It All Started with a Lie

Chapter 14

No woman gets an orgasm
from shining the kitchen floor.
~ Betty Friedan

Chapter 14
His POV
"I will raise you, seven purple jolly ranchers." Wick offers as he slides the pile towards me.

There is no need to examine the cards in my hands as I toss the candy back to him. "I have no need for purple jolly ranchers."

The guys laugh, tossing Wick around. As the newbie, the entirety of this game of Occisor—our made up card game with slightly immoral rules—was to ridicule him. Everyone at this table knows I only eat the red jolly ranchers, everyone but Wick, and for his bad judgment, he is forced to give up a card and take a bit of ice cream drenched in soy sauce.

Our game is nearing an end, my pile of red jolly ranchers and twenty cards signaling my triumph. I am undefeated in all the weeks we've played.

Wick gags as he takes a bite of our horrible concoction, the rest of us happily enjoy our untainted ice cream. The shop owner laughs as he watches us play, or should I say watches Wick try not to puke. He gets this amusement from us once a week and has even begun offering us suggestions on how to make our ice cream concoctions more unappetizing. The soy sauce was his idea.

As one of my frat brothers snags a few more candies and claims a few more cards, the game is drawn to an end and I am declared the winner, under rules that Wick still does not understand. He mopes, popping a green jolly rancher in his mouth. "This is no fair, you cheated!" He crosses his arms.

"Of course I did, that's the rules." I laugh and begin shuffling the cards for a second round. As I distribute the cards, a shadow falls over us, someone blocking the window light. The four of us look up in unison. Wick draws his eyes across the figure standing at the end of the table and straightens his posture, a sly curve overtaking his lips as he wets them. I only let him get a single word out before cutting him off. "Darling," I greeted her.

The words bring a blanch to Wick's skin as he quickly scoots away from her. Her jaw tightens and she crosses her arms. The motion causes her breast to push up and like dogs, three sets of eyes instantly follow the motion before they've realized what they've done. As if my 'brothers' are one, their eyes widen, faces flushing as they slowly drag their heads in the other direction of her, as if afraid that the mere voluptuous curves of her body might cause them to lose control, and they can't do that with me sitting in a booth across from them. "I need to talk to this idiot," she states, staring them down.

When they do not move, she slides into the spot beside me. "That means scram."

Thankful for the excuse to further avoid their temptations, something they have never been good at, they scramble away like chipmunks chased by a pitbull, grabbing for whatever cards and candy they can before their legs carry them away. Our table is left with four empty ice cream cups and seven assorted jolly ranchers. I take the two red ones and add it to my pile of winnings. I unwrap one and pop it in my mouth before glancing at her ice cream flavor of choice—low fat sherbet with no toppings. How boring. I raise a brow. "Sherbet?"

Her face instantly curls, her stoned expression unamused. I am not sure if it is from my statement, or just the sound of my voice. It seems she always gets that look around me, no matter what I say. "What is wrong with sherbet?" She triumphantly takes a bite, as if proving me wrong, savoring it.

"There are forty flavors and you pick the one that's not even ice cream."

I swear she has learned to contort all forty three muscles in her face and it only makes it easier for her to mock me. "It's healthy! Like yours is any better. Let me guess, you got like cookie dough or something?"