I found her in the kitchen, brewing coffee, still wearing her pj’s. That’s if the shortest shorts ever invented matched with a meager, spaghetti-strap top can be called pj’s.
My balls are blue now.
Permanently. Fucking. Blue.
And the worst part? I can’t seem to convince my messed-up brain that fucking a random chick will help my case. I’m riding solo to relieve the pent-up frustration lodged deep at the base of my spine. Jacking off helps for a short while until another innocent encounter drives me up the wall.
Last night is a prime example.
I came home from work around seven. The silent condo had me convinced that Thalia was out, working at another fancy party. I barged into the bathroom to grab a shower, only to find her submerged in the bathtub...
Jesus wept.
It meant nothing that her smoking-hot body hid under a thick blanket of soap bubbles filling the tub. My imagination compensated tenfold.
Anyway... it’s all good fun.
I only hate having her around because my dick has a mind of its own when she’s near. Even knowing the torture awaiting on the other side of my request, I’d still ask her—correction,tell her—to take the guest bedroom.
When she implied that she walks five miles to the Country Club every day, there and back, I lost my shit. As if it’s not enough that she’s alone in America; no family or friends who could help her out, no one to offer emotional support.
Fucked up doesn’t begin to cover it.
I’ve got six brothers, parents, grandparents, and an army of friends a phone call away, always available whenever I need help, emotional support or company. Thalia’s on her own, but she’s still the most positive person I know. I find myself reconsidering my life since she came along because I’ve been consumed by money the past few years.
More. Bigger. Better.
Idiotic, really.
I’ve got a comfortable life. A big condo, a brand-new car, enough cash to spend on necessities, luxuries, and then some—some that’s promptly wired to Nico so he can make me richer. I won’t feel happiness or fulfillment until I’m rich, right?
Bullshit.
Thalia’s happy living in my guest bedroom, working two jobs, and working her ass off at my condo in-between.
She scrubbed the place spotless last week...
Well, half of it because she took time to deep-clean everything—windows, baseboards, and doors included.
I screamed my head off when I got back late in the evening after fourteen hours at the office. Cleaning isn’t part of the deal, but Thalia took no notice of thefucksspewing from my mouth and cleaned the rest of the place the next day.
She makes me breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She takes Ares for a walk in the morning and brews a pot of coffee for me, so I don’t have to when I get out of bed an hour after she leaves.
And the notes... or should I say riddles?
She sticks small post-it notes to the mug and the glass food storage containers she bought to pack my lunch—question at the front, answer on the back.
Why did the banana go to the doctor?
It didn’t peel so good.
What do you give to a sick lemon?
Lemon Aid.
Corny.
Cheesy.