Page 37 of Until Tomorrow (Love Doesn’t Cure All: The Ashwood Duet #1)

Eva

How do you feel about me hanging out with a criminal?

LOGAN : I need more context, please.

I think I made friends with the guy who punched out my date.

LOGAN : Rhett Carson?

That one.

LOGAN : I don’t think I could be upset with you making friends with someone willing to get arrested for you.

Okay.

LOGAN : Why do you ask?

Well, I met him again at the country bar and talked for a while.

I liked talking to him.

LOGAN : Just be safe. That’s all I worry about.

I have pepper spray now.

LOGAN : Please use sparingly. I don’t need to be bailing you out for the flippant use of pepper spray.

Is that a thing?

LOGAN : I imagine there’s some idiot out there who would try to have you arrested for assault if you did.

Men suck.

Most do anyway. Not you. I like you.

LOGAN : Most men do. I can agree with that.

Men sucked. That was the theme of the night.

I sat in the country bar at one of the smaller tables alone.

Rhett wasn’t playing, but I’d known that.

I wanted to try the bar out for myself—no interruptions.

I drank beer for the first time since college.

It was still as awful now as it was back then, but the nostalgia was there. I liked that part a lot.

The band playing wasn’t nearly as good as Rhett’s, but they were lively and fun.

The lead singer didn’t have his passion, but he knew how to get the crowd going.

I swayed and wiggled in my spot as the beer made my head a litt le buzzy.

While I did, I kept Tumble open in front of me and swiped through profiles.

More conversations.

More dick pictures.

More wasted time.

Why was this the standard of dating? No wonder more and more women refused to date. It wasn’t worth trying to weed through the scourge of the earth to meet a halfway decent guy.

“Are you cheating on me with this half-rate band, spark plug?”

I froze at the sound of Rhett’s voice. Tipping my head back slowly, I found him leaning against the back of my booth. He smiled, and damn it. The beer made him even more handsome—not that he had much of an issue in that department.

I shoved those thoughts aside. Dating wasn’t a thing with him.

“Why,” I began in frustration, “does your kind insist on sending unwanted dick pictures?”

That was the question of the century. Good God.

Rhett made a small sound as he considered my question.

“Well, there’s one of two reasons we do that. The first is we know we don’t have much going on for us, and we’re hoping that our big dicks will impress you enough into giving us a fucking chance,” he said.

“And the second thing?” I prompted when he didn’t continue.

“We’re fucking hoping you’ll be horny enough to just fall on it,” he finished, and I scoffed. “I don’t make the rules, spark plug. I just tell it how it is.”

He shrugged as if it was the most casual thing to share. Maybe it was. I wouldn’t know. I had no clue.

“It’s still ridiculous,” I told him.

“Are you collecting dick pictures?”

“Unwillingly.”

“Give me.” Rhett gestured for my phone. Oh, why not?

I opened the app back up and set it on the table.

Leaning over the table, he scrolled through my messages.

I never deleted the guys who sent their dicks to me.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.

“Jesus fuck, spark plug. That’s a whole lot of dick.

At this point, it’s only right to start rating them back. ”

“What?” I laughed.

“First, we’re getting more beer,” he replied. “And then we’re going to piss some inappropriate men off.”

Was this my best idea? Probably not. But oh well. It was entertaining.

With fresh beers on our table, I expected him to sit across from me, but he didn’t.

Instead, he slid into the booth next to me and nudged me over with his knee.

I scooted, but the booth was small, making the situation far more cozy than it should’ve been.

The subtle aroma of citrus and coconut did nothing to help my urge to lean into him.

“So, here’s what we’re doing,” Rhett said. “We’re going to say some brutally honest shit about their dicks, and then we’re disconnecting the conversation. They can still see the shitty things we say, but they can’t access your profile when they get mad.”

“Seems like a fair plan.”

“Let’s start with… alpha-man-forty-five. Why the fuck would you connect with some idiot who puts alpha in his goddamn username?” he demanded. “Spark plug, do better.”

“For your information, he said he liked photography!” I exclaimed.

“Means he likes watching porn and looking up naked photos of women,” he retorted.

“That doesn’t mean that!”

“It does.” He showed me the photo alpha-man-forty-five had sent me after two messages. “First thought that comes to mind?”

“Overcompensating,” I answered. “Pencil thin.”

“Here we go… gives a whole new meaning to number two pencil.” As he said it, I giggled. God, this was horrible. “And… blocked.”

“Why are you here?” I asked before he could move on to the next one.

“I had to see if my favorite stalker was here,” he said without ever looking up.

“You’re a terrible liar,” I told him.

