Can't Go Without Page 2

  “So, if she does lose, hypothetically speaking of course, is she still saying that you have to postpone insemination for another year?” I ask, knowing how important having a baby is to my sister.

  “Yep,” Jill nods, then quickly shakes her head. “I just don’t want to wait. It took us forever to pick our sperm daddy. I don’t want to go through all that again.”

  Jill motions the waitress over. When the waitress arrives, my sister orders our regular meals without even looking at the menu or ever confirming with me. We’ve been coming to Dirk’s Deli every Tuesday for lunch for the last three years. We always get the same thing. Creatures of habit. Habit and freaking delicious Reuben sandwiches. Plus, my father’s butchery, Franchetti’s Meats and More, supplies the meat to Dirk’s. It’s a win-win for everyone.

  “Can we each get a number twelve, no spicy sauce, with two sides of fried mushrooms? You want a bottled root beer, right?” I nod. The waitress scribbles something down and bolts back to the kitchen without ever making eye contact with either of us.

  “What do you mean? Don’t they freeze the sperm?” I ask, not really understanding the ins and outs of fertility clinics.

  “Nah, ya gotta have fresh, strong sperm with lots of motility—whatever the fuck that means. Donor number 4160 with the great smile and musical background might not even be an option next year,” Jill explains, stirring her raspberry lemonade. “I don’t want to wait; I want to be inseminated like now, like yesterday. I want to be a mom now. Waiting just sucks, but I don’t want to be selfish,” Jill says, frowning as she folds and unfolds her napkin, nervously. “I know Shayla’s going through a lot with this case. She thinks if she keeps losing, then it’s going to teach our kid how to be a loser, making her a bad mom.”

  Just as the waitress puts my bottle of root beer down on the table, I pick it up, and say, “Then here’s to Kid Mac Z walking free.”

  “Fuck, his name just sounds guilty. He’s gonna fry!” Jill whines, banging her head on the table—ignoring my toast.

  “First of all, they use his real name, Kyle Mackenzie, in court, and you don’t fry for grand theft auto,” I say.

  “Don’t forget armed robbery and assault,” Jill groans.

  Jill and Shayla are the perfect couple, completely meant for one another. In high school, they were best friends, captains of the speech and debate team and partners on the mock trial team. Although they went to separate universities, majoring in different areas of study, they stayed close all through college. Shayla confessed to Jill during their last year of college that she was gay. Shayla had come to terms with her sexually in college and had been having a pretty serious relationship with her Criminal Law teaching assistant. She was struggling in the class and spent many afternoons getting help during her TA’s office hours, one thing led to another, and Shayla fell in love with her teaching assistant.

  At the time, Jill had this on-again, off-again relationship with this guy at her school. Once Shayla admitted to Jill that she was in a relationship with a woman, Jill realized just how jealous she was that this chick had stolen her best friend. After a while, the more she questioned it, thought about it, and agonized over it, Jill understood that she wasn’t jealous of the friendship, she was jealous that someone was able to love and touch Shayla in a way that she never could.

  I spent months trying to convince Jill to come clean and tell Shayla how she really felt. Finally, after one bottle of wine and a shot of Jack McLiquid Courage, Jill confessed all of her feelings to Shayla. It was like the Heavens opened up and the stars all aligned. Everything was finally right in both of their lives. Shayla dropped her TA. Jill stopped dating the guy she didn’t really like in the first place. They’ve been blissfully happy ever since.

  Shayla and Jill have the easiest relationship I’ve ever witnessed. There is just so much love flowing between them—makes me jealous sometimes. Not that I’m looking for that kind of commitment and love, but it would be nice to have such… such… joy.

  “So, how’s Samuel Stuffy Pants?” Jill asks, as sauerkraut falls out of her mouth.

  “Stuffy,” I say, smiling. “But he’s good.”

  “Getting any better in the sack?”

  “Jill!” I say, looking around to check that her words were unheard. “Stop. It’s not like that; we’re fine.”

  “Whatever. What. The. Fuck. Ever,” she says, holding her hands up in total dismal of my words. “All I’m going to say is you have no idea what you’re missing.”

