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Does he have to tell her everything?

Is that…couple shit?

Is that what I really want?

A confidant?

Someone I can lay in bed with and tell the fucked-up things to or new things to or just…to…talk to?

That thing I don’t really do much of anyway.

Unless it’s with Emaline.

She makes me wanna talk.

And keep talking.

And listen to her talk.

And never let her stop talking.

Unless she’s screaming.

Which is kin to talking in my manual.

Lady dramatically clears her throat to indicate she’s waiting for information, leaving me no choice but to clumsily mutter, “Was banging.”

“Grammar correction.” Mirth injects itself into her high cheeks. “Cute.” My glaring doesn’t deter her from impishly adding, “Is that…a glimpse into what you two call foreplay?”

“We fucked. We don’t fuck anymore. End of story.”

“Shitty story,” Lady offhandedly shrugs in tandem with us taking another step down. “Could use some more depth, secondary characters, a bit of drama, and um…what’s that thing called? Um…a point?”

Another scowl is shot in her direction.

“Is it a business class you’re taking? Something you need for the store or to manage the staff better?”

“No.”

“Something to help increase or improve sales?

“No.”

“Something the club needs that you can’t discuss?”

“No.”

“Something to help with bike shit? Because we both know the old-timers will be pissed you hit some random civy instead of one of them.”

“No. It’s a creative writing course.”

She abruptly stops two steps away from the water to deliver another sardonic glare.

“I’m serious.”

In spite of the fact her mouth is moving, she’s stunned silent.

This may be a first.