Blue Balls Page 4

  * * *

  The day I left Saratoga Springs to head to San Diego

  Jack: Hey, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but you’re not answering your phone. I wanted to say blue balls for everything the other night.

  Jack: Wait. I’m trying to say blue balls.

  Jack: Christ. I’m trying to apologize, but every time I try to say blue balls, it says blue balls.

  Me: Maybe your phone is trying to tell you something…

  Jack: Did you do this to my phone?

  Jack: What am I asking? Of course, you did this to my phone.

  Me: You have yet to apologize to me, Westbrook. Keep trying. Wait. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of my maniacal laughter.

  * * *

  Three months later

  Jack: Roses are red,

  Violets are blue,

  Blue balls

  For falling asleep on you.

  Me: Why have you not changed it back? Seriously, Jack? I know you’re smarter than this.

  Jack: It got you to respond after you went radio silent on me for a few months. I call that a win.

  Me: Need I remind you of the fact you fell asleep AFTER you bit and spanked me? And both were WAY too hard.

  Jack: Would it be insensitive to mention that wasn’t all that was hard that night?

  Me: It wouldn’t have made a difference if your penis had been like a freaking windsock. You still bit and spanked me.

  Jack: Blue balls.

  Me: I know you are.

  * * *

  Six months later

  Jack: Just checking in. Heard that Justin Bieber song a minute ago, and he says something like “Is it too late now to say blue balls?”

  Jack: Well, he obviously doesn’t say blue balls. You know what I mean.

  Me: Would you stop already? Just change your damn phone settings back!

  Jack: But this is so much fun. When I have to apologize and say blue balls.

  Jack: By the way, I was listening to that eighties song by Chicago, “Hard to Say I’m blue balls.”

  Jack: Well, you know the song.

  Me: Jack. Stop.

  Jack: It got you to talk to me again. I miss our text messages. They’re so chock full of warmth and goodness.

  Me: I’ve been working my ass off. I eat, sleep, and breathe work.

  Jack: Oh, blue balls to hear that. So blue balls, Sarah.

  Me: OMG, Jack. I swear, I’m going to block your number.

  Jack: Why would you do that? And stop all this fun? Just think of the stories we’ll tell our children about how things first started with their mom and dad. Or, more importantly, how their mom wooed their dad.

  Me: First, there aren’t going to be any children. Second, we sure as hell won’t be telling them about how we were both left with blue balls.

  Jack: You wouldn’t tell the children that part. But the part about how you wooed me… Surely, you’d mention that.

  Me: There will be NO stories because there will be NO children!

  Jack: What?! But children love stories! Would you really deny the children the story of how our love first began?! YOU CAN’T DENY THE CHILDREN!

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later

  Jack: You can only ignore me for so long.

  * * *

  Nine months later

  Jack: Word on the street is that you’ll be returning home to Saratoga Springs soon. Maybe we can get together in person so I can say blue balls.

  Me: Seriously, Jack. Stop. It.

  Jack: What can I say? I’m nothing if not persistent.

  Me: Or annoying.

  Jack: Admit it. You miss me.

  Me: Please stop. Please.

  Jack: Prepare yourself. I might even sing you Chicago’s hit song, “Hard to Say I’m blue balls.” Unless you’d prefer that Bieber one…

  Me: Gah! Stop it!!

  Me: Wait a minute… Your body is freaking amazing, you dress really well, AND you love eighties music and know a Bieber song. You’re either gay…

  Jack: I’m not gay.

  Me: Or you’re a unicorn amongst the male species.

  Jack: I’m a unicorn.

  Jack: A really manly unicorn, though. With really big hooves. And a MASSIVE horn.

  Me: I’m done here.

  Jack: See you soon. Maybe if you’re a good girl, you can go for a ride…

  Me: Westbrook. Don’t.

  Jack: Ah, but I’ve missed you. Messing with you via text isn’t the same.

  Me: Good night, Jack.

  Jack: Sweet dreams, Sarah. Sweet dreams.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sarah

  Back in Saratoga Springs, New York

  There’s something to be said for running from your problems.

  Or rather running from the man who came so close to making you scream his name only to send you fleeing from his biting and spanking. And we won’t give mention to the other words he sleep-mumbled that night.

  Of course, I hadn’t been able to completely distance myself from what I’d left behind in Saratoga. The first text had come in the day I’d been packing up to start my drive to San Diego.

  Yeah, well… I may have programmed Jack’s phone to replace the word “sorry” with “blue balls,” but I refuse to feel bad about it. It could be worse. Much worse. Especially considering the fact that during the “debacle,” I’d been on the brink of orgasming before he’d spanked me.

  The only consolation is the knowledge that Jack was just as painfully aroused that night.

  I hadn’t disclosed to him in those text messages that I’d accepted an out of town job, packed up my car, and was intent on leaving everything behind in Saratoga Springs for nearly a year. I’d let him find out through Maggie and Ry.

  A cop-out, for sure, but my damn collarbone hurt for days. That damn bruise took forever to fade, and I had to be sure to cover that sucker up, fearing people would think I was either a battered spouse or into some freaky shit.

