Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 184(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Here’s another one. When I am at orchestra practice, my mom allows me two bottles of water, that I pay for at the vending machines with the debit card she gives me. Two-fifty a pop equals five dollars. If I spend more than that, I’m in trouble. But do you know what else equals five dollars?
A bag of M&Ms and a bag of pretzels. Woot!
I munch my celery and imagine sweet and salty goodness coming my way. I sigh and watch the world whiz past. Wild hydrangeas in bloom streak along at 70 miles an hour, fuzzy comets of white.
With a stick of celery pinned between my teeth, I fish my earbuds from my bag and put them in. Then I unlock my phone. My mom turns to watch me. “The Paganini. On repeat. Show me.”
I suppress an eye roll and nod. I flip open my music app and star the Paganini. It’s pretty, or it was, until Mom decided it was what I’d be playing for my chair tryouts. Now it’s only this-much-better than nails on a chalkboard. I show her my phone screen and she settles in to her seat, foot still pumping her imaginary brake.
Once she looks away, I make two quick swipes of my thumb. And just like that, Paganini turns into Taylor Swift. Yessssssssss.
I close my eyes and let T Swift transport me to another life, where I can do what I want and eat what I want and live like I want. Where I wear cozy sweats and get gel manicures and have winged eyeliner. But through her sweet, sweet singing, all poppy and peppy and unclassical, I hear my parents talking. And then I hear the magic word.
Mike.
I swallow hard. Just his name drives me absolutely bananas. I tap my phone to pause T Swift. Because that’s how much I want to know about Mike. He beats T Swift. Every. Single. Time.
Dad is talking. “Mike is on top of it, Janet. I’ve seen the financials. Fantastic ROI, low risk. You know he knows what he’s doing. You know we’re going to make a killing at it.”
Mom clucks her tongue and looks up at the sunroof. “I know, Ben. But self-storage? Really. Really? How am I going to tell my bridge partners that with a straight face?”
Dad grumbles and changes lanes to get around someone learning to drive. Like I probably never, ever will. “You can tell them whatever you want, Janet. All the way to the bank.”
Mike is my dad’s investment partner, but he is so very much the opposite of my dad. My dad is loafers and golf shorts and aftershave. Mike? Mike is jeans and big boots and motorcycles. And a beard.
And tattoos.
My dad has been henpecked into submission by my mom. But Mike, Mike is single, and as cocky as rooster.
Cocky.
Cock-y.
Cock.
I feel a honey-warmth fill my body. Instinctively, I press the cold celery bag into the V of my lap trying to cool down the throb between my legs.
I haven’t always felt this way about Mike. He’s my best friend’s dad, actually, and for years he’s been nothing more than a kind-of uncle to me. The sort of uncle you have a girl-kind of crush on but never really understood what it meant.
But in the last year or so, I’ve noticed things I never noticed before. Muscles. And veins. And cologne. And in the last few weeks, as I’ve gotten closer to my birthday, I’ve noticed a new way he has of looking at me. A certain twinkle in his eye. A certain intensity. A certain… heat.
I press the celery against myself a little harder. That heat, I must be imagining it. I must be. Because he’s never done anything to encourage these feelings in my heart. Or this wetness between my legs.
The sound of a motorcycle cuts through the air conditioning and my heart leaps into my throat. I know the sound of his bike; I’d know it anywhere.
And it’s him, with my best friend Sam riding behind him. They’re so cute together. Mike, all big and burly, a former linebacker. And Sam, thin and elegant and oh-so-wonderfully gay.
They wear matching custom black leather motorcycle jackets—Mike’s rippling around his huge muscles, ruched and worn at the creases at his elbow, stretched tight over biceps and his massive, muscular back; Sam’s is delicate and smooth, perfectly fitted, like couture. They are yin and yang. They are the best. I see Sam’s face streak past, beaming, and the two of them disappear between traffic.
He'll beat me to orchestra, as usual, but he’ll be waiting for me as soon as I walk in the door, arms open, and singing, “Yasssss Queen!” Sam is only in orchestra because I am, and because it’s some of the only quality time we get to spend together during the week. He’s been playing since he was around ten but it’s not his passion like it is mine.