MY PEN IS HUGE Read online

  “Mmmm…lovely,” I say.

  “Not too late to turn around, Gisselle,” Merrick whispers in my ear from behind.

  I ignore how his breath is hot and smells floral, like bergamot. Of course, even his breath smells handsome and charming. I bet he poops cans of Meadow Fresh Glade. It kills me how perfect he is, so I’m not about to let him claim victory over the entire female race by running with my tail between my legs.

  Despite getting tons of unwelcoming stares from everyone in the place, I lift my chin and march straight to the bar. The bartender is kind of cute—scruffy, cowboy hat, short-sleeve western shirt, and a crap load of tattoos.

  I belly up next to some guy who’s taking a nap facedown on the counter. “Hi. Can I get a beer, please?”

  The bartender checks me out—mostly my boobs, which really aren’t much to look at. Perky. Smallish. They fit my average frame, but they usually don’t get any attention. Not even from Ryan when we were together. He was more of a…of a…I’m actually not sure which body parts he was into, come to think of it. Ryan held my hand a lot. Sex was pretty robotic. In, out, in, out. Argh… The “argh” was Ryan, in case you’re wondering. I ended up having to take care of my own needs most times.

  “Beer. Sure, darlin’,” says the bartender. “What kind?”

  “Ummm…got anything dark, like an Irish stout? Or maybe a good Belgian white?” I started trying all those frou-frou beers in weird-looking bottles at Oh-Ganic! and actually liked them, though they’re way outside my normal budget. Occasional treat only.

  Barman frowns and points to the handles on the taps. “Glass or bottle, that’s pretty much what we got, sweetheart.”

  Such a selection. Bud. Bud Light. Miller. Miller Lite. Coors. And one that just says “BEER” in bold black letters.

  I’m on a budget, so, “I shall have a bottle of your finest BEER beer.” It can’t taste as bad as it looks, can it? Speaking of being optimistic, I’m pleasantly surprised that no one’s spit on us yet.

  “And for your girlfriend there?” Barman looks over my shoulder at Merrick.

  Oh, Jesus. I don’t bother turning around, because I can’t imagine it’s going to make me feel any better seeing Merrick’s reaction. On the bright side, Merrick is no wimp.

  Yeah, but we’re on Mr. Barman’s turf. I need to step in, use a lady’s touch.

  “Now, is that really called for, uh…?” I prompt the bartender for a name.

  “Jed,” he says.

  I push my glasses up my nose with a shaky finger. “Jed. N-nice Texas name. Well, J-Jed, my friend and I came in here because we wanted a private chat. You know how that is. And this looks like a place people come when they want to avoid prying eyes.” I swat my hand in front of my face, trying to breathe. The cigarette smoke is thicker suddenly. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a few men standing to our sides. They’re huffing and puffing and clearly don’t want us here.

  “You know what?” I say sweetly. “That’s okay. Forget the beer. We’ll just be on our way.”

  “No. We won’t,” growls Merrick. “Now get the lady her drink, mate. I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s, neat.”

  The bartender looks at Merrick. “You sure you don’t want a pussy drink? Like one of them Shirley Temples?”

  Oh shit. This is happening. This is happening. Why did we come in here? A bead of cold sweat channels down my spine, following the gap under my waistband, and landing right in my crack. I really want to scratch it, but I can’t move. Shit’s about to go down.

  Merrick holds his position at my flank. “Shirley Temple.” He chuckles and gives his stubbly chin a menacing rub.

  No! Not the beard scratch! It’s a sort of sign language used exclusively by men. It can mean anything from “Hmmm…interesting” to “Bring it, asshole,” and my boss just said the latter.

  Merrick cocks his head. “I know that’s your mum’s favorite cocktail, Jediffer, but as you can see, I’m giving the old gal a rest tonight. Besides, I’m sure you don’t have any of those little cherries back there, unless we’re counting yours?”

  “Great. We’re going to die,” I mutter to no one in particular.