  Did what happened with Jack make me consider sinking down into a hot bath, chugging champagne straight from the bottle while listening to a compilation of the saddest—and depressing as hell—Adele songs? To mourn the fact that the delectably gorgeous man I’d been lusting over apparently preferred to channel his inner freak-ho?

  Nope. Not at all.

  Okay, yes. But that stays between us. Because we all know that’s a cry for help. I can’t help that when it comes to Jack, my brain never really tends to be my ally.

  I’d exchanged a few text messages here and there with Jack, and obviously, he’s tried to apologize. The thing about horny vaginas, though? They never forget. They remember everything—especially when they’re halted on the brink of an orgasm. And they hold grudges. Big time. My vagina is still scarred even now. If she could talk, she’d be like, “Honeychild, don’t you ever bring me close to that man again, ya hear?”

  I probably should’ve mentioned that my vagina’s voice resembles a version of Aunt Jemima, shouldn’t I? Mmm, my bad.

  But seriously. She was scarred from the “incident” with Jack, and I’m telling you, she kept repeating, “What the hell just happened?” on the cab ride home that night.

  Also, I should have disclosed the fact that my vagina speaks to me. Try to ignore how strange that is.

  Now that I’m back in Saratoga Springs, though, I must admit that it feels good to be here. It really does…for a moment. For an extremely brief moment. Because after that moment’s up, I recall why I’m back and what I’ll soon have to face—the sole reason I couldn’t muster up much excitement or interest in any other guy during my travel nursing stint. The one person I was unable to get off my mind; the man who seemed to cast some crazy spell over me, ruining me for other men.

  Jack Westbrook.

  Maggie and Ry’s wedding is fast approaching, and me as her maid of honor and Jack as the best man, we’re going to be thrust together once again. I have to fortify myself so I’m fully prepared to face him; the man I’m n
ot entirely sure I’m looking forward to encountering after that god-awful debacle.

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to make it down to the dress shop to have your final measurements taken?” Maggie asks me for what I calculate to be the sixth time. I’m not annoyed, though—I’ve noticed that tiny crease between her eyebrows. I don’t want her to fret and doubt her and Ry’s special day will be anything but perfect.

  “Yes, sweetie. I promise I’ll be there.” I hold up my cell phone. “I even programmed a reminder an hour beforehand.” Reaching down from where I’m seated on their couch, I grab my purse. “I’m going to head home and…” I catch a silent exchange between Maggie and Ry. “What was that?”

  Maggie’s expression is one of utter innocence. “What was what?”

  My eyes narrow in suspicion as I gesture between them. “That little look you two had just now.”

  “It was—”

  “We just—”

  They both start and stop abruptly before Maggie finally lets out a long sigh, fixing an expectant look upon me. “We hoped you and Jack could try to move past what happened and help us with everything for the wedding.”

  Biting the inside of my cheek before answering, I attempt to school my expression. “Sure thing.”

  And fail because best friends…yep. Best friends are all-knowing.

  “Sarah.” My name is spoken on an exhale. And I know what’s coming next. “Please.” Maggie’s expression is pleading, hopeful. “Can you do this for me?”

  Damn it. I’ll have to willingly be in the company of the man who left me high and dry in the worst way possible.

  Mr. Blue Balls, here I come.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jack

  She’s back.

  A shard of excitement and anticipation rushes through me. Sarah’s back in Saratoga Springs from her travel nursing stint.

  “She’s still pretty weirded out about what happened with you.”

  Scratch that. My excitement and anticipation have officially begun to ebb at Ry’s statement.

  Scrubbing a hand over my face, I slump against a locker in our gym’s locker room, waiting for him to tie his shoes. We’ve just finished playing racquetball, and I swear, being in love, engaged, and preparing to get married has made him cross over into the superhero stage of a racquetball opponent. He kicked my ass out on that damn court.

  With a sigh, I stare at the row of lockers across from me. “Yeah, I know.”

  He grins. “What the hell happened? I only got the bare bones version from Sarah, which was that you took”—he hooks his fingers in air quotes—“a bite out of her collarbone, and if that wasn’t enough, you also spanked her hard.” There’s a pause, and he presses his lips thin as if to restrain a smile and laughter. “Please tell me you didn’t go all snuff porn on her.”

  With a groan, I softly thud my head back against the metal locker. “It’s fucking hilarious, I know,” I remark dryly.

  I hadn’t wanted to talk to Ry about what went down between me and Sarah because it was too damn embarrassing. Luckily, he and Maggie hadn’t badgered me about it. But, now, with Sarah returning home …

  “Did you make her call you Sir?” His eyes widen, lighting up with laughter. “Or maybe you collared her? Poured hot wax on her?” He’s not even trying to resist a widening grin as his white teeth nearly blind me now. “Tell me the truth. You had her call you Big Daddy, didn’t you?”

  Barely a beat of silence passes before my best friend doubles over on the wooden bench, and his entire body shakes with laughter at my expense.

  Once it dies down to soft chuckles, Ry clears his throat. “So what happened. For real?” He rests his elbows on his knees, watching me.

