Page 15 of Untying the Knot
“Fine.” I slip the menu back into its spot and then lean my arms on the table, trying to look anywhere but at her breasts . . . or her lips.
“Why aren’t you dressed up?” she asks, her eyes scanning me so intensely that I nearly feel naked.
“Not really someone who dresses up.”
“Ah, I see. You’re too cool for it.”
“No, I just don’t see the point in dressing up.”
“The point is to draw attention,” she says. “For instance, do you really think I would be earning myself a free meal tonight if my friend and I weren’t showing off an ungodly amount of cleavage? Probably not. We would have been looked over for some other sexy nurse costume. But, because we are trying to suckle at the teat of our early twenties and use the lack of gravitational pull on our breasts, we decided to dress up. Look where it’s gotten us. Nichole will get another great orgasm from your brother, and I get to sit here with you—albeit less than ideal company—and get a free meal out of it.”
Who the hell is this girl? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who truly lived their life by the motto, “I give zero fucks.”
“Hey, sorry about the wait,” our server says as she stands next to our table. She glances at Myla and says, “Oh damn, girl, your boobs look amazing.”
Myla grips them and then does this side-by-side shuffle with them that has my eyes nearly bugging out. “Thank you,” she says. “Can you believe I got this bra at Target?”
“No way.”
“Yup.” She tucks her loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Best purchase I’ve made in a while. And I’m already getting my money’s worth with a free meal from this guy.” She thumbs toward me.
“She’s not getting a free meal because of the bra,” I defend, not wanting to come off as a creep.
“Keep telling yourself that.” The server winks, then asks, “What can I get you two?”
“We’re going to get the nachos. I was going to get broccoli, but since I’m not paying, I don’t want to press my luck, you know? And water is good for me. I’m sure my grumpy friend across the table will need another beer to get him through the night. And from the looks of it, your IPA is on tap. Am I right?”
“Yes,” I answer, hating that she can peg me so well.
“Great. I’ll be back with drinks and food.”
When the server is out of earshot, I say, “It wasn’t the boobs.”
“Yes, I know, but you’re not complaining about them, are you?”
Not really. Not sure any red-blooded, straight male would complain about them.
She takes a napkin and blots at them. Not sure why, but I shamelessly watch her.
Has it really been that long since I’ve been with someone? Yeah . . . it has been. Spring training ate up most of my time, and when I wasn’t called up to the Majors this season, I’ve been working even harder in the weight room and batting cages so that when I do get a chance, I’m ready.
I couldn’t even tell you the last pair of tits I saw.
The server plops our drinks on the table and takes off again without a word. Myla reaches into her shirt to the right and pulls out her phone. Jesus, that was there the whole time? I was too distracted by the cleavage that I didn’t even notice.
She holds her phone in front of her drink, and I watch her take a picture.
“Is that for your Instagram?”
“Of course,” she says as she taps away on her phone. “Got to keep my followers satisfied with content.”
“But it’s water,” I say.
“So?” she asks. “I don’t complain about your incessant need to show videos of you batting. We get it. You can hit a ball.”
“You realize hitting a baseball is one of the hardest things to do in sports?”
“Shall I throw you a parade?” she asks right before she glances up and smirks. “Ooo, I can feel the steam of your anger from all the way over here. Chill, dude. I’m just joking. But seriously, don’t hate on my pictures. I have an avid following . . . including you. Which, by the way, I meant to ask, why did you follow me?”
