The Hot Addiction Series: Book One
By Joya Ryan
This is an original publication of Bear and Gunner Publishing, LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Bear and Gunner Publishing, LLC, or the author, does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2015 by Joya Ryan
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contact AuthorBryce@gmail.com for permission.
Printed in the United States of America.
The singer’s high-pitched voice booming through the bar speakers is giving me a headache. Something my beer should help with shortly. It’s not my taste. Which is why this “music” is the worst. But I stand here in the middle of the tiny, overcrowded bar full of locals and deal with it because my baby sister, Mic, is slinging drinks, dancing and singing to herself.
This music isn’t so bad if it gets her to smile like that. Besides, it’s her bar, so I have to live with the crap she chooses to play. Just like everyone else in here. Because there is nowhere else to go on Friday night in Mojave, Nevada.
But Mojave is home.
My home. And despite hating it sometimes, I also love it.
“This is a man’s bar. Why does that woman play this shit?” Wade Anders asks. My overgrown prick of a cousin is not only sexist but also a sadist and most other terms ending in “ist.” On a good day, he’s only mildly douchey. Today was not a good day and tonight isn’t looking to be any better. But I never hesitate to defend my sister.
“This is Mic’s bar and she’ll play whatever the hell she wants.”
“Whatever,” Wade mumbles. He shoves his shoulder into mine and reaches for another shot off the bar. Cheap tequila. “Not a damn thing changes around here.”
“Feel free not to stay, then,” I answer. Wade, his daddy, and their band of losers were gone for a while. Resulting in a positive impact on the town.
But now that they’re hanging around again, it only means one thing. They’re looking to deal.
“You need to come with me tomorrow for the drop, Trader,” Wade says.
There’s a typical flare in my chest I get when 1) people call me by my full name. Apparently, Momsie and Popsie thought it’d be hilarious to name me Trader. They both dropped out before high school and couldn’t spell for shit. At least I’m not “Traitor,” but that doesn’t stop my extended family from calling me such anyway. Assholes.
“I’m not dealing your shit around here.” I haven’t dealt since I was a teenager. Back then, there was no other way to make money. But I learned cars, and my brother learned how to drive them. Fast. Between us, it took a few years, some worse than others, but we have a shop in town and race on weekends, and shit could be worse. We try. Always try for more. Doesn’t mean we get it, but we try.
Why the fuck can’t my piece of shit cousin and his side of the family stay away? Wade glares with his beady eyes and I am ready to tell him where to go. And he can take his uneven handlebar mustache with him. But if I speak too fast he’ll gets confused, and I’m not in the mood to deal with his wasted brain. The family business of making and selling meth isn’t as advantageous for me as it is for my cousin. Still he pushes.
“Brass will be pissed,” Wade slurs. “With two of our boys in lockup, you need to step up.”
Ah, good ol’ Uncle Brass is the ringleader. Mojave may be small and hellish at times, but it has some good people and good memories. It also has terrible memories, but weighing the good against the bad is part of growing up with felons.
“I need to do nothing. Push your poison somewhere else. I’m out and have been for a while.”
Wade steps closer, and just the smell of his nasty dime-store cologne is ruining the flavor of my beer.
“I can make you get in line, son.” His breath hits my throat. He may be two years older, but I’m two inches taller. And I have no problem reminding him who ended up kicking whose ass last time he got in my face.
“Make me get in line?” I smile. “Like last time? When your face ran into my fist and you were crying on the ground like a baby?”
“Fuck you, Trader!” His chest bumps mine. “Cuz that’s what you are. Traitor. Brass says you’re the snitch who got our boys locked up.”
I’m not going to argue that I haven’t known where the hell they’ve been, much less care to. So long as they don’t stay in my town, I don’t give a shit what happens to them.
“Brass is gonna pay you a visit if you don’t saddle up, Trader. Wouldn’t want your own kin thinking less of you, now would you? Thinking that maybe you’re too useless to hold on to?”
“Is that you threatening me, Wade?” I ask. “Because bring your boys on over and I’d be happy to have a chat.” I have a knife in my pocket and am in way better shape than any of them. I learned young that taking a beating was part of life and you either prepare for it and fight back, or curl up and die young.
Gotta love family.
