Shit.
“Sorry. Sorry. Jesus. I just don’t understand. What’s with the walkie-talkie? Why didn’t you just knock on my door and tell me to my face.”
“Because we’re going to help you.”
“You’re going to help me…stalk Cassie?”
Where was the Twilight Zone music? Seriously. It had to start soon.
Kline shrugged, but then clarified, “We’re not really going to help as much as we’re going to watch. And fuck, when Georgia suggested the walkie-talkie bit, I couldn’t deny it was brilliant.”
“Why?” I nearly yelled. I didn’t understand. I didn’t even understand my own drive to be involved in something as ridiculous as this, but I really didn’t understand Kline’s. He was Mr. Practicality. Mr. Rational. Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Stupid-Shit-Like-All-of-My-Friends-Do.
“It’s entertaining.”
Georgia nodded enthusiastically. “Really entertaining.”
I closed my eyes, tipped up my head to the ceiling, and pressed my hands desperately into my face. “Fuck me. Seriously, Kline?”
“Definitely.” He gestured to Georgia. “We’re happy, and you know, sane, so we don’t do any of this shit on our own—”
“Thanks so much,” I muttered.
“But you guys are still really finding your way, and quite frankly, it spices things up for us.”
“My psychosis is your goddamn kink?”
Georgia laughed outright, clasped her hands together, and nearly jumped up and down.
“Don’t worry,” Kline said as he ushered Georgia toward the door. “It’ll be over before you know it, and then we’ll use Wes and Winnie for our entertainment. It’s brewing. I can feel it.”
I wanted to scream and yell and carry on, but at the same time, I couldn’t deny my fucking palpable desire to be on their side of things. To watch Wes and Winnie suffer through torment and torture as I laughed maniacally on the sidelines.
God-fucking-dammit.
Kline winked just before the door closed behind him.
“Perfect, Quinn. Just a few more like this, and I think we can move on to the workout photos.”
My camera shuttered in quick succession as I continued to take photos of the Mavericks’ quarterback posing in nothing but his football pants. We had scouted out a really cool location in Phoenix for the pictorial Georgia’s marketing team had hired me to shoot. And I had a moment of silent satisfaction when the urban landscape of red-brick buildings and darkened alleys managed to highlight the strong and lean lines of the rookie quarterback the exact way I had visualized when searching for this setting.
“Front cover material, Cass?” Quinn asked with a cocky grin.
I laughed. “Now you know I can’t play favorites, Q. It will make all the other boys jealous.”
He grinned and flashed a wink in my direction, but it failed to hold the power of Thatch’s signature move.
God, I missed that man. Normally, I’d be half sated from late-night Skype sex with my favorite penis, but our nightly ritual whenever I was out of town hadn’t happened before I fell asleep.
Something was up with Thatcher.
I didn’t know what, but I knew when he texted me and said the Wi-Fi in our apartment was fucked up, he was definitely hiding something. Call me Crazy, but I knew the Supercock wouldn’t have let anything stand in the way of screen time with my tits.
“I think we’re all set here,” I said as I stood up from my kneeling position. “Quinn, go on ahead into the makeup tent and get changed for the team workout photos. We need to head over to the next location in about fifteen minutes to stay on schedule.”
My phone buzzed in my back pocket, and I looked at the screen to find a text from T.
Thatch: I’m seeing a lot of charges on my credit card from last night…
Me: Maybe you should learn to never cancel Skype sex.
Thatch: How on Earth did you spend $2000 on Amazon?
Me: Books.
Thatch: Books? You planning on opening your own library?
Me: I’m planning on replacing sex with reading.
Thatch: Take it back. Your tits would never speak such blasphemy.
Me: They’re mad at you.
Thatch: I’ll make it up to them. Tell them I love them and I miss them and I’ll suck on their perfect pink nipples for hours when you get home.
Me: Not interested.
Obviously, I was. Hell, my nipples were already hard at the thought. But Thatch needed to grovel for a good while before I’d admit to that.
Thatch: Don’t be mad, honey. I’m sorry I canceled Skype sex. I swear I’ll never do it again.
Me: Peddle your bullshit promises to someone who cares.
I watched the text bubbles move as he typed out a response.