COMING THIS FALL​

“You gonna tell on me? I might be cursed to look young, but I’m twenty-eight you know.”

​

“I’m aware.”​

​

“Well, then you’re aware I can speak to, and fuck, whomever I want. An entire band. Or two. Or three even. And despite what you might think, Nashy-Poo, it doesn’t make a woman a slut for loving her body and enjoying life.”

​

“I didn’t say it did, I said—”

​

“You implied that I shouldn’t talk sexy.”

​

“No, I didn’t.”

​

“Yeah, you did Papa Bear. I said stuff about boy toys, you said don’t talk like that, threw in some Daddy kink, and—”

​

“Daddy what?”

​

“Daddy kink.” I blink at him. He can’t be serious, right? “You know the routine: bad girl needs punished, sugar daddy gives her the spankin’ she never got, and everyone gets a happily ever after.”

​

His mouth hangs open like I’ve grown three heads.

​

“Have you seriously never watched porn?”

​

“What? Of course I haven’t watched porn!”

​

“Bullshit.”

​

“Excuse me?” Nash’s brow knits, his voice low and menacing. “What did you say?”

​

Yeah, I definitely like him mad. Probably why I press it further.

​

“I said bullshit. There is not a single man in this country who hasn’t scrolled some tits or ass at least once. I mean, at the very least you’ve watched a few casting couches, right?”

​

“Casting…couches?” He seems truly stumped.

​

Maybe this man isn’t lying. Maybe he really is just a silver fox, single dude who enjoys work and doesn’t want to fuck anything with legs.

​

Perhaps that’s why I plant my seed, crossing my arms over my chest so my boobs peek out the top of the cut-up band tee. His eyes immediately fall there, as predicted, and I let a smile steal my face as I clear my throat and they snap back to mine.

​

I like it when Nash stares.

​

He’s done it this entire tour. And the last. And the one before that. Different bands then, of course, but each time, I wonder when he’ll finally crack. At which point will he stop watching and join in?

​

Or would he take me all for himself, his salt-and-pepper beard brushing along my slick center, tasting me like I know he wants?

​

“I’ll compromise with you,” I say. “Let me ride the bus to Centerville. Papa owns a hotel there. I have some friends I can visit.

​

“Do these friends have couches you’ll be cast on?”

​

I don’t miss the air of annoyance behind his inquiry. As if he has any right to judge what I do in my spare time.

​

“Maybe,” I challenge. “Does that bother you?”

​

 “That? No, that doesn’t bother me, Sour Patch.” His gaze scrapes down my body. “It’s everything else about you that does.”