“Back up,” Coe said, interjecting. Ah, my twin brother coming to be noble. He’s the better of us two. Hands down, I won’t deny he’s got the clean looks and holy-rolling-self-righteous-save-everyone attitude. On most days. When he’s in a bad mood he’s a nasty son-of-a-bitch walking around giving the world the middle finger.
I stare at my stupid cousin and he stares back at me. Coe and I could take him and his clan of losers any day. And we have. Blood doesn’t matter when we’re all trash. A quote Pops said regularly before he OD’d five years ago.
Those are the shitty memories my siblings and I try to move past. Try to be better than. There’s that try word again.
Wade glances between us and decides to use his brain for once and back the hell up. Mumbling a few fuck-you’s, he makes his way to the corner of the bar.
“What the hell, Trade?” Coe asked.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Better not,” he says, looking over where the drug lords of our town hang out. Our cousin included. Yeah, they need to go. This town may be small and less than perfect, but it’s mine.
“So, besides almost getting into a fight with Wade, what else is on your agenda for tonight?”
I laugh and take another swig of beer. “Well, that was my entertainment, and thanks to you, I have to find another source.”
“Sorry I kept you from getting your ass kicked.”
“I could take that mother fucker and you know it.”
I scan the room again. Sarah Foster is tossing her hair and looking my way. She’s easy and gives good head. I tip my bottle her direction and she smiles. Maybe a few more rounds and a blow job would make this night look up.
“Seriously? Sarah Foster?” Coe asks.
“Are you ever going to search for more than just getting your dick sucked?”
“Says the guy who’s hit more pussy in this town than anyone?”
“Not Sarah fucking Foster,” Coe defends himself.
I shake my head. “Sorry, pretty boy, forgot you’re too good for us common folk.” I nudge my brother’s shoulder.
“Fuck you,” Coe says with a laugh. He hates the term “pretty boy” but it’s true. He is as clean-shaven and as clean-cut as one could get around here. I personally don’t give a shit. My hair is dark and thick like his, but I keep it much longer. Tonight, it’s down and annoying my neck. Usually I keep it tied back when I’m working on cars. And everyone can see Coe’s strong jaw, same jaw as me only mine is covered in three-day—okay, four-day—stubble. I also have tattoos and piercings. He doesn’t.
Twins aside, we don’t look that similar. It was a good day when my t-shirt didn’t have grease on it. I glance down. All white tee, no grease. Score.
But he picks on my “smarts” and I give him hell for his haircut.
“Maybe try to set your sights a bit higher,” Coe says and slaps my back. “I’m going to the can.”
He takes off and I finish my beer. A draft blows in from the front door and—
“Holy shit,” I mumble. There, standing in the doorway, is you. I don’t know you, no one around here knows you, because everyone knows everyone…but not you.
You’re an out-of-towner.
The whole damn room goes quiet and stares. Looking at the same thing I see and probably in shock just the same.
Quinn. Your name is embroidered on your purse. Your purse, Quinn. Jesus, didn’t your mama ever tell you not to hand your name out to strangers?
Your name suits you. So does your body, and the clothes you’re wrapped in. A tight skirt that hugs your hips and thighs. The black silk hits just above your knees.
You don’t show much skin, but your clothes cling to you and your curves, and you know it. Your white top is just as tight and tucked in and giving a full view of every inch you have.
And Quinn, if I may call you Quinn, your tits are perfect. Bigger than average. But high and round, and your hair is made of that spun straw that turns into gold in that one fable. I forget the story now, but yeah, I’m pretty sure that your hair is fucking gold because nothing else can be that shiny.
And you probably smell just as good as you look. But those eyes of yours are shocking, blue diamonds set in ivory skin, and a light flush hits your cheeks.
You have an awkward smile. No. You have an incredible smile, but you look awkward as hell. You glance around. Thinking of turning around and walking out? Smart girl.
Which is what you should do. Because you don’t belong here. That much is obvious.
Your gaze snares mine. And it’s like a hit to the face. Wide eyes and thick lashes dance up and down as you blink. But that gaze stays on me.
You lick your lips.
You’ll run. Any minute turn around and walk out…
Your chest rises on a heavy breath and instead of turning around and walking away, you walk inside. Your stare dislodges from me and you make your way to the bar.
