Selling Satisfaction (6 page)

When he immediately becomes defensive, shaking his head at a rate faster than usual, I know I've insulted him. It wasn't meant to be insulting, I'd actually prefer if he were gay, then I'd know that no lines are being crossed. “What? No. Fuck no. I love women. I love tits and nice asses, and having sex. I mean, I’m not about just that, but I enjoy it. A lot actually. Sex is fun, it’s great. With women. Only women.”

He makes it known in his rambles- basically digging himself into a whole- I get the idea. "Stop," I tell him, before my amusement turns into annoyance. "I get it. You're a pretty basic guy that likes getting laid."

"I'm not a man whore," he makes sure to announce. His neck and cheeks turn a little pink- which in return entertains me all the more. Not that I make it known. I don't want him to think I'm attracted to him. Hell, I don't even
want
to be attracted to him. It can’t be that simple though.

"Sorry," I murmur. "I'm just trying to figure you out."

He starts walking towards the back entrance to the complex. I follow alongside him, walking at a slow pace while he scrunches his face up. "Why would you even assume that? That I was gay, I mean."

I stop and look down over my body. It's not necessarily anything special to everyone, but it’s also barely covered. "Um, I'm almost naked and you haven't tried to get laid. You want to hang out with me with no pretenses. You're respectful. Why wouldn't I assume it?" I don't mention he has a bright, white smile and a perfectly tanned face, accompanied with just the right amount of facial hair. Plus, every time I've seen him his hair is slicked back just right- except that first time I saw him with the draggy, mused hair that I'm glad I haven't seen again. Gay men take care of their looks, straight men are more concerned with the opposite sex.

"So basically a man has to be a disrespectful, arrogant asshole, who only uses females for one thing in order to be straight?" I nod my head, because yeah, that sums up most guys I know. His brows basically lift into his hair line- apparently that surprises him. Maybe where he is from things are different, but down here in the south, that is what I've come to discover. "Whatever guys- I won't say men, because they definitely are not men- you're hanging around, you need to stop. No one should ever disrespect you like that.”

I try to hide my smile by biting down on my lip but I don't think it works. He is a thoughtful man. Maybe he doesn't have any hidden agendas, maybe he is right. I don't know for sure, but it's hard not to want to find out. "Well, I don't hang out with guys. Except you, it seems."

"What about the gray haired man from the other night?"

My stomach coils. I didn't think about that. I wish he hadn't seen me leave with Winston. I shrug it off, trying to play innocence. "He's my uncle."

"Good." I swear I watch relief wash off his face as we get to the door. He pauses before opening it. "I mean, it doesn't matter to me who it was, but I'd hate to think of you hanging out with someone of that age, knowing that you believe men only want sex. Someone his age shouldn't go for someone your age. It's not... healthy."

"Why isn't it healthy?" I try not to fight back, but I don't think age matters. At least not much. I don't think adults should have sex with young teens, or anyone against their will, but I'm twenty and completely knowingly, willingly having sex, so it shouldn't matter the age of whom it's with. I don't say all that though, I'm merely curious about his thoughts. Maybe a bit defensive too, but I try not to show it.

Everett stares for a moment, not answering me at all. Probably coming up with a reasonable answer in his head, then he simply states, "It's gross. You're young, he's old. It doesn't matter though, he's your uncle."

"Right," I say, trying to force a smile.

I wash it all away though. It's not worth my stress by any means. He opens the door to allow me to go before him. "So," he says once we're in the hall. "Dinner tonight?"

I think on it for a moment before answering. I'm going to hate myself for this later on. "Something better than tuna sandwiches."

"Deal."

"I need my cooler."

He looks at it for a moment before handing it to me. "I'll see you at six then."

Getting inside my condo, I
strip from my clothes and make my way towards the bathroom to start a shower. I can feel the salt from the air on my body. It's sticky now, but always makes my skin feel smoother once it’s washed away. As soon as I lather the shampoo into my hair, thoughts start swarming my mind and I can't figure out why I agreed to dinner with Everett.

I know I promised to be his friend, and honestly I could use the acquaintanceship, but with the way he so easily distracts me I'm not sure I can handle it. I have minimal clarity in his presence, but when I'm not around him I can come up with a hundred clever things I should have said rather than yes
.
One of those things simply being,
no.

I scold myself while rinsing away all the suds from my body, and debate whether I should cancel or not. It'd be easy enough to say I have a family emergency, then take off for Belleview to catch a movie. I doubt he'd travel neighboring towns to find out if I'm lying. Except, I can't find the strength to do so.

Wrapping my towel around me, I walk over to the mirror, wiping the steam to reveal my reflection. My bright green eyes stare back at me, and with a deep breath, I tell myself, "You've got this, Brenna. Don't let anyone change who you are."

With a stronger attitude, I walk into my room to get dressed. Pulling on a pair of white capris, I find the perfect slack yellow tank top, and accent it with light jewelry. Unless I'm laying out on the beach or going to the gym, it's rare I leave my home without looking my best. I went too long not having anything, so it feels nice to be able to look radiant whenever possible.

Plus, I may not have had a mother for long, but one thing I clearly remember was her telling me, "
It's okay to be a southern belle. Beautiful women who dress well gain more respect than others. You can't earn respect with looking like you don't have self-motivation. Fine clothes and a few nice pieces of jewelry, and you can instantly become powerful."

By the time I'm done, I still have twenty minutes before I have to be down at his place. I take the opportunity to open a bottle of wine and pour myself a glass. It'll take away from the nerves that I certainly shouldn't have right now. It's just dinner… with a friend… and absolutely nothing more.

I take my precious time sipping away at my half-filled glass, so by the time I'm knocking at Everett's door I'm almost fifteen minutes late. He opens the door with a large smile. "I didn't think you'd show."