  “I’m over all that,” I explain. “And yes, I have experienced good sex before. I’m just over that shit. There’s more to life than toe-curling orgasms.”

  “Uh, no there’s not, and nobody is over orgasms. That’s just fucking nuts,” Jill argues. “You can’t live on hand-tastic Duracell sex for the rest of your life.”

  “Sure I can,” I argue. “Now, can we please just change the subject?” I beg, picking the meat out of my sandwich and eating it with my fingers to avoid looking like the cavewoman sitting across from me. Granted, I’m sure I don’t look much better scarfing down corned beef, using my hands like a Neanderthal.

  “Alright. New subject then. Are you still going to see Chet O’Donnell today to give back all that cash?” she asks.

  “Yep, it’s time. I’ve made double what I extorted out of them,” I state. Jill nods, knowing just how important this is to me.

  I even made enough money to pay off my Dad’s condo. Jill and Shayla agreed to let me pre-pay for four rounds of Jill’s insemination. I wanted to help in some way. I can’t wait to be an aunt. If it works the first time, I made Jill promise to let me keep her little embryos in my freezer for the rest of my life—just to have people to talk to. Unfortunately, I then had to promise to lay off the crack and get committed. We have a pretty open, tell-it-like-is relationship. I don’t know what I’d do without my dad and my sister. Oh yeah, and Samuel too. I’m happy to have Samuel in my life too.

  “What if O’Devil’s there when you go see Chet?” Jill asks, knowing me better than I know myself. I don’t answer. I have no answer, because I’ve been worrying about that same thing for two years, ever since Adrian and Kathryn showed them the threatening video. What will happen if and when I come face-to-face with Tristan-fucking-O’Donnell again?

  “Oh. My. God. Like Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Aren’t you Tristan O’Donnell?” a high-pitched overly excited voice comes from behind me.

  Before turning around, I grumble, “Oh my God, like yeah, big fucking ass deal.”

  “No, oh my God, like you don’t get it. When you were a senior and I was freshman, I had the biggest, I mean, gigantic crush on you,” the faceless voice squeals. “I had an entire wall of pictures of you in my bedroom that I printed from MySpace. Ha! MySpace, that’s so cheese-fest.”

  “Ya know, you’re getting a little creepy here,” I reply, shooting back my fourth shot of Cuervo, ignoring her.

  “Stack him up another one of those,” the voice says. “You’re supposed to lick the salt and suck the lemon—not leave them on the cute little nappy-kin, you silly-kins,” she giggles.

  Christ. I do not feel like babysitting right now. “Look, I’m not intere—,” I say turning toward her. “…interested in small talk. If ya wanna party, we’ll party.”

  Yeah, I’m not interested in small talk or babysitting, but fuck if I’m going to turn down a petite little blonde pixie with big, fat, fake boobies. I’m pissed as shit at my dad, but I’m not fucking dead. Turning her down would be like turning down free money on the street. I’m no dumbass. I give it thirty minutes tops, and this little slut will be spinning like a top on my stud-stick.

  “Hell yeah, I do. Wanna do those shots off my body?” she asks, batting her eyelashes at me.

  “Not so much. I was thinking I’d just pour the tequila all over your chest and maybe even your ass and see where it goes from there,” I say, void of all enthusiasm or sarcasm.

  She looks at me; trepidation flashes on her face.
I know this look. It’s blatantly obvious how badly she wants me to treat her like the fucking whore she is, but she wishes, oh how she wishes that she had some sort of reluctance or morality to turn around and walk back out of the bar, pretending like she’s better than just a means to end, a way to get off.

  But, she doesn’t turn around; she doesn’t storm off with her head held high. Why? I’ll tell you why, because she’s the whore that I pegged her for. Thank God too, because I’m going to love fucking the shit out of her itty-bitty body in less than thirty minutes.

  “Alright Tristan, let’s party,” she says, smiling faintly. “By the way, I’m Alys—”

  “Doesn’t matter what your name is,” I reply, motioning the bartender for the check. “I’m just gonna call you ‘Thursday’ anyway.”