Brave woman. Stupid move. But brave woman.
The awful music is still playing, and you smile and glance around as you make your way to the bar. Everyone isn’t glancing back at you. They’re staring. The chatter picks back up though. Everyone slowly returning to their conversations. Mic greets you, makes you feel welcome, because Mic is sweet like that.
“Who the hell is that?” Billy asks. A local I went to school with. He’s crass, but a decent guy. But then again, we’re all a little crass around here.
“I have no idea.” Why can’t I look away from you? You’re classy, well dressed, well kept, and well moneyed. And those sights Coe was talking about earlier just got higher. Because, Jesus, you have a glow around you.
And that pisses me off.
Who are you? Clearly you’re aware of the reaction you’re getting. So why come here? Unless you’re looking for that kind of reaction. Poor little rich girl stopping for gas and you come in to check out the local zoo at the watering hole? Not cool.
It’s clear you know what the outside world looks like. Know what the air smells like when it’s not drowning in the stench of desert heat. You’re more, and I want to reach out and touch you because you may be the closest thing to worldly I’ve ever seen.
And I kind of hate you for it.
“God damn, I’d tap that,” Billy says and runs a hand over his belly.
“Shut up. She’s just new pussy. That’s it.”
But I’m not the only one who has that same idea. Just because you’re shiny and new doesn’t mean I’ll go near you. I’ve never been in a china shop before, but I’ve heard of the expression regarding a bull being there. And bull or not, I’m not going near your display. Partly because I’d break something by accident, and partly because the second I step inside a shop I can’t purchase anything in, I realize how worthless I really am.
Well, I’m aware of my value, or lack thereof, and I don’t need your shop display to remind me of that. Because damn it…I may want to stay a while, even though I can’t afford jack shit in your shop. And yes, I’m talking about your panties.
Wade and his trolls close in on you. Three of them surrounding subtly and smiling and leaning too close. My sister’s eyes shoot up and hit me hard. I know that look. It’s a “Get your ass over here” look, and where is Coe when I need him?
Coe’s the savior.
But Mic just frowns harder, and I give in to my baby sister’s stern look and stomp over. Pushing past Wade, I force myself between him and you. I set my empty beer bottle down on the counter and give a bored glance to Mic. I know she can read my expression loud and clear.
There. I’m here. Now what?
“Another, please,” I ask my sister. She pops the top quickly and hands it to me.
“And here you go,” Mic says to you, handing you a pink drink in a small glass. Jesus Christ, you even drink like a yuppie.
“Take your beer and go,” Wade says and pokes my shoulder. It’s enough to barely jostle me forward. My thigh hits your bent knees. The chain from my belt loop to my wallet in my back pocket jingles slightly, and you notice it. Or do you notice my black leather belt? It’s the most expensive thing I own. Or maybe you’re looking at my ripped and worn jeans? I can only hope you’re looking at my cock. But a sweet thing like you? Manners and all? Doubtful.
Whatever you’re looking at, your gaze finally snaps back up and I glance away. I won’t look you in the eye.
“Go,” Wade says to me again.
I would like to do just that, not because he says so, but because there’s nothing for me but temptation from you. And sure, you can get a dick hard, but you’re probably a tease. You’re young. Early twenties. Came to see the “colorful locals” and now realize you’re in over your head. And I’m not wasting time with you because you’ll be gone. Off to bigger and better things.
I’ve been left by women in my life. Mother split when I was ten. Then my woman left two years ago. She hitched a ride on the nearest gambler blowing through town and rode his face out of here and straight to Vegas.
So that’s how I know we don’t coexist. And I’m not interested in teasing myself in any regard.
Apparently, it doesn’t matter what I think, though, or where I want to go—away from you because you smell so fucking good—because Mic hits me with another look. Glancing between me and you, she motions for me to…what? Take you? Hold you? What the hell is she motioning? I don’t speak crazy sister hand gestures.
I shoot back my own “What the hell do you expect me to do?” look. Mic clearly wants me to save you from these idiots. From them hitting on you.
“This is my brother, Trade,” Mic offers, introducing me to you. At least she stops with the not-so-subtle hand gestures.
You nod and smile. You’re gracious. Those manners kicking in.
