Give me a goddamn break. Who the hell watches this shit?
Melrose is glued to this insanity, entranced. I couldn’t pry her pretty little eyes off the screen if I tried.
I get a beer from the fridge and return, sinking into an arm chair and pulling out my phone. The game started five minutes ago, but if I keep refreshing ESPN I should be able to keep tabs on the score until I can figure out a way to get my TV back in a civilized manner.
Melrose reaches for another magazine from a stack on the coffee table, her cleavage spilling out of her strappy little tank top for a moment. Her attention dances between the show and the glossy pages in her lap, divided equally between them.
My leg bounces and I bite my thumbnail to the quick as I watch her. “How can you read and watch TV at the same time?”
She smiles, proud, like she thinks I’m more impressed than annoyed. “I don’t know? I just can.”
Exhaling, I readjust myself in my chair, resting my forehead into the palm of my hand, silently reminding myself not to be a dick. Not only does she have my TV, she also has my favorite spot on the couch—my good luck spot.
The Warriors always win when I sit there.
Reaching for my beer, I take a generous swig. Then another.
“Oh, hey,” she says, glancing over at me. “My grandma’s having problems with her kitchen fuse breaker thing. You totally don’t have to, but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking a look at it sometime? She’s really picky about who she lets in her house, and I told her you were cool.”
It’s not like I can say no since she already volunteered me …
“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, refreshing my browser and checking the score again. Cavs are up by ten already.
God damn it.
I was going to order a pizza, but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
Melrose tosses her newest magazine aside before standing and stretching, and when she lifts her arms above her head, the hem of her top rises enough to show the soft skin of her belly and a peek at her left hipbone.
My traitorous mind feels the need to inform me that my hand would fit quite nicely there, and my cock responds with a quick pulse against my boxer briefs.
A moment later, she weaves between the chair and the couch and disappears into the kitchen.
Eyeing the remote, I debate whether or not I should go for it. The damn thing is mine anyway. She didn’t even ask if she could use it. And I don’t believe what anyone says, it’s not possible to read and watch TV all at once.
One minute passes, then another, and she’s still not back.
“Fuck it,” I say, reaching toward the coffee table and grabbing the channel changer. Wasting no time, I enter two-three-seven and within an instant the game is splayed across the giant screen, right where it belongs.
And then I take my spot back.
It’s amazing—all that tension … gone.
Exhaling, I sink into my couch cushion and hook a leg over the arm, focusing on the game. It’s not looking good for the Warriors, but it’s still the first quarter. The game is young. They’re probably taking it easy, letting the Cavs wear themselves out so they can show them who’s boss after halftime.
“Hey.” Melrose returns to the living room, her mouth pulled into a frown and her brows furrowed. “Pretty sure I was sitting there.”
She scans the mess of magazines scattered around me, one of which is currently acting as a coaster for my beer.
“You left.” I don’t look at her, only the game.
“No. I went to the kitchen to get a drink and charge my phone and refill Murphy’s water. I wasn’t done here.” From my periphery, I can see her hand move to her hip. “Sutter. Don’t ignore me.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and trying not to chew off what’s left of my right thumbnail as I give the screen my undivided attention.
“Sutter,” she says my name harder this time, louder too.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I hold up a finger as Klay Thompson shoots a three-pointer with a stolen ball. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
I rise from the chair, pumping my fist in the air before heading to the kitchen to grab another beer during a commercial break … which I promptly realize is a big mistake the second I’m back.
“I don’t know why she said she liked the Chanel bag when she really didn’t,” the British lady says, her face taking up my giant TV screen. “It’s no skin off my back. If you don’t like something, you should be honest about it for goodness sakes. But if she can’t even be honest about her marriage, how can I expect her to be honest about a handbag, darling?”