Page 61 of Wicked Pickle

Me: Too bad yours is useless.

Merrick: You’re up. How did two grad school brainiacs bring down our damn bar?

It’s a good question.

Me: Not the usual hos.

I cringe after I type it. Where is that coming from? I’ve called out more hos than Santa. It’s a staple of the regulars at the Leaky Skull.

But it’s all wrong for someone like Symphony.

Merrick: I screenshot that little ditty in case I need to blackmail your ass with your sweet piece of upper crust Miami.

Upper crust. He has no idea what Symphony really is. A survivor.

Me: Fuck you.

Merrick: Not kidding, tho. Had to shut down at 1. Got out of hand.

Me: But they weren’t there.

Merrick: Ripple effect.

Me: Fuck. Hope it’s done before we open tonight.

Merrick: It will be. New day, new pissing match.

I drop the phone on the bed and hit the shower. What an absolute shitshow.

Girls like the bachelorettes rarely show up at our bar, and if they arrive by accident or on a dare, they’re gone inside of five minutes. They definitely don’t dance on the bar or flash the crowd.

But I’d been the one to shame Bailey and her crew into hanging out that first night. I don’t know why the fuck I did that.

Bullshit. I know exactly why I did.

Symphony.

I lather up, cursing myself for letting anybody, let alone someone like her, with a degree and a future, get under my skin. She has plans. All I can do is fuck them up.

But just thinking about her gets my cock hard. Goddamn it. I’ve felt it since I saw her in that red dress the first night, slamming shots, the neon flashing on her blonde hair.

I should have fucked her in that bathroom and refused to take her to the wedding.

That would have been the proper thing to do.

Now it’s all tangled. The wedding. My family. And getting her naked twice in two nights.

My cock rages with the scenes in my head. I want between those thighs again, right now. Fuck.

I stroke hard and fast. Just rub it out. Get on with things.

But even when a rope of jizz melts into the suds going down the drain, the urgency to see her again isn’t close to easing.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.