“What the fuck’ve you got in the fridge?” Phelan Everett demanded of his roommate upon opening the refrigerator door to see several bottles of expensive looking wine taking up all the room he needed to store his leftovers from lunch.
“Wine—don’t touch it!” Called Grey from the living room where he was ironing a shirt.
“Why so fucking much of it?” Phelan asked, struggling to re-arrange various boxes of weeks-old take-out to make room for the new additions. “You having a fancy lady orgy?” Who the fuck needed this much wine? There were two bottles of red on the counter too. Christ. “Can I come?” He added, thinking about how many women would be needed to consume all this wine.
“No.” Grey responded with a laugh. “And it’s not an orgy.” Phelan heard the puff of steam from the iron.
“All this for one girl?” Phelan finally shoved his Styrofoam box between a pizza box and the shelf above it, causing a very unpleasant squealing sound that set his teeth on edge. He closed the fridge and strode into the living room, now taking the time to remove his sunglasses.
Grey was looking at him, smiling. “Yeah, but you should see the girl.”
Phelan knew that look. That wolfish, hungry, cocky-ass look. “Goldilocks.” Said Phelan flatly. Grey had all the fucking luck.
Grey lifted his eyebrows up and down and then pulled the shirt off the ironing board with a flourish. “So fucking perfect you’re going to have to punch yourself in the dick.” He shook the shirt out and hung it on a hanger with care.
Fuck. “What’s she look like?” Phelan sank into the couch, making every effort to appear non-chalant and friendly, but he couldn’t help the surge of bitter envy pooling in his gut. Fuck Grey Delaney. Phelan hadn’t been able to get his hands on a goldilocks virgin in fucking forever. Like, a year, probably. Goddammit. Where did his roommate keep unearthing them? Grey Delaney must be the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in town.
“You’d like her.” Grey said, unable to completely mask his gloating as he unplugged the iron. “She’s only about five-two, maybe five-three,--“ Phelan wanted to kick something. “Tiny waist, perfect tits and Phelan? Her Ass? Jesus Cunting Christ.”
Phelan spread an appreciative smile across his face but wanted nothing more than to feel his foot connect with Grey’s arrogant fucking face.
“She black?” Phelan asked casually. If she was black Phelan might just murder his friend and go take the bitch for himself.
“Latina.” Grey responded with a wink.
God dammit. That was almost as good.
“And her lips are un-fucking-real.” Grey shivered and Phelan begrudged the man all the fantastic head he was going to get out of this girl.
“How old?”
“Eighteen.” Grey said and Phelan felt a small bit better. Legal. If she’d been underage he wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to mask his raging jealousy. “But she’s so doe-eyed and skittish and holy fuck, Phel, you’ll wanna sink your teeth in when you see her.”
Grey folded the ironing board up and put it back in the closet along with the iron.
“You bringing her back here?” Phelan asked.
Grey made a pitying face. “C’mon, this isn’t some bar-fly.” He lectured. “This is a one-hundred-percent goldilocks virgin.” He stared at his friend with a smirk. “You know full well that she won’t be seeing the inside of this fucking place for a while.” Phelan kept his mouth firmly closed as he watched his friend head toward the bathroom and turn on the shower. Letting the water heat up, Grey strode back into the livingroom, pulling off his t-shirt. “No. I’m treating this lovely young lady to a perfect evening at the park, under the stars, with wine and fruit and a nail-biter on the green.”
Phelan pressed his lips together. She’d be tipsy and giggly and have to cling to him during the suspense of the film. It was perfect. Fuck. What he wouldn’t pay to be Grey Delaney that evening.
“How far do you think you’ll get?”
“Phelan, Phelan, Phelan.” Grey tisked as he retrieved a towel from the linen closet beside the bathroom. “How dare you impugn the lady’s spotless reputation?”
Phelan laughed shortly. “How far?”
“Why sir, I am appalled.” Grey said in mock outrage. “I intend to be a perfect gentleman.”
Phelan squinted at his friend skeptically. “Ok.” He conceded, knowing that Grey was going to take his time, do the long-con, get the girl good and dripping and willing to do anything for him. Christ. So this really was the real deal. It was like a fucking unicorn or some shit. “You lucky prick.” He said, half smiling, half menacing.
Grey grinned. “How many times have I told you—it isn’t luck, it’s skill.”
Bullshit. “Where’d you find her?”
Grey shook his head, still grinning. “Nope.”
“Nope what?”
“No way am I giving out that secret. I’m not gunna let you even try to poach her, you greedy fuck.”
“Afraid of a little competition?” Phelan challenged, never dropping his smile.
Grey laughed. “You aren’t her type.” He said dismissively and waltzed into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. He put a hand to his face and rubbed thoughtfully on his cheeks and chin. Phelan knew he was weighing the options of which degree of stubble would work best this evening.
“Oh yeah?” Phelan called, wanting to be heard over the running shower. “What’s her type?”
Grey looked over and with a subtle quirk of his lips in an otherwise dead-pan expression he answered: “Me.”, then lifted one brow playfully and shut the bathroom door.
Arrogant prick.
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