"Lost track of time."

"Right," he says all too knowingly. Obviously I'm not fooling anyone but I'm not exactly trying to either. Everett peeks over his shoulder instead of letting me in, then he looks at me a bit apprehensive. "I'm not a good cook."

"Oh, wonderful," I tell him sarcastically. "So tuna sandwiches?"

He chuckles softly, rubbing his hand through his hair in a nervous habit. "I should have stuck with that, but no. I attempted the steak and well- I'm thinking we're going to have to go somewhere to eat. Unless you like the taste of burnt rubber."

Crossing my arms, I perk an eyebrow up, letting him know I'm onto him. "Fine, but you're paying."

"Deal." He seems far too happy about it, and I sincerely hope this isn't some lame attempt at tricking me into a date.

He quickly shuts off his stove and lights while I stand in the foyer of his condo, then he grabs his wallet and keys. When we get into his monstrous truck, he looks around perplexed. "Where is a good place to eat?"

"Are we still having steak?"

With a shrug, he answers, "Sure."

Since he used a pathetic attempt at luring me into this trap, I lead him to the most expensive steakhouse in town, Whiskey Grill. When Everett opens the menu and examines the different cuisines along with the prices, he glances up at me with a crocked look. "It better be worth it."

"Oh, it is," I say. My smile never fades, in fact it probably widens when the waitress takes our order and I get a porterhouse steak with a side of grilled shrimp. Surprisingly, Everett doesn't bat a lash. In fact, when it's his turn to order, I'm a bit shocked that he orders a thirty dollar salmon.

I sip on the glass of complimentary wine the waitress brought us. Everett hands her the menus and peeks over at me, picking up his own glass. "You win," he says.

"I win? I didn't know this was a game."

"It wasn't. I really can't cook, but I know you thought it was some elaborate trick." When I don't answer him, he adds in, "I can get a date, you know. If I wanted to."

"So why don't you?"

He sets his drink down and leans forward. "Are you saying you want me to ask you on a date?" I hate the seduction in his timid voice. I'm also not impressed with myself for making it look like I actually wanted him to ask me.

"No," I tell him quickly. "That isn't what I meant. I mean, why are you always trying to hang out with
me
knowing that I
don't
want to date you? Why not ask someone that could be interested?"

He settles back in his chair, a bit stunned by my honesty. "I'm not looking for a relationship," he says matter-of-fact. "Just a friendship. If you don't want that, I can take some steps back."

Now I feel guilty for being such a prude. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm not used to... this."

"Friendship?"

"Exactly. I don't have friends."

"Why not?"

The waitress finds the perfect time to bring us our appetizers- salad and warm, soft bread. I'm thankful for the interruption because I can feel the conversation drifting to somewhere it didn't need to go.

Once we get eating, our conversation carries into the territory of how delicious the food is, what our favorite kind of food is, and other topics that remain completely safe. By the end of that our entrees are served, so talking altogether dies down.

Half way through the food, Everett places his silverware down next to his plate. Rubbing his stomach to show how stuffed he is from dinner, he says, "I hate that it's such a fancy restaurant, I feel like I can't ask for a doggy bag."

"Then ask for a takeout container." I can't help but to chuckle at myself. "It's a bit fancier, don't you think?"

The side of his mouth lifts up. "I’ll ask her...
Ma'am, do you happen to have the finest styrofoam container, preferably in matte black, to hold my leftover cuisine in?
Think it'll sound elegant enough?"

"Do it, I dare you."

"Fuck no," he almost shouts. He instantly looks around to make sure no one heard his outburst, which of course causes me to giggle. Oh, and people definitely turned to look over at him. One old couple simultaneously shake their head in discontent. "Oops," he mutters. "See what you made me do?"

I point to myself, feigning dismay. "Me? Well I'd never!" Using my best southern accent. "How dare you place blame on little 'ol me."

Everett stares with delight. "You're not from Florida," he states. I think that much has been apparent. I know I have twang to my accent- I'm from Alabama, and lived in different parts from there up until a few years ago.

"I know," Is my simple response. I don't mind saying what state I'm from, it's kind of obvious anyways, but I don't want to mention the town- or anything more about my past. I'm instantly uncomfortable even thinking about him poking around.

"It's cute. I like it. Alabama, Louisiana, or…?"

"Alabama."

Everything on his face soothes out as he notices my discomfort on the topic. With a bit of a force, he grins softly. "Ready to head back?"

"Yeah, I'm stuffed."

"Same."

When the waitress comes over with the bill, he asks simply, "Mind getting us a couple take out containers?"

"Certainly," she replies, looking over our leftovers before walking away.

Everett tries to make light of the sudden change in our atmosphere. "I should have went with your dare. She didn't seem too impressed."

"Because who takes home fish?" I pinch my nose in disgust. I make sure to smile after, pushing away all my weariness. He saw I was uncomfortable and didn't ask for anything more. I'm a little surprised, but I shouldn't be. He's proven to be considerate of me from the get go.

"You don't like fish?"

I shrug. "Never tried it before."

"You live on the beach. How have you never tried fish before?"

"It smells, and it's slimy, and it comes from nasty water. It has scales, and fins, and stuff. Just... Gross. No thanks."

He chuckles, clearly amused by my disgust of the idea. "Have you ever gone fishing?"

I think on it, because honestly I
think
I had gone with my dad when I was young, but I can't quite remember. I finally admit, "I don't know. Maybe."

He cocks his head to the side, probably confused by my answer but doesn't say as much. "I love fishing. Haven't been in years though. As soon as I found out I was moving to a beach location, I knew I had to try deep sea fishing. Wanna go with me sometime?"