  Running a hand through my hair, I exhale, staring up at the ceiling of the locker room. “I’m still the nerd—the mega geek. I’ve always been, even after all these years. Maybe I traded my glasses for contacts, finally have a decent haircut, and clothes that actually fit and are in style, but deep down—”

  “You’re still the same nerd around a woman you’re interested in,” Ry finishes for me.

  Pushing off the locker, I wave a hand in gesture. “Dude. I read articles about what women like or want. And those Fifty Shades books and movies are so popular, so I thought…” I trail off.

  “You thought she’d be on board with it.” Ry offers a small smile. “I get it, man. I do, but,” he breaks off with a chuckle, “it’s still pretty damn funny.”

  “Yeah,” I deadpan. “Hilarious.”

  “One thing’s certain.” He rises from the bench, slinging his gym bag over one shoulder. “You need to figure out how to break the ice in order to get through all this wedding stuff.”

  “Hey, now. What’s with the doubt? I exchanged a few text messages with her while she was away. Plus, you know how charming I can be. It’s in the bag.”

  My best friend simply shakes his head at me and mutters, “We’ll see.”

  I don’t want to admit that I might just have that same niggling doubt.

  * * *

  Be at the Tux and Bridal Boutique at 10AM sharp, please. ☺

  That’s the text message I received from Maggie yesterday after I got home from racquetball with Ry.

  Don’t be a weirdo to Sarah. Smooth things over, cupcake.

  The message that followed was from Ry, and his use of the old nickname I’d given him doesn’t slip past me. I’d nicknamed him that while he pretended to be my gay lover in order to get closer to Maggie while she’d been firmly set in her anti-dating stage. Nor does it escape me that my best friend still has no faith in me. Which means I have to bring my A-game.

  Time to woo the hell out of the sexy, sassy spitfire of a blonde and get back in her good graces.

  * * *

  I’m dead in the water. Crash and burn style.

  Nothing is working on Sarah, but I’m not giving up. I didn’t become a successful business consultant by being a quitter.

  “What about this one? I, for one, think you should exchange the bridesmaid dress Maggie picked for this one.”

  I’m holding up what must be the gaudiest bridesmaid dress I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s from the eighties, that much is certain. Gaudy as shit and looks like some preteen bedazzled the hell out of it.

  Oh, and it’s hot pink.

  The look she gives me says she’s not amused, but I’m not one to give up easily. Luckily, I don’t care about looking like a fool, so I hold the heinous excuse for a dress up to my front and start swaying back and forth while I softly sing Madonna’s “Like A Virgin.”

  Just when I’m really getting into it, closing my eyes and going so far as to run my hand through my hair and down my neck dramatically, I suddenly feel her palms on my chest. Opening my eyes, I peer down, and that’s when I see it.

  Jackpot, baby. The corners of those beautiful lips of hers are quivering, and I know I’ve got her. “Jack, please. Stop.”

  With exaggerated seriousness, I pout. “But I was just getting started. Next was my all-time favorite song.” Then I let out a breathy, whimsical sigh. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

  Her chin drops to her chest, and she shakes her head, shoulders shaking slightly, and I know it. She’s weakening…

  Abruptly, her head snaps up, and she shoves me. Giving me that squinty-eyed look, she hisses, “Stop making me laugh. I’m supposed to be mad at you, you jerk!”

  Neither the fire in her eyes nor the fierceness of her scowl can detract from her beauty as I gaze down at her. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but I love how feisty she is.

  “And anyway”—she steps back—“I already have a dress. They have to take my final measurements to be sure everything fits as it should since I haven’t tried it on yet.”

  An older woman comes out holding the designated bridesmaid dress and gestures for Sarah to follow her to the women’s section of the dressing rooms near the back of the store. Quickly, I replace the gaudy excuse for a dress on the rack and trail behind
the two women.

  Taking a seat in one of the plush chairs, I wait for Sarah to change. The moment she steps out for the woman to take her measurements, my breath catches in my throat, and I can’t help but stare. The dress is a soft shade of lavender, strapless, knee-length, and it hugs every curve like it was made for her.

  “Wow.” Yeah. That’s all I’ve got. No one would know that I graduated magna cum laude from college—both undergrad and grad school.

  Sarah tosses a sharp look in my direction. “Is that a good wow or a bad wow?”

  “Good. Definitely good.” Jesus, Westbrook. I sound like a freaking numbnuts.

  The woman moves around Sarah, taking measurements as she goes. “I’d suggest taking this in a bit in this area here.” She pinches the fabric of the inside seam directly beneath Sarah’s underarm area, pinning it. “You want it to be a little snugger across your breasts.”

  Sarah darts a quick glance in my direction, and I can’t resist a smug grin, wiggling my eyebrows at her. The woman finishes pinning the dress and directs her to undress before rushing off to see another customer.

  Wanting to catch her before she can head back to the room, I step up on the carpeted area behind her. She regards her reflection in the mirror, and I swear I detect a tinge of uncertainty in her eyes. It’s as though she might be doubting—or be unaware of—how magnificent she looks. And that just won’t do.