“Oh, so nice to meet you.” You reach out with your small hand. Clean palms and alabaster skin and, hell no, I’m not looking at you.
“Put that nice lady’s drink on my tab,” Wade says, and though I don’t turn around to see him wink at you, I know he does. Because your body language shifts. You cling to your drink, cross and uncross your ankles on the bottom rung of the barstool, and holy god, what kind of shoes are you wearing?
Those heels are bright red and sleek and four fuckin’ inches tall, and the little point you have to balance on will sting when you dig them into the back of my thighs as I fuck you hard.
Not that I’m thinking of that, because no way in hell have you ever been fucked. You’re the kind that’s “made love” to. Missionary-style. With the lights off and candles lit. And shit, now I’m thinking of you naked. Wondering what those fleshy palms of yours would feel like against my skin.
And I hate you some more…
“Dancing! Great idea, Trade,” Mic says. I didn’t say anything, and she’s now putting words in my mouth like a puppet. Clearly she wants you out of reach of these assholes, not that I can blame her. Mic is kind and makes friends. And most people around here are great. Wade and his friends aren’t. She’s trying to save you.
“Oh, that’s okay,” you say. You take a small sip of your pink drink and I feel your eyes on me. It’s not okay. You want to dance. With me. Because while I refuse to get caught up in those eyes I know you have, I can still feel them on me. Sweeping over my chest. Do you like what you see? Are you analyzing? Are you hot for me? “I do love dancing, though,” you say.
I grin. Yep, you do want me to dance with you. And your voice is lyrical and sweet and soft, and I wonder what you sound like when you’re getting fucked. When you’re on the brink of coming—that moment—the second before you actually fall into the void of no return. Would you whisper then? Would your voice be just as lyrical? Or would you scream? I bet I could make you scream.
My dick is now even harder and I adjust my pants.
And I hate you some more…
You pretend not to notice my movements and turn your attention to Mic. “This is such a great place,” you say to her. “You own it?”
“Yep,” Mic says with pride and tosses the rag she’s holding over her shoulder. “I’m Michelle, by the way. Sorry my brother has no manners.”
You smile. You should, because Mic and her place are great. She has a booming business in an otherwise difficult area. Mic and her food are staples around here. She’s well loved by the town and most members of it.
“I’ll dance with you,” one of Wade’s cronies says, and Mic’s eyes snap to me again.
Fuck my night, because my sister is silently setting me up with a Barbie doll. Yeah, I’m talking about you. You’re a hot, clean Barbie that has never been out of the box because it’s some kind of collector’s edition. And that’s not my style. Certain things are made to be enjoyed and played with. But this Barbie shouldn’t get dirty. I know it. You know it. And even Mic knows it.
Fuck it. Nothing else to do around here anyway, and I’ll give my absentee brother a break from the nobility squad and take his shift tonight.
“Let’s go,” I say and grab your elbow gently and help you off the stool.
“Oh…um…okay.” You smile again. You do that a lot. I can hear it, not see it, since I still refuse to actually look at you. I guide you to the middle of the packed bar, where some people are swaying, dancing, grinding. Whatever.
I come to a stop and face you. Our bodies are close. I put a lazy hand on the small of your back, still clutching my beer. You shudder a bit. The bottle is cold and it’s against your ass right now and your skirt is thin.
“I don’t dance,” I inform you, looking over your head. Call it crazy, but my instinct tells me to keep to my path and keep my stare away. Because the minute I look at your face—close up—something bad will happen. I just know it.
With your high shoes, you’re maybe five-seven. Which means you’re closer to five-three without them. I’m still over half a foot taller than you. Closer to a foot taller if you were barefoot. You’re trim, but built where it counts. You feel soft. Strong. Good.
The top of your head comes just below my chin. If you keep it down, it will make my goal of not looking at you easier.
But you’re touching me, which is something else entirely. Your little hands are out in front of you and pressed against my chest. One is clutching your drink and I can feel the sweat of the glass against my white cotton V-neck. You can push me away if you want. And I can’t blame you.
“So, if you don’t dance, do we just stand here?” you ask in that same sweet tone and scoot a little. Not closer, but not further away. I can feel your eyes darting around the room. Everyone is looking at you and you know it. You realize it now, if you haven’t already. But you don’t seem to revel in it. You’re not an attention whore. Which is admirable.