  Giggling nervously, she says, “But today’s Wednesday.”

  “It’ll be Thursday when I’m done with you.”

  “But why?” Thursday whines. “Why can’t we go to your apartment?”

  “Simple,” I explain, swiping the keycard into the hotel room’s door. “Chicks don’t step foot into my place. Period. End of story.”

  “I bet you after tonight, you’ll be begging me to come to your place—night after night after night,” she says, unbuckling my belt.

  “I’ll take that bet. I’ve got no problem taking money from girls,” I admit.

  There is no way I’m ever going to see this bitch again. The ride over here in my Escalade was ear-bleeding enough. I even offered to pay her five grand if she could keep the words: like, oh-my-God, and “totes” out of her mouth for the rest of the night. Dumb bitch thought I was kidding. Hell, I would’ve gone up to ten grand.

  Tossing the keycard on the dresser and pulling the Cuervo out of the paper bag, I notice how Thursday admires the room, running her hands along the quilted bedspread and tracing her fingers in the grooves of the dresser. Women. All they ever want is a man with deep fucking pockets and a big, fat rod to ride. Every now and then, you think you may have stumbled upon one who doesn’t care about all that shit, but next thing you know, she’s just like all rest of those money-grubbing whores.

  It’s no secret. I love money. I fucking adore the shit. Can’t live without it—would never consider living without it. It’s too damn wonderful. But I sure as shit am not going to go looking for some whore to take care of me—make her spend her well-earned money on me. Chicks are lazy-ass bitches looking for a free fucking ride. Go to school, get a job, make your own fucking money and stay the fuck off your damn backs. Christ.

  “Alright Thursday,” I say, opening the Cuervo, taking a long pull straight from the bottle, wincing as it burns my throat. “Get those clothes off.”

  “Don’t you want to do that for me?” she asks, shimmying a bit.

  “Not so much,” I respond, plopping down in the chair next to the bed. “You’re on your own until I’m ready.”

  “What? So, I’m like your… your… entertainment?” she asks.

  “That’s all women ever are to me,” I admit, kicking off my shoes, before loosening my tie.

  “Well, I’m not gonna—”

  “Now, we both know you are, so cut the shit… and lose the shirt,” I command, knowing she’s going to be the obedient little bitch I predicted.

  “Tristan, I don’t want—”

  “Then, there’s the door,” I say, nodding to the left, challenging her. There’s a part of me that’s praying she’ll call my bluff, put me in my place. But I know that’s not going to happen. They’re all the same.

  Thursday shakes her head and drops her gaze. She starts for the door with a huff, holding her head high. It’s all an act; I’ve seen this shit before. Women want to be one thing, but they’re not even close to being what they want. They want to be strong, independent, and self-sufficient. Reality is, they’re weak, dependent, and insecure.

  With her hand on the door, she calls, “I’m out of here.”

  “Once you leave and that door closes, it doesn’t reopen—for anyone,” I state, grabbing the remote control. Silence. She doesn’t move. I turn on the television, ignoring her, knowing damn well she’s coming back to the bed.

  As I surf through the channels, looking for Sportscenter, she says, “YOLO, ya know,” and starts sashaying back to me.

  I’m seriously about to fuck a chick who just said “Yolo?” God Almighty, getting laid is getting harder and harder. My two heads just do not see eye-to-eye anymore—they’re always at odds.

  “Babe, you’re gonna need to work it a little more, because you’re killing the mood with all your antics here,” I claim, shaking my head at her and another Red Sox loss on the TV screen. “Here’s the challenge, make me want to watch you more than I want to watch the game’s highlights.”

  “Oooh goody, I love sex games,” she squeals, clapping her hands and bouncing up and down. Fuck.

  Thursday walks over to me, and does a little spin. I lean a little to the right, as she’s obstructing my view of the TV.

  “Oh no you don’t, you’re gonna watch me, Big Boy,” she says, unzipping the back of her dress. Her dress falls to the floor in one fluid motion, as she has no curves to catch the cloth. Although, her chest is huge.

