Walking over to the couch, he flopped down and tossed his phone at the coffee table. “Informing the Twitterverse of your new predilection for dildos.” He gave me a grin.
Snatching up my phone, I opened Twitter to read Coby’s post. Casey’s new acquisitions. I had no idea butt plugs came in extra large sat next to a photo of the damning yellow bag sitting on our kitchen counter.
There was no hiding when your sex life was exposed on social media, so instead I shrugged and retweeted his tweet. Any willing females up for being experimented on?
Done, I picked up my beer and wandered over to the couch where Coby was channel flicking. It was Saturday night, and with two missed calls from Morgan already today, I could only conclude she was trying to get something arranged for later. The thought of returning her call made me twitchy. Instead, I sat in the navy leather recliner with a heavy sigh. Tossing my phone on the coffee table, I flicked up the footrest and settled in.
“Anything on?”
“Nope,” he replied, doing another round of the channels just to be sure. Then he sniffed. “Dude. You stink. You went into a sex shop like that?”
I looked down at my grimy, sweat-stained shirt and I knew that if I rubbed at my face, a layer of war paint would transfer to my fingers. I shrugged. “I didn’t go there to pick up, asshole.”
My phone vibrated, the sound loud against the thick timber of the table. Coby picked it up, reading the screen with widening eyes.
“What?”
He tossed it at me. Catching it in one hand, I checked the screen. Four notifications of replies to my retweet sat on the screen, all willing females seemingly happy to sacrifice their own ass for the greater good. Huh.
“I didn’t even buy butt plugs,” I told Coby.
He grabbed the phone out of my hand and started skimming. “Maybe you should have. Hell, get some for me when you go back.”
“Buy your own butt plugs.”
Handing me back the phone, he asked, “How do you even know that many people on Twitter?”
“I don’t. I don’t even know how to use it. Tim set it all up and now I’m stuck with it.”
“Figures. There are hardly any guys following you on there, you know. Tim probably deletes them all so he can stay the number one man in your life.”
“Tim’s a good kid,” I muttered, knowing Tim would be pissed if he heard me calling him a kid. He was only five years younger than I was, but sometimes it felt like fifty years when he let his personality fly. His ability to create drama out of thin air was legendary, and it often came back to bite me on the ass by default. Take his ongoing feud with the local barista near our office. This barista was the Rain Man of coffee. He made an espresso you’d give your left nut for, but when he slept with Tim’s boyfriend’s brother’s cousin or what-the-fuck-ever and didn’t call him back, Tim stopped leaving money in his tip jar. Now the usual miracle elixir Tim bought for me wouldn’t revive a fucking flea, yet he still insisted on going there because the gospel according to Tim was that the man was hot. Now I was the one stuck with piss-weak coffee.
The loft intercom buzzed announcing a visitor. Coby flinched, the sharp sound waking him from a doze. “Who’s that?” he asked, knowing we weren’t expecting anyone.
“How should I know? My superpowers don’t include seeing through walls.”
I flicked the footrest back down and stood. Stretching my arms high, I felt joints pop with a satisfying crack. Coby stumbled off to his room, likely to find some pants, while I went to answer the door. Without flicking on the video monitor, I pressed the answer button with a, “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” Travis announced.
I shook my head. Travis had big balls stopping by after dragging me from bed for paintball this morning. Still feeling the need to hold a grudge, I replied, “I’m busy rubbing one out. Come back later.”
A strangled cough came through the speaker, followed by his wife, Quinn, saying politely, “Sorry to interrupt, Casey. We’ll um … leave you to it. Is half an hour okay?”
I didn’t fight the grin. I’d missed Quinn at paintball today. She was one of my closest friends, not just because she kept Travis in line, but because she’d gone through the kind of hell that would’ve broken a lesser person and came out of it stronger. I admired her for that. Pressing the button again to speak, I replied, “Half an hour? Is that how long it takes your husband to get himself off?”
I heard Quinn say faintly, “Travis?”
“Are we really going to have this conversation,” he growled, “or are you going to let us in?”