That hand that’s not clutching your drink opens from a fist to flat. Your palm is resting over my heart. I wonder if you can feel it beat.
I hate you a little less.
“Well, you’re an excellent non-dancer,” you say. I look down and notice your ridiculous heels are slowly moving. An inch. Then another. And I move with them. Sneaky woman. You’re technically getting me to dance, sort of. But I’ll never admit it.
“You always not dance with strangers?” I ask.
You shake your head. That blond hair moves just enough for me to really catch the smell of coconuts and sunshine. The kind of sun wafting off you is fresh and clean. Like you are. Not the blistering heat I’m use to around here. I take a deep breath, enjoying it just a second. Because you smell so. Damn. Good. Not like any other woman.
And I’m back to hating you.
“I’ve danced with strangers before,” you say. The spirit in your words tells me that you’re the kind to take in stray puppies and nurse fallen birds back to health. “Besides, your sister is really nice. I trust her judgment.”
Ah, so you’re naïve.
“You spent thirty seconds with her.”
“I can read people,” you say with pride. “She’s kind.”
That’s true. And even though you’re right to trust my sister, nothing about you feels right, because you don’t belong here. You’ll leave, in an hour, tomorrow, whenever. But you’ll leave. I know your name based on your purse, and I’ll be that guy you danced with once. You’ll leave here and live. I’ll stay here and die. Not that it’s so bad. My brother and sister are here. Mojave gets in your blood and, good or bad, it’s part of me. Just like wherever you’re from is part of you.
“I think you need to reevaluate your telepathy skills there, sweetheart, because if you could read minds, you’d haul ass out of here after hearing only half the men’s thoughts about you right now.”
“I never said I could read minds. I said I could read people,” you counter. “And I can handle myself.”
I laugh and meet your eyes.
My instinct was right: The moment I truly looked at you, something bad would happen. And bad is me losing my grip on real life. Up close you’re even more beautiful. Full lips that are the faintest pink. Like an honest true pink not lined with any lipstick. Just natural. Your eyes are hypnotic. Eyes like that are meant for the most pure of people, or the most evil. Because one look and I’m snared. People would call you angelic, and they’d be right. But a gaze like yours could also be reserved for the devil himself, because a man could easily get lost in it. I can attest to that.
“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” I say, my other hand coming to clamp on your hip. “But I suggest you go back where you came from.”
You frown. “Thank you for the advice, but I’m fine right here.”
You have sass. An upper-class sass that has no real hard life experiences behind it. I bet you think it’s cute, fun maybe, to hang out with the locals as you pass through town on your way to Vegas, likely. That’s the only time out-of-towners stop here. To gas up or eat before making the last four-hour leg of the drive to the big city. Because the middle of nowhere means just that, and there’s no reason to pay a visit here.
Especially for a woman like you.
I break eye contact, then realize I can see down your shirt. Not better. So I yank you closer, smashing your tits against my chest so I can’t see them. But I can feel them now. Still not better.
Your cold drink is numbing my sternum, which helps a little because my dick is hard and suddenly thinking of Sarah Foster’s blow jobs isn’t the cause or the cure.
“Read people, my ass,” I mutter, because if you could you’d—
“Oh, I can read you very well.” Again with a big bright smile to accompany your declaration.
You stay close, leaning down just enough to snag the little red straw in your drink to take a sip. Your nose brushes my nipple on the way back up, and damn this fucking long song and damn you, woman. My grip tightens and so do my jeans for the third time tonight. You’re still slowly moving your feet, and I have the distinct notion we’re going in a small circle.
You lift your head and look up at me.
I just continue scanning the room.
“You don’t make eye contact,” you say.
Just then, I hit you with some.
“You rise to the challenge,” you say.
And I just played into your hands.
The beat in my neck kicks up a notch because you’re analyzing me. Calling me out.
“And you’re a protector,” you finish as if proud you pegged me.
“You don’t even know me,” I remind you.
“I know enough to back up my three observations.”
“So you’re a shrink?”
“I’m in marketing.”
