Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
She takes it.
We head into the dark street, hand in hand.
The same as always.
Except, no matter how hard I try to think unsexy thoughts, I keep picturing her bikini top on the floor.
Chapter Four
VALERIA
I need your help with the area most in your expertise—Sex.
Casual sex.
I need to get laid.
And I know you know how to help.
I need to say it fast. All at once. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.
But, hey, I'm not too fond of the Band-Aid metaphor. Because what if this is a Band-Aid? It's not going to do anything to stop the bleeding.
My medical knowledge should be better with my future career as a brain scientist. I'm about to start a PhD with a focus in the neuro-biology of story. Only my undergraduate education is all on the narrative side of things.
Is there anything better than losing yourself in a book, falling into the pages, coming out better and smarter, and more content?
Stories are magic. They teach us how to struggle, how to survive, how to love.
Not that I know how to love.
No, no. I may watch classic romantic comedies on repeat, but I never really believe them.
Roses wilt.
Silk wrinkles.
Champagne goes flat.
Love is bullshit. The typical Hollywood idea of it, anyway.
"You there, Val?" Dare nudges me with his entire body.
And it feels good. Too good. Warm and safe and butterfly inducing.
For three years, we've avoided the topic of sex and all the ways it complicated our relationship.
Will we survive tackling it head-on?
I can't lose Dare. I can't. He's still the only guy I trust, the only guy I've ever trusted.
And, yes, maybe I don't put much stock in romantic love. But platonic love? Friendship? That's everything. (See: The Shawshank Redemption).
Unfortunately, there aren't many movies about sex. Not really. There's porn, sure. There are documentaries about the history of sex or the bio-mechanics of sex or the sexual norms in various countries.
But movies about women overcoming their well-earned hang-ups to find fulfilling sex lives?
There's nothing on my list.
"Val?" he asks again. "Do I need to take you home and put you to bed?"
"Just thinking." I'm too in my head again. I take a deep breath and focus on my surroundings. The dimly lit streets of the residential part of Santa Monica. Big houses, wide streets, large lawns, Teslas as far as the eye can see. So much like the Los Angeles suburb where we grew up, only closer to the beach.
"About…"
I cross the quiet street and step onto the sidewalk. "Movies."
"Shocker." Dare lets out his usual low, easy chuckle. The one he only shares with me.
Yes, he plays cool with most people. He chuckles at most things. But the way he laughs with me is different. More honest.
We're honest with each other.
We can discuss this.
We can.
"What did you watch on the plane?" he asks. "No. Wait. Let me guess."
"Go ahead."
"Casablanca."
Am I that obvious? "Maybe."
He smiles I knew it. "How many times is that?"
"Enough times."
His smile widens.
"Everyone loves Casablanca." Seriously, it's the most iconic movie of all time.
"Ask at the shop. You'll get a different answer."
"You love it too."
"Only 'cause you love it."
My chest warms. There's so much affection in his voice. I missed it. I need it. I can't risk losing it. "That's the opinion that matters," I say.
He looks both ways at the next street, takes my hand, leads me across the pavement. "How many movies did you watch?"
"Three," I say.
"Comedies?"
"It's not Twenty Questions. You said you'd guess."
He nods fair. "Were they all filmed before 1965?"
"Dare!"
His fingers brush mine as he takes the thermos and sips. "That's a no. Hmm. Something modern. Something weird, I bet."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Means you're a freak."
"And you're not?"
"Oh no. I'm a super-freak." Intent drops into his voice.
Or maybe I'm imagining that. Maybe, now that I'm dealing with my issues head-on, I see sex everywhere.
And let's face it, Dare is sexy.
He's not my idea of sexy. He's never been my idea of sexy. Conventionally attractive? Absolutely. With the dark hair and dark eyes and inked muscles, he's a bad boy wet dream.
See. Look at me.
Saying sexy things.
In my head, sure. About my best friend, sure.
But it's effort.
The point is, even though Dare is extremely conventionally attractive, he's not attractive to me. He's my best friend. That trumps everything.
"How are you a freak?" I try to keep my voice neutral, but it feels loaded too. Like I'm asking him to list his kinks.
"I'm afraid those records are sealed." He takes a long sip, shifting away from the sexual energy (or maybe I'm imagining that too) and into the film guessing energy. "Josie and the Pussycats."
"Okay, how did you know that?" Seriously, that is way out of left field.
"I know you."
Maybe.
"And the last… well, that's a gimme. Sabrina."
"Guilty."
"Why do you love Sabrina so much anyway?" he asks.
"Did you need to hear this the three-hundredth time to understand?"