He hadn’t planned on dialling her
number. Not even close. He’d planned to press the first couple
numbers of her cell and wimp out. He’d left her, not the other way
around, so why would she even want to take his call? Why would she
care about their ninth wedding anniversary? Because she never
totally gave up on him.
Blame it on the bourbon and the
time of the year. He rubbed his eyes. How many had he downed? Three?
Four? Six? Fuck, he wasn’t sure. But each March twenty-third, he got
drunk and Mindy was the first person to come to mind. His heart
ached. Damn, he just wanted to hear her voice.
Arran looked up when his
boyfriend, Savion Welles, strolled into the bedroom, hands in his
trouser pockets. “It’s that day. I assume you called her? You did
last year and the year before. She’s a good woman. She’ll call.
Always does.” The man reminded him of old Hollywood. Polished,
poised and domineering in the bedroom. Whenever Sav batted his mocha
eyes and smiled his dimpled smile, Arran melted.
“It went to voicemail. If she saw
my number, she got smart and let it ring. She wouldn’t drive in this
shit. Winter in Ohio sucks no matter how much she might still care
about me.” Arran squared his shoulders. Was it fair to want the
person in the same room while lusting for another at the same time?
“You’re afraid we’ve pushed her
too far each time we’ve threatened to smother her with love and that
she won’t want anything to do with us? Come on, she makes dirty
jokes better than anyone. And it was her idea to flash us on New
Year’s Eve after we made out. Nice view, I might add.”
“I want to believe she’ll come
through for me, but fuck if I know.” But he wanted to know—badly.
“How many times can we entice her before she decides either she
wants to be with the both of us or she wants nothing to do with us?”