Brawler by K.S. Adkins Page B

When she looked up at me, her eyes were clouded with lust, confusion, and a heavy dose of insecurity.
    “Did I do something wrong?”
    “No.”
    “Then why did you —”
    “How many men have you been with Macy?”
    “You want to talk about this now ?”
    “How many?” I grit through my teeth.
    “I’d have to think about that.”
    “Are you fucking kidding me?”
    “No, why would I? I don’t just sit around with past flings in my head, do you?”
    “Four.”
    “Four?”
    “Yes, four! That’s how many chicks I’ve had, Macy. Four. Each was forgettable, but even I know how many. Any adult knows how many fucking people she’s fucked, so how is Little Miss I Love Knowledge not aware of how many partners she’s had? You ain’t the type to not know this shit.”
    “Why are you acting like this right now?”
    “Because I want a fucking answer!”
    She flinches and backs away, and I feel like the biggest dick on earth. What the fuck is wrong with me? Yes, I know four is pathetic number, okay? Chicks aren’t that into me, never have been. She stares at the floor, then drops her shoulders to go sit on the couch. I can see she’s in deep thought about this, and it’s driving me bat shit. She has to think on it? Seriously? She’s hot, I admit it, but how does she not know? Hot chicks—hell especially the ugly ones—know this shit, I know they do. They sit around painting their toes talking about it. Fuck! Deciding to let her think I head into the kitchen and grab a beer. I’m not prone to drinking very often, but this is an emergency. The beer does nothing to calm my nerves, but looking at her does. She’s curled up on my couch with her knees to her chest with her eyes closed counting, on her fingers. I’m disturbed to see she’s counting on her other hand now. Jesus Christ!
    I should have never fucking asked.
    She opens her eyes and looks very sad. Again, guilt weighs me down. I know that I’m no more Rogan than she is Venessa, but dammit, I wanted to have firsts with her, too. She’s looking directly at me wondering if she should say anything. Judging by her hand counting I decide I don’t really want to know. Another thing about her, she thinks before she speaks. So when she started talking I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or punch a hole in the fucking wall.
    “I’ve had nine partners if you don’t count Daniel Douglas. He had a really difficult time figuring out which hole to use. So I don’t think his oopsie counts, and we never actually finished because I deviated his septum and he went to the ER. So nine is my answer, and I’d like to strike Daniel from the record.”
    “So I’d be lucky nine then?”
    “Is this a contest you’re trying to win?” No, just you’re fucking heart I think to myself.
    “No contest. I guess I just didn’t think someone like you would have nine partners, not counting ‘back door Daniel,’ of course.”
    “Someone like me? Oh, right … I get it.”
    “Not what I meant.”
    “It’s what you said.”
    Then it hit me exactly what I said. Motherfucker! Couldn’t this be one of those times she got what I was trying to say?
    “I meant you seem to set your bar pretty high in life, so I’m just surprised to hear such a high number. You’ve never married, so they must not have been worth keeping around, or they moved onto greener pastures. You were with Briggs a while, so outside of a jail sentence, I’m guessing you two’d still be together.”
    “Moved on to — Briggs — You know what? Just stop talking, please.”
    “Now you sound like every other woman I’ve ever met.” She flinches, which pisses me off even more because I want her to stand up to me.
    “No wonder you’re fucking single,” she says, walking away from me.
    She gives me the last parting jab, and me being me, I refuse to let it stand. I make matters worse by opening my fucking mouth, knowing full well I didn’t mean a word of it.
    “No wonder you’re fucking