  Curiosity gets the best of me, “How’d you get a doc to agree to go that big with those tits? Didn’t they try to talk you out of it?’

  Thursday giggles, “Tit docs love to titty-fuck.” Jesus Christ, why’d I ask? Today’s society has lost all sense of basic morality. Case in point standing right before me—and looking me in the mirror if we’re being honest here.

  She turns around, wiggling her ass in my face. It’s small and taut, looks good in a thong. Bending over, she reaches for the strap of her shoe. “Leave them on,” I instruct.

  She whips around facing me, smiling wickedly. “Ooohh, kinky, I like it,” she whispers, shimmying out of her zebra-striped thong. This chick couldn’t be anymore cliché.

  Standing naked in front of me in nothing but her obnoxious tan lines and high heels, Thursday crooks her finger, beckoning me toward her.

  “Lie on the bed,” I say, muting the television. What? I wasn’t about to actually turn it off.

  Thursday walks over to the bed, climbs on, and with catlike movements, crawls to the middle of the bed. She rolls over to face me and says, “I’m ready Big Boy.”

  “I’m not,” I admit. “I need you on your hands and knees, facing the headboard.” Shrugging, she rolls back over and hoists her ass in the air.

  I’m not going to lie; I love the view. She’s wet; I can see the dew glistening on her. It always takes a bit more for him to wake up for a dirty, easy skank. But there’s no way he’s sleeping through this one. He’s not that picky.

  “Touch yourself,” I say, releasing myself from my pants.

  “Don’t you want to do it for me?” Thursday asks, wiggling her ass again.

  I’m tempted, but I’m not fucking stupid. There is no part of me that is touching any part of her. I’ve got some standards, and she’s nowhere near any of them. Earlier, I pictured her riding me, but listening to her talk and watching her in action, even I can’t stoop that fucking low.

  “I like to watch,” I admit, which for some reason is some crazy turn on for chicks. I bet they wouldn’t be so turned on if I said that I’d rather watch than touch their dirty, skanky asses.

  Thursday begins teasing herself with her fingers. Her nails are long and painted, very sexy as they plunge in and out of her wetness. Hardening more, I’m yearning for release. I hear her moan, making my mouth water, thirsting for just one taste of her.

  I begin to stroke myself, and command, “Spread your legs further and move your ass more.” Moaning louder, she does as she’s told, rocking back and forth on the bed, circling her nub with her middle finger, ferociously. Thursday is really getting into it. She must not have been kidding. It’s true; this chick has wanted me or some small part of me since high school. Touching herself in front of me has really
got her going. She’s about to finish; her breaths are short and quick. She’s fast. I like that. Who wants to prolong this shit anyway?

  I stand uncomfortably, walk over to the bed, lick my own hand, and slap her ass as hard as I can. The second I make contact with her cheek, she screams out in pleasure, climaxing on her fingers.

  “Roll over,” I say, waiting for her to obey. Breathing deeply, she turns over with a satiated grin splayed across her face.

  “Your turn?” she asks dreamily, reaching for me.

  “Rub your tits and pull on those nipples,” I say. She closes her eyes and pushes her breasts together and upward, darting her tongue out to flick the tip of her nipple. Impressive.

  “Nice,” I compliment, which only encourages her more.

  Stroking my length, I grab her leg and pull her closer to the edge of the bed. Rubbing myself, I watch as she continues to tweak her nipples and knead the flesh of her breasts. Her high-heeled feet are placed firmly on the bed; the small patch of hair between her legs is damp. I increase the pressure and pace of my strokes, nearing the edge, feeling the familiar fullness deep within. I let go, not feeling remotely satisfied or happy with the release.

  I back away from her, zipping my pants. She looks at me quizzically, frowning. “What’re you doing?” she asks.

  I pick up the phone, and dial the front desk. I give her the “Wait a second” sign and listen to the hotel operator. “Yes, this O’Donnell in room 3716. I’d like to order room service for tomorrow morning,” I say.

  Thursday smiles and giggles, as she snuggles into the bed. I hand her the remaining bottle of tequila and a hotel glass. She pours herself a glass.