green spittle that I managed to duck away from. Acosta thought it was hysterical whenever she spat half-digested food at me. Millicent walked off, head high, proud of herself, I was sure.
“I don’t think she is ever going to take to you.” He chuckled as I sniffed and then returned to work, my eye on the llama. “You should have never suggested we call her Dolly.”
“Oh that was funny, and she knows it. She just has no sense of humor,” I replied, working quickly so that we could get to our lunch/sex/board game break.
We were deep into a game ofRisk. Once we concluded that we were going to engage in some heavy frot or maybe oral sex with mutual orgasms and then head to his folks’ house to eat and play cards. According to Acosta, card playing was how they rang in the new year as the games and eating lasted well past midnight most of the time. I’d promised myself that I would not touch the ouzo. A vow that I intended to keep. Mostly because I wanted to spend tomorrow eating, kissing on Acosta, and enjoying myself by going to church, eating some more, and then going to the town square for the New Year’s Pretzel Dip. Seemed some of the old boys back in the day thought it would be fun to run into Miller’s Lake—a small lake on the western side of town—dressed as pretzels. Or eating a pretzel. I wasn’t sure. There were pretzels and dashes into icy cold water involved.
It all sounded like fun. Much more fun than going back home to work on boring contracts. I’d never realized how quickly one grew attached to animals until I’d spent a week at the rescue. Now I was having real trouble envisioning my days without Bitsy rolling around in my wake, or a duck trying to share a bath with me or waking up curled around a strong, sexy man.
Something about Miller’s Lake, the people and animals that called it home, was slowly creeping into my psyche or something. Like an amoeba that snuck into your peter while you were swimming in some jungle river, attaching itself to your brainstem and making you think thoughts you’d never thunk before.
Eww. That was gross. No more penis invaders. This isn’t a sci-fi/horror movie, Decker.
Could I keep a goat in a Pittsburgh condo? If no, why not? Mr. Jillian had two Pomeranians that were far noisier than any goat could be. And they diddled each other all the time in public. An issue that Mr. Jillian seemingly never seemed to “see” but he could “see” my light pink nail polish and comment on how I was trying to corrupt the children in the building. I was rather sure dogs fucking and getting knotted-up for an hour in the lobby while he slept on the entranceway chaise lounge waswaymore worrisome than my pink petunia nail polish. Just saying is all.
We rushed through the chores, dashed into the shower, and then I conquered and held onto Africa. Not an easy feat, but I was a good strategist. Usually. Falling into bed and possibly into some deep emotions for the man I was supposed to be luring into handing over all his mineral rights wasn’t a brilliant tactic. It was probably one of my least intelligent business gambits ever. But here we were, Acosta down on his knees, giving the victor his spoils. Sloppy blow jobs did not a sound stratagem make.
Neither was ignoring incoming messages from work, several of which were surely my father. He’d gotten back to the office, found me missing in action, and being the greedy, uncaring dick bugle that he was, started strafing me with calls and texts. This had been going on for two days now. Today things had been quiet. He was probably spending some time with the woman he kept on the west coast. Yes, he had mistresses all over the globe. And people wondered why I had issues with infidelity. People being two of my ex-boyfriends who thought open relationships were something I should try. Uhm, no thank you. So yeah, west coast woman was some starlet who had bigger boobs than self-respect—I mean that in the kindest way possible, but did you really respect yourself if you were doing the dirty two-step with a married man I had to wonder—so he’d leave me be until at least the second or third of January. By then I’d have things figured out. Surely. Hopefully. Maybe?
After I claimed my prize for being a world conqueror, I gifted the man who I had subjugated on the game board a quick suck and tickle the taint. Let it not be said that I wasn’t a gracious vanquisher of little plastic armies. Once we were both temporarily sated, we drove to the Melios home where we were greeted with hugs, food, and cards. The gaming went well past midnight, with Yiorgos and Zina mysteriously disappearing into the kitchen for another platter of peppers stuffed with rice and green beans in tomato sauce. I sipped on a flute of bubbly seltzer and then stole a kiss from Acosta. He kissed me back, his stormy eyes soft, lazy, and dare I say, happy? I hoped. I really hoped I made him happy because he was making me incredibly giddy. And while I played cards, laughed, and stuffed myself on Greek delicacies, I had to wonder if I’d ever leave this tiny backwoods hamlet. But I had to go back. Right? Yes, of course. As soon as I had something to show my father. Because without his praise, I’d be…
I sat back in my chair, my gaze jumping from the terrible hand of cards that I held to the three people seated with me. Acosta and his parents were playfully bickering over the game, his father saying he had this many points from a set and that the other two said he didn’t. My understanding of the game of Biriba was still murky. I’d never played it prior to an hour ago. Smiling gently, I watched them engaging with each other, quibbling over cards with deep affection, and had a sort of small epiphany. This was how family was supposed to be. This was how family was supposed to feel.
Sitting there smirking as the Melios clan sparred back and forth in Greek, laughing and waving cards about, I had to wonder if my family would ever be like this. And if they couldn’t be—which was probably the case given the cold indifference we all had for each other—what came next? Did I walk away? Leave all the toxicity behind? And do what? Go where?
“What do you think, Decker?” Mr. Melios asked, jarring me from my ruminations. “You have the big business head. Tally my mathematics up for good sense. Then tell these two bad adders that my numbers are right!”
“Oh. Well, let me see. I’m more a face man than a number cruncher.” I laid down my cards, looked like the round was over anyway, and crunched Yiorgos’ math. I glanced up. He was smugly sitting back in his chair, arms folded, sipping some ouzo. Just smelling the anise drink had made me gag a little. “I think they’re right. You skipped a few numbers. Sorry.”
“Ha! We tell you!” Zina bellowed in glee, leaning forward to kiss her now pouting husband on the cheek. “So you do not win. We play another round! Acosta, go fetch some of the baklava from the fridge. Decker looks peaky.”
“Oh gosh, no thank you. I’m fine. Full. So full. But I’ll be happy to take all the baklava you can give me tomorrow after dinner.” I smiled at Mrs. Melios.
