Waking Up in Vegas(9)

***



I made it home in record time, intending to do something about the undying boner. I wasn’t sure what, though. Beating off because of my new co-host was kind of creepy. Besides, I wasn’t sure how I felt about her yet—newsflash: a man doesn’t have to like you in order to want to fuck you. He can actually hate your guts. Thank God that by the time I got home, my beleaguered dick had finally deflated.

Now, I’ve had the occasional blue balls before in my younger days, but this—this was a sledgehammer to the ‘nads. Swung by Atlas himself.

Walking was painful. Bending down to greet Lita, and straightening up after, were complete agony. Since this was my normal bedtime anyway, I grabbed a bag of frozen peas, slapped it on my groin when I (literally) crawled between the sheets, and grabbed the remote. There was no way I’d be sleeping any time soon.



Surprise, surprise. I woke up six hours later with a mushy Birds Eye bag under my left butt cheek.

Butt-peas? Never gonna eat them. Ever. I tossed the bag into the trash.

When I was trying to cut out of the station this morning at two after ten, Jensen cornered me and invited me to her unpacking party. Seems most of the station was going to be there.

Alright, she didn’t really corner me, I held the door open for her to leave the booth and she turned around while I was still in the doorway. Still, I had nowhere to run. And my stupid mouth was saying something about knowing how to fix her broken couch. I should have punched my own teeth out.

So now I had her address and cell number in my iPhone. I could feel the thing wanting to reject her data. I was seriously expecting Siri to start some jealous screeching. I checked to see if her info was still there, on the off chance that—nope. Second J on the list.

So now I had no viable reason to not go.

Except that I really didn’t want to.

I was feeling better, and wanted to keep it up. So to speak.

Maybe by the time I was out of the shower, she wouldn’t need me.

While I washed the stink of smashed peas and plastic off my ass, I thought up a string of possible excuses to get out of helping her.

And rejected every one of them.

None of them sounded plausible enough. I may be a serial sexer, but I never outright lie to women. Leave out selected bits and details? Sure. Filter what I say and leave them to assume? Absolutely. But I don’t say things that are blatantly untrue. And since I had to see Jensen the next morning, and the one after that etcetera, anything I could come up with would show itself to be total fabrication.

After screwing around with ideas for nearly an hour, I decided to just call to say I wasn’t feeling one-hundred-percent—truth—and that I’d see her in the morning.

It took her three rings to answer. I was just starting to think she wouldn’t and was mentally composing my message when her breathless, “Hello?” killed that hope.

Damn.

How the conversation went from I can’t make it to What do you like on your pizza? is beyond me.





“This is fixable.” I had the sofa leg in my hand, after much wrenching and creative swearing to get it to unscrew.

Jensen was digging through boxes to find plates for the pizza. When she looked up, she did that flashy-thing with her eyes again. Thank God the region south of my belt buckle was too worn out to respond. “Hey! You got it off!”

Nope. Not touching that one. But I couldn’t help the smile.

“They bent the metal threaded part. I’m pretty sure I can bend it back, but holding it with pliers is going to chew up the wood.”

She walked over holding a stack of plates wrapped in a dish towel. I swear her hips were a little more swively than they were earlier. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mess with the wood any more than you have to.” She smirked and winked, but my quick flash of skeevy kept me from responding in kind.

Had she been spying on me in the shower? Seriously. I was worried that I’d broken something this morning, so, to check, I’d popped off a quick one before the hot water ran out.

Oh, but she was looking at the couch leg and not at my crotch.

“Can I borrow that towel?” I held out my hand. Jensen looked at me like I’d just said the whole shower thing out loud. I was pretty sure I hadn’t.

“What for?”

“To wrap the leg in so the pliers don’t gouge it as much.”

“You’re a genius.”

I didn’t let on that using a towel was standard guy-stuff. Let her think I was brilliant for the time being. I can handle it.

When I had the leg as straight as possible, the plan was for me to screw it back in while she held the back of the couch. The corner of the sofa I was reaching for zoomed right past my hand.

“Jensen! What are you doing?”