  The bartender looks at Merrick with an “I’m gonna fuck you up, pretty boy” glare, and I’m pretty sure he’s going for a weapon under the counter. “We both know you ain’t been fucking my mamma. She don’t like screwing no little bitches.”

  “Please, let’s just go.” I tug on Merrick’s sweater sleeve, but my plea goes one hundred percent ignored.

  “The video I took of her last night says otherwise, mate,” Merrick throws back. “Women, men, little bitches, donkeys. She’s an insatiable cunt.”

  “Wow! You did not just go there!” I bark, but Merrick and “Jediffer” are laser focused on each other.

  “I think you’re gettin’ her confused with your sister,” Jed lobs back.

  “I don’t have a sister, but if I did, no one would be getting her confused with the woman outside on the street corner.”

  The room is silent except for my pounding heart and a few chairs squeaking across the floor—people getting up to help beat the crap out of us. I’m pretty sure everyone’s got beer bottles with our names on them.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What happened to rubbing elbows and making friends with the natives? I’d make a run for it, but we’re surrounded. This ship is goin’ down. It’s sad because, while I never expected to live forever, I really hoped to make something of myself before my token ran out.

  “You callin’ my mamma a whore?” Jed snarls.

  Errr…Merrick just called her a cunt. Isn’t that a tad worse?

  “Whore is a bit generous, wouldn’t you say?” Merrick says. “Implies she limits herself to people with money, and we both know she’s not especially particular.”

  Jed glares at Merrick and slowly scratches his unshaved jaw.

  No. No. No… That meant “I’m going to let my pet pig have his way with you before I shove a rusty hammer through your skull.”

  I hold my breath and clench my vaginal-floor muscles so the pee stays in. There’s an empty beer bottle next to the passed-out man to my side. A weapon! I have to go for it. I have to give us a chance to escape. I reach—

  “Yeah. She really was a skank.” Jed whips out a tumbler and pours two fingers of JD. “Where the hell you been, Leland?”

  Huh? I look at Merrick, then at Jed, and back at Merrick. “What the hell?”

  “Y’all, this is my good buddy Leland,” Jed shouts out. “Watch your tongues. He likes publishing people’s dirty laundry in those fancy magazines.”

  These two clowns know each other? Fuming, I turn to Merrick and look up at him. “That wasn’t funny.”

  He winks. “You sure about that, love?”

  “Yeah. I’m fofuckingsure.”

  “But that look on your lovely little face was fairly entertaining.”

  “What do you expect? I mean, damn. The things you said about his poor mother.”

  Jed slams a frosty bottle of BEER on the counter. “Now there’s a first, someone feeling sorry for my mamma.”

  Merrick chimes in, “Jed’s mother ran off with a neighbor.”

  “Really?” I say, grabbing my frosty generic beverage. “That’s awful.”

  “Not as awful as the fact she left Jed’s dad and three small boys to fend for themselves.”

  I glance at Jed, who doesn’t seem to care one bit that a stranger is hearing this stuff about his family. “So how do you two know each other?”

  Jed grabs a rag and sweeps away the drool puddling on the counter around the guy who’s sleeping beside me. “Leland showed up one day at our trailer, asking if we had any information about the rancher down the road—the one my mamma ran off with. Said he was doing a story about how that fucker was drillin’ under our land and cheatin’ his neighbors while the oil company he sold to looked the other way.”

  “So your mother ran off with the man who stole the oil rights from under you?” I ask.
r />   “Yep. While we were livin’ off food stamps and trying to stay in school, she and that asshole were enjoying the good life. With our oil. They would’ve gotten away with it if Leland hadn’t come sniffing ’round.”

  I look at Merrick. “How come I don’t remember reading about this?”

  He gives me a knowing smirk, as if to say, You’re a fan…you’re a fan. You stalk me. I can practically hear him singing in my head.