“I know. I’m not trying,” Rhett replied. “To be honest, I wrapped up work, and I didn’t want to be alone. I come here sometimes to unwind before taking my bike out for a late-night ride. I like being alone in a room full of people. Social interaction without all the extra shit.”

I understood that. Wasn’t I sort of doing the same thing?

“Why would you bother connecting with someone with thats-art-for-you as his handle?” he asked. “His dick is the art.”

“Are all handles dick related with men?” I demanded.

“No, some guys just really love their dogs and their jobs,” he replied. “But most of them are.”

“ Your kind is ridiculous,” I muttered. Again, it was no wonder so many women didn’t date.

“I’d apologize for men but they don’t fucking deserve you,” he said, and I smiled because those words were awful familiar.

“Okay, who’s next?” I scooted as close as I could, and his arm settled along the back of the booth.

“We’re still on thats-art-for-you .”

“Too small.”

“I’m just putting that… and block.” This was possibly the most ridiculous way to spend our time, but what did I care? It wasn’t like I wanted to date any of them. “Is his handle leaning-tower-of-penis ?”

“With two e’s in penis,” I said, giggling. “I found it funny. It really did lean that much.”

“Too crooked… and blocked.” As he swiped to the next conversation, he sighed a little too dramatically. “Spark plug, his handle literally says pierced-for-fun . Why would you connect with him?”

“I thought he meant like his ears or something!”

“It’s always the dick! When in doubt, assume the dick,” Rhett told me.

He ticked off on his fingers, “Dogs, dads, and jobs are the most glaringly obvious ones. Dogs and babies are an easy way to attract women. They’re cute, easy to talk about, and everyone usually loves them.

Jobs are an easy conversation starter and also attract women.

Want a guy with money? Oh, look. He’s a lawyer.

Want a guy who won’t be around much and just wants to hook up?

Look at that. He’s a pilot. Everything else—video games, movies, music, whatever—it’s a crapshoot if women will get it or not.

If it’s not remotely obvious, you assume it’s about his dick. Always.”

“What would your handle be?” I asked curiously.

“Probably something about being a mechanic. I don’t know. I haven’t had any desire to go on one of these things. I’ve heard enough horror stories. Back to pierced-for-fun .”

“Should he at least get points for putting his poor dick through that?” I asked. The dick in question had four metal piercings through the bottom and a hoop through the tip. I didn’t even want to know how that worked for sex. What if it got caught? “That’s so intense!”

“It’s not remotely the most intense thing he could’ve done,” Rhett scoffed, sounding unimpressed.

“Oh? And what’s more intense than that?”

“Penile beading. Also called pearling”

“ Excuse me… what? You said what now ?”

“It’s not the most intense thing. There’s worse,” he said.

“But the long short of it is, there’s a body modification procedure where a guy has his dick cut open just enough so beads can be inserted under the surface of the skin.

They’re splintered until the skin heals up and the beads are permanently implanted in place.

It’s considered extreme enough that it’s illegal in most states.

It’s more of a… if you know someone who does it and they’re willing to do it on you kind of thing. ”

I stared at him because what the hell was I supposed to say to that? Holy crap. Who did that to themselves? On instinct, my gaze slipped down to the front of his jeans as if I could magically tell.

“My face is up here, spark plug.” He chuckled, and I looked away. “And to answer your next question, yes.”

He had what?

“Why?” I demanded.

“Always ribbed for her pleasure,” he replied with a smirk. I had questions, and none of them were remotely appropriate for two people who barely knew each other.

“Well, we’re just going to tell him he gets props for being average and block,” I told him. “Where are you from? Your accent doesn’t say Boston.”

At the very least we could add some normal topics to our dick discussions.

“Nashville.” He sat back and faced me, leaving my phone unattended. “Mostly Nashville. Mom moved us around a lot—smaller towns in Tennessee and shit—to find work.”

“When did you come to Boston?”

“Aimee… my late wife… was a tattoo artist and a piercer.” And that explained that. “She had a few friends that she met online, who opened a shop here. She had nothing tying her to Tennessee, and I wanted the fuck out of there, so we moved when I was turned eighteen.”

“Did you ever think about going back? Or do you like it better here?”

“I wouldn’t say I like it better here,” Rhett said. “I think I could make do just about anywhere. What about you? Because you aren’t from Boston either, spark plug.”

Eventually, I probably should’ve given him my name. I knew his full name, and all he knew me as was spark plug. But I kind of liked it. That, and he’d never asked.

“ I’m from a small town in central Illinois where they think they’re from the deep south and forget that they’re barely central Illinois,” I told him. “Cornfields. It was all cornfields. I don’t even like corn.”

That quiet laugh of his was my reward. I liked that sound—more than I probably should for a guy I was just hanging out with in a bar. Spending time with Rhett was better than trying to deal with meeting people on an app.