“Of course,” she says as she taps away on her phone. “Got to keep my followers satisfied with content.”
“But it’s water,” I say.
“So?” she asks. “I don’t complain about your incessant need to show videos of you batting. We get it. You can hit a ball.”
“You realize hitting a baseball is one of the hardest things to do in sports?”
“Shall I throw you a parade?” she asks right before she glances up and smirks. “Ooo, I can feel the steam of your anger from all the way over here. Chill, dude. I’m just joking. But seriously, don’t hate on my pictures. I have an avid following . . . including you. Which, by the way, I meant to ask, why did you follow me?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It was a year ago.”
That’s a lie. I know why I followed her. She intrigued me. I threw up a passive-aggressive post, she commented as if it was nothing, and I was surprised. Also, the drinks thing was weird. She got me interested.
“Why did you follow me?” I ask in return.
“In case you threw any more shade my way. A girl has to defend herself.”
“When she uses unsuspecting people’s wall décor as a throw blanket, then I guess so.”
She lifts her water to her lips and says, “You and I both know that flag is anything but décor. And what’s with the Velcro?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have stock in it or something? Who hangs wall décor”—she uses air quotes—“with Velcro. If anything, you would use tacks, or perhaps Command strips.”
“Aren’t Command strips just a fancy alternative to Velcro?”
“No,” she answers and leaves it at that, even though I’m pretty sure it is.
“Well, we had Velcro, so that’s what we used.”
“Odd.” She sets her water glass down and props her chin on her palm, her boobs nearly exploding out of her shirt now. “Tell me, Ryot Bisley Balls, do you still have the flag hanging up?”
Of course she would call me my Instagram name. I’m surprised it took her this long.
I take a swig of my beer because I know she’s about to rain down upon me with insults when I tell her the truth. “Yeah, I do.”
“And let me guess, it’s still crooked from when I slapped it back up on the wall.”
“Yup.” I take another sip of my beer.
“I knew it.” She smirks. “And here you are, complaining about it on Instagram. All for show.”
“If you’re not garnering some sort of reaction from followers, what are you really doing?”
“Uh-huh, and precisely what interaction are you garnering from your hitting videos?” She taps the table, waiting for an answer.
“Compliments.” I twist my pint glass on the table, not wanting to see that smirk of hers again.
“Oh, Bisley Balls, what a sad, sad life you lead.”
Just then, the server drops off our nachos and a side of broccoli. With a wink at Myla, she says, “The broccoli is on me. We can’t let this penny-pincher stop you from hitting your vegetable intake for the day.”
“You are a true blessing in my life,” Myla says while clutching her chest.
As the server walks away, I say, “I’m not a penny-pincher. I would have splurged on the broccoli.”
“Sure, big guy, let’s just see how you tip, huh?” Myla says with a smile at the server.
“The sex has commenced,” Myla says as she wipes her mouth with a napkin.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone—man or woman—take down a plate of nachos as Myla just did. She just shoveled it in, one chip right after the other, and anytime I even remotely came close to a jalapeño, she slapped my hand away and growled. It was unbelievable . . . and hot.
“What do you mean the sex has commenced?” I ask as I pick at the broccoli Myla demanded I needed after she ate her bowl.
“Nichole and your brother. She just texted me that the giraffe is headed to the barn.”
“Is that code?”
“What do you think, genius?” She reaches for my beer—again, this started after she began to growl—and she takes a long pull.
What an odd combination in a woman. She’s gorgeous, that’s unmistakable. Her eyes, highlighted by her long lashes, would penetrate any soul with how beautifully blue they are. There’s a cute slope to her nose that I don’t think I’ve ever noticed on a person before, and her jawline cuts right to those plump, red lips. And then match that with her curves, her plump ass, and those tits, and she’s a total knockout. Stunning, but her personality . . . fuck, it does not match her looks. It’s not what I’d expect if I saw her walking down the street. She’s brash, unperturbed, and free. She doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of her, says what’s on her mind, and holds absolutely nothing back. I realized this when she told me my left pec looked bigger than my right.
And for some insane, asinine, completely fucked reason, it turns me on.
She turns me on.
Her mouth.
Her brain.
Her quick wit.
Her no-holds-barred attitude.
I’m attracted to it.
“Have you ever had sex in a public restroom?” she asks, breaking the silence and pulling me from my irritating thoughts.
“No. Have you?”
“Attempted it, but the guy ended up slipping and dunking his butt in the toilet. He left unsatisfied and with swamp ass. I gave him my thong as a parting gift. I think he sold it on some underwear website because I saw one very similar to mine.”
“What are you talking about? Underwear website?”
“Oh yeah, pervs pay big money for used underwear. I’ve sold a few items here and there.”
“What?” I feel my eyes pop out of my sockets. Jesus, I’m not an innocent man by any means, I’ve done my fair share of obscure things, but selling used underwear? That’s a new one for me.
“Oh yeah, once I made over one thousand dollars and scored a stalker through the website, so I called it quits. The money is great and all, but I have some level of dignity, you know? Now I just have an Only Fans account for my feet. Helps supplement my server income while I’m in school.”
“Wait, you’re serious.”
“Yeah. I just upload a picture daily to satisfy the customers and move on with my life.”
I pause. Is she joking with me? From what little I know about her, it doesn’t seem like this would be a joke, but then again, I’m sure she’s just waiting to tell me what an idiot I am for believing her. So I decide to ask questions.
“Are you in these pictures?”
“Why, you interested?”
Christ, I should have seen that coming.
“No. I don’t have a foot fetish.”
She squeezes her boobs together even more and says, “No, just a boob one, right?”
Fuck.
Yes.
I rest my hand on the bar-top table. “Any straight man has a boob fetish.”
“I once went out with a guy who was more interested in my belly button.”
“Where the hell are you meeting these people?”
“Oh, you know, while tagging along on Nichole’s ventures.” She smiles, her eyes looking me up and down.