11

Parker

Yes, yes, I ran away.

I’m not proud of it, and my girly bits are flat-out pissed. That’s the most—best—action they’ve ever had from a real man, and they weren’t done.

If we hadn’t been interrupted, I’d be sprawled out on Knox’s floor right now, basking in a proverbial afterglow.

Or possibly I’d be just as disappointed, because even though his fingers knew their way around my hooha, that’s no guarantee his man meat could’ve properly stuffed my pink taco.

It’s that fear of disappointment that propelled me all the way to the subway.

Forty minutes after I left Knox’s place, my chacha’s still reading me the riot act as I stroll into Crunchy. Not headquarters, where I work and where I should probably stop by later today, but the local store down the street from my apartment. I snap a few pictures of the produce section. We grow a lot of our own greens in-house, literally inside the building, and it never gets old to see them packaged and being picked off the shelves by local customers. But right now, I head for the bakery.

Why, yes, I do like to placate my pussy with organic cheesecake from time to time. Don’t you?

My phone rings.

Knox.

I almost send him to voicemail, but that would imply something’s wrong.

Which it is, but since I’m not entirely certain what’s wrong, I figure I can fake my way through everything being fine.

“Hey,” I say, trying not to let my heart get all a-fluttery just because he called. We’re not dating. We’re doing a weird friends-with-benefits kind of thing, with a reunion-date-traded-for-blog-maintenance on the side. He doesn’t have to call me.

But he did anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he says without preamble. “Nana ran a saloon for almost fifty years and she was out burning her bras in the sixties. She should know better than to imply any woman is nothing more than a baby-making machine.”

I grab a slice of cheesecake packed in a recycled, bio-degradable box and silently debate if I should get two. “It’s okay,” I say, even though I’m not entirely sure it is. It’s true that I don’t want to sacrifice my career to be a mother, but my reasons for not wanting kids go deeper. Back to my own childhood, to grade school, middle school, high school… My kids would be handicapped by the Dweeb Gene. Which would be fine, if that were my only concern. But it’s not.

I’m pushing forty and I can’t handle my own personal life. How the fuck am I supposed to help an innocent, naïve kid navigate bullies and cliques and insecurity? Words will never hurt me my ass. I don’t care if I totally fail at the dating game my entire life. But I will not fail a child.

Which means the best thing to do is to not have any at all.

“The whole purpose of life is to procreate,” I tell Knox. “All this stuff about jobs and hobbies and causes—we’re wasting our time if we’re not popping out babies too.”

Two goth women in matching metal spikes checking out the row of mix-and-measure grains slant darkly ironic glares at me. Maybe I should reconsider the goth emoji on my profile for our internal messaging system at work. Moody emo Parker was fun for a while, but I’m not feeling it anymore, and I kind of want to grab these girls and shake them and tell them to never have babies too.

Aside from being completely unable to handle my kids’ lives, I know how the corporate world works. I’ve seen it time and time again. You get pregnant, take six weeks off for maternity leave, then it’s a doctor appointment here, the baby’s sick and can’t stay at daycare there, and pretty soon, poof. You take five to seven years off to get the kids to school age, and by the time you go back, no one cares about your two master’s degrees and fifteen to twenty years of experience because the young kids fresh out of college have kept up better with the newest technological trends and hottest digital marketing tools and they’ll do your job for half the pay and none of the outside family commitments.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just call all of womankind nothing more than baby-making machines,” Knox says.

“I’m going to pretend everything after me diving behind the couch didn’t happen.”

His voice drops to that seductive, I’m going to talk you out of your panties tone. “I was having a great time with you.”

“Me too.” I’m trying not to drop my cheesecake—or my panties, because I’m in public, at a grocery store that’s technically my job. “That was…well, honestly, wow is about the only word I can use without fully embarrassing myself again.”

“You could come back.”

“I could, but my kitchen is a mess, I’m out of groceries, I should run into the office because I have a shit ton of work piling up, and I have band practice in three hours.”

“Where?”

My thighs clench together. “You have better things to do than—”

“Oh, Knox, if you’re coming, I’ll be playing without any panties,” he dictates in a falsetto voice.

Cheesecake is totally not going to be enough to satisfy my pussy this time around. And I’m not going to Chase’s house without my panties.

But then I picture myself showing up with Knox on my arm for band practice, my panties in his pocket, which no one but the two of us would know, and yep—now I’m leaking through my underwear and getting my jeans damp too. “Were your mom and grandma in your house looking for unicorn party decorations? Did I hear that right?”

There’s a beat of silence that stretches into two beats.

Then three.

“Why do you keep unicorn decorations at your apartment?” I say stronger.

“I…probably need to tell you something.”

Oh, god. He’s into pony play. Or unicorn horns. His bedroom is probably all glitter and rainbows and strap-on unicorn horns. I knew he was too good to be true. I picked him, didn’t I? “If you’re getting ideas about putting a saddle and reins on me, you can forget it, buster. Deal’s off.

While Knox cracks up, the manager walks past, does a double-take, and—shit, I know this guy. He’s been over at headquarters for training a few times in the last couple months, and we chatted because he recognized me as a regular shopper.

I point at the phone. “My brother has issues,” I whisper. “It’s okay, we’re getting him medication. Family, you know? The Choy Joy set-up looks great in produce. Keep up the good work.”

“Did you just tell someone I’m your brother?” Knox says. “And…choy joy? Is that some kind of organic fetish? Are you with an ex-boyfriend?”

“Shut up and take your pills,” I say loudly. I lower my voice and head toward the checkout. “I’m in the Crunchy right down the street from my apartment,” I hiss. “I work with these people.”

He’s laughing at me again.

“Want me to come mention you riding me like a pony at your work?”

He sobers quickly. “I was just going to tell you that I live with Nana,” he says. “We—”

I blink. “Oh my god. You’re like the hot stud and his elderly neighbor on Facebook who moved in together, except you’re related to her and she’s not dying, she just has a sweet old lady front that makes people forgive her for asking rude questions. You could even have a real unicorn fetish that you put all over your blog and women would still swoon at your feet. Seriously, do you have any flaws at all?”

Anywhere else in New York, I could say that without getting a second glance. But now the cashier’s eyeballing me like the manager did a minute ago. I drop my Crunchy employee badge back in my purse before she can see my name—nope, I really don’t need the employee discount today if the price is my identity—and fish cash out of my wallet instead of using a credit card.

I don’t wait for my change and flee the store with my cheesecake.

“I live with Nana to save money,” Knox tells me. “It’s not a selfless gesture.”

“No, it’s a chicks dig dudes who live with their grandmothers gesture.”

He chuckles, and my chacha once again reminds me that this man gives good chuckle. I honestly can’t tell you the last time a man’s chuckle left me wanting to strip him down, lick his nipples, and ride him like a wanton cowgirl in heat.

Yes, yes, I do have issues. But for once, I might actually enjoy them.