"That's it, baby," he continues, his tone almost soothing, despite the filth spilling from his lips. "Take my cock. Take all of it."
Baby.
My belly flutters, my heart soaring like a fool even though I know it's a runaway utterance. A thoughtless spi...
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"Holy shiz-nit, Trix! Are you really telling me you..."
I'm not even sure I can say it out loud. I can't bring myself to say that she fucked him. For crying out loud, I can't even picture both of them together! It just seems way too strange.
Jordan is Drake's long-time best friend, for goodness sake, and is pretty much an older brother to Trixie by default.
I guess she doesn't see it that way, at least not anymore, and from what she's telling me, apparently neither does he.
Trixie assures me that it was strictly a one-time thing. She'd been pissed all week, and since she couldn't find Gina and "throw her through the window of a six-story building", she decided to work out her anger and frustration in Jordan's bed instead.
She insists that it didn't mean anything and that neither of them have any intention of ever letting Drake—or anyone else, for that matter—find out about their little sexcapade.
"I can keep a secret," I say with a cheeky smile on my face even though she can't see it.
"You'd better," she chuckles.
Knowing Trixie, she honestly can't care less if the whole world knows who's dick she's been sitting on, but Jordan is her brother's best friend, and has been since he and Drake were fourteen from what she'd told me. She doesn't want what she insists is a one-time only affair—and probably a short-sighted mistake—to come between their friendship.
I can't argue with her there. If there's one thing I've learned in the last couple of years, it's that genuine friendships are indeed hard to come by, and you'd be a fool not to cherish one if you're lucky enough to have it.
"How'd your visit to the hospital go? What'd they say?" she asks, switching the subject and drawing the attention from her to me.
I really don't want to think about hospitals and my health right now, but I know she's asking because she cares, so I oblige her.
"It was the surgical center I went to," I correct. "They said I'd need an endoscopy before they can figure out what's wrong."
"If anything's wrong," she points.
I can't help but smile in gratitude. She may be a handful with a potty mouth and an often exuberant personality, but she's a good friend and typically knows just what to say to make me feel less crappy.
I vaguely tell her about the visit, noting that I don't have that much to tell.
Or, more accurately, I don't have that much I want to tell. I really don't want to get into my financial issues with her. I know she always means well, but loading her with my problems when I know she can't really help is not my cup of tea.
