A Mess of Reason Read Free

day, all these years later, he
does this to me. It’s science fair chemistry.
    Scout Steele. Billboard magazine
calls him the top crossover multi-genre artist of our time. A
country-rock star who has a penchant for mixing in a little rap and
hip-hop here and there. Too handsome for his own good.
Six-foot-three. Full head of short, jet-black hair. Ice-blue eyes.
All-state quarterback in high school, full ride to Alabama. Ripped,
bombed, chiseled, with guns that make Michelangelo’s David look
like a twelve-year-old girl. God help us all.
    Hell, I’m engaged to a foxy guy whom girls
literally throw themselves at—though Creed and I don’t share the
kind of chemistry that Scout and I do. Why, then, am I getting
married, you ask? Simple: Creed fits my current plan. He’s a little
rough around the edges but not a bad guy. Here’s the thing. I’m
twenty-eight going on “aging ovaries” with no other prospects. I
figure, per the song, love the one you’re with, right? I have a
need, he can fulfill it—this is part business deal. Life business,
that is.
    Scout is never—has never been—without a
girl. You might even call him the ambassador to the Republic of
Labia. Man-whore? Eh, that might be severe, but then again, his
cock seems to be magnetic. Every sugar-hole from here to Nashville
has found a direct line to its pull. Everyone, that is, but me. I
have to wonder if I’m a repeller to his magnetic force? I keep
wishing I were like that dead star that was discovered recently…you
know, the one that produces a magnetic field around twenty trillion
times stronger than a refrigerator door magnet. That’s what I want
to be to him.
    I think my friend status had officially
screwed me. So much for friends with benefits. I realize my chances
of getting killed by a vending machine falling on me—which is 1 in
112 million—is better than me getting some of him.
    So here I am, doing all I can to be near
him, because if this is all I get, then I’ll take it. It’s still a
sweet deal. I’ll get to see him all the time, work with him on our
holographic concert movement, have drinks, take sniffs of his neck,
get a little grab-ass…I mean, come on, it’s “endless-ish.” Plus I
get to look at his traffic-stopper, fly, badass face, watch his
lips slide into that lickable smile, and watch that tongue of his
float along his plump bottom lip. Ahhh.
    And, while he’s a guy’s guy, I also get to
ask him anything in the world and he’s good with that. Not many
guys would be. Anything from Why do you cut your nails with a
pocket knife? to Will you take the Cosmo quiz with
me? to Why do you think Doritos are the fifth food
group? to Did you jack off last night? and, yes, he’ll
tell me. Do you have a hunky guy friend like that? Didn’t think
so.
    And , I get to share every single line
item that floats through my brain with him. That punishing endless
diatribe. The stuff you share only with certain girlfriends.
The guy literally eats my mind dump like I’ve flipped on Sports
Center and I’m hand-feeding him M&M’s. He cares, he listens, he
laughs, he tells the best raunchy perv jokes…there is no
downside.
    Okay. I lie. The downside is, I don’t ever
get to be naked against his well-muscled flesh. Ever. I don’t get
watch him walk out of the shower and dry off his chiseled arms, not
to mention his hindquarters. Ever. I don’t get to look down between
my legs to watch him wrap his hand around his hard and—I’m
assuming—beautiful cock, place it at my sex, then slide it into me.
Ever. I don’t get to watch him throw his head back in ecstasy,
calling out my name as his eyes slowly close right before he comes
inside of me. Ever.
    But hey, let’s not get all
goldfish-died-Hallmark-y here. I’m just telling it like it is. I
get to flirt heavily, sit on his lap (while my clitoris calmly has
a nervous breakdown), hug him, kiss him, and talk
naughty-dirty…plus I can boss him around a little. Though I wish it
were him