I scoff. College-educated, stacked, and you smell like a wet dream. And you’re in marketing. Of course you are. Because you’re a symbol of what else is out there. The world. Anything and everything beyond the place I live. A place I’m happy with so long as I don’t get reminded of the world. Ignorance can be bliss and I’m not above it. All the cash I make goes to my shop and my siblings. Getting Coe to the amateur level of racing is our goal. Keeping Mic’s bar open and running is our goal. Keeping my shop busy and lucrative is our goal. This is my home, they are my family, and on most days, I do what I love. Which is work with an engine. So your big-city presence makes me feel…uneasy.
I’ve been disappointed enough to know that putting faith in other people is risky. Mic and Coe are the only ones I trust. Despite our parents, we’ve made a life here. We’re happy.
But you’re walking around with a big flashing sign above your head that reads “More.”
And it’s the kind of more I can’t have.
You’re looking at me in a way I’ve never had a woman look at me. Like you’re observing. Mentally tallying facts you think to be true.
“Would it be so bad to be considered a protector?” you ask me.
“Do you analyze all your friends?”
You perk up. “I’m glad you think of me as a friend already, Trade.”
Shit, I didn’t mean it like that. “I didn’t say I was one of your friends. I was just asking if all those people in your city world enjoy this stare-down you give.”
That hit a nerve with you because that stare-down you were giving stops. Which should make me more comfortable, but it doesn’t. Because you’re looking at me like you’re actually trying to see me.
“I don’t really have friends,” you say softly. You shake your shoulders like there’s a breeze blowing over them, but there’s no breeze. But the slight movement makes your perfect tits bounce a little, and I’m back to thinking of how they’d sway if you were riding me hard and fast.
As if you’re trying to torture me, you shake your shoulders one more time, breathe deep, and your smile is back. Christ, I think I just saw you physically shake off whatever thoughts made your expression sadden. Because now you’re back to bright and happy.
“And I’m not trying to analyze you,” you say. “I’m just trying to get to know you.”
Why? Why would you want to know me? What’s your end game here? And by the way, I have a hard time believing you don’t have friends. Look at you. You’re the kind of woman people want to be around all the time. Nope, I’m not buying the lonely look you tossed my way a second ago. You must be popular. You’re obviously successful and self-assured. You have a good life, I bet, full of good people.
Time to make you run back to whatever castle you came from.
“Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but your read on me is wrong.”
“Oh?” You raise those perfectly shaped brows. You probably get them waxed. I wonder where else you get waxed. “Then enlighten me where I went wrong, Trade.”
You said my name. And now I want to hear it again. Only louder, and then softer, and with a moan behind it. But you think there’s more to me? Funny, because you’re the one with that flashing sign.
Fine. I can play this game too.
“For starters, I do make eye contact. But only with people I want to see.”
You glance away, and I’m pretty sure that was insecurity on your face. Which I don’t like. Even though I’m the one who caused that look. So I move on quickly. Because if you’re looking for the real me, then the truth can be brutal.
“I do rise to a challenge, but not always in a noble way. You don’t want to see what I’m capable of.”
Your baby blues are back on my face now, and your lush little lips part.
“And you think I’m a protector?” I go on, and squeeze your hip, fingers digging into the side of your perfectly toned ass. I grind just a little against you. You got me hard. I may as well lay blame where blame is due. And judging by that small gasp, you feel every damn inch. I lean in to whisper in your ear, “My thoughts aren’t above any other guys’ in here. You mix up my protectiveness with the desire to fuck you.”
Half lie. I protect what I love. And that’s Mic and Coe. But to call me a protector? That’s a bold statement and you don’t know me. It’s best you realize that now.
You take a deep breath, your breasts lifting and falling against my chest, and if I’m not mistaken, your nipples are hard now. So you like a little dirty talk, do you?
You raise your chin. You’re going to slap me. Or push me off and stomp out, and my goal will be met. Instead you hit me with a curious glare and tilt your head to question, “Is that right?”
Christ, are you still on a mission to call me out?
“That’s right,” I say.
“So you clearly have no problem being blunt. I appreciate that, Trade. And I thank you for your honesty.”
The song ends and you smile. That damn smile.
“It was nice meeting you. And thank you for the nondance,” you say and all but skip back to the bar and sit, instantly chatting with Mic. You aren’t leaving and I still don’t know why you’re here and my dick is now throbbing.
I can’t figure out if I hate you a little more or a little less now.