  “’Cause the oil company offered all us families a settlement, but we couldn’t go public,” Jed replies for Merrick.

  “So,” I ask, “you dug up the story and then didn’t get credit so the families would be compensated?”

  Merrick shrugs and throws back his whisky.

  “He’s a good guy, unless you’re up to no good. Then he’s a pit bull.” Jed chuckles and moves down the bar to refill some drinks.

  “Well, well, well, someone’s quite the local hero.” I take a sip of my beer and wince. “Yikes. That tastes like a beer got sick after licking another beer’s sweaty balls.” Funny though, I’m not even giving a damn that I just drank something that resembles effervescent, fermented roadkill. I’m too caught up, basking in the warm glow of this complex man.

  “How very descriptive. Let me order you something less repulsive.” Merrick flags down Jed for two more whiskies.

  I don’t like hard liquor, but I’m in an extremely adventurous mood, so I accept.

  “Cheers.” Merrick holds up his glass, and we clank.

  “Cheers.” I take a sip. “Gah! So strong.”

  “Not a pussy drink, that’s for certain. But if your womanly senses can’t handle it…” He reaches for my glass, and I turn my shoulder to shield my very serious beverage.

  “I’m going to drink it. And why is everything with you about sex?”

  Merrick quirks a dark, silky brow.

  “I meant gender,” I huff.

  “It’s not.”

  “Then why do you keep bringing it up?” I ask.

  “Have you ever been to a war zone, love? How about stuck in a hotel during a military coup when the soldiers are going room to room, shooting, raping, or taking people for ransom? You think the women aren’t trying to run for their lives?” He polishes off his second drink. “Some places aren’t safe for female journalists.”

  “They’re not safe for anyone,” I argue. “And I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t run off to some inferno of violence and assume I’d be okay.” I sip my gasoline, noting hints of cinnamon and caramel somewhere inside the fireball sliding down my chest. “I’d take precautions, travel in groups—adhere to the wolf-pack rule versus being a lone wolf. But I would get the story, and I don’t see a difference between being in the Himalayas with a guide and hiking gear, or in the Middle East with some muscle. They’re all tools to accomplish the task, and that’s what matters.”

  He nods with a cocky smirk. “But you couldn’t get the job done without a man, so you prove my point.”

  “Pfft! You’re impossible.”

  Someone must’ve popped a quarter in the jukebox, because a grinding country song with lots of guitar starts playing. A group in the corner are laughing and clanking mugs. That’s when I look around the room and notice how everyone here is just chilling, talking, and smiling. No one’s whipping out hunting blades and slicing off ears over a lost game of pool—saw that in a movie once. The decorum leaves a lot to be desired, but it’s not as scary as I thought.

  “Impossible is my middle name.” Merrick sets his empty tumbler on the counter. “Be back in a blink. Jed mentioned having an interesting run-in with a nice man about a mall.”

  “Sure.” I take a seat at the bar next to the sleeping guy and enjoy another sip of my Jack Daniel’s. Funny how it’s growing on me. Or maybe my taste buds are asleep now. What’s wide awake, however, is my awareness of Merrick. I can’t help watching him—the way he moves, the sureness in his steps, the deep voice, and sexy accent. He’s polished on the outside, but it’s just a costume. On the inside, he strikes me as the proud, fearless type who offers no apologies for who he is.

  Yeah, a Texas accent would totally fit him. So would a revolver slung low on his hip, a chewed-up cigar hanging from his lips, and a shiny silver badge. Sheriff Merrick from the Wild West.

  “Hey, darlin’, you wanna dance?” asks a voice over my shoulder.

  I turn my head to find a mean-looking dude with a shaved head, wearing a wifebeater. He’s got on muddy shit kickers and smells like a whimsical potpourri of old sweat, BEER, and cigarettes.

  “Um, no, thanks. I’m good.”

  “Now, come on, darlin’. Just one dance.” He sucks in a nasal snort and hocks one on the floor.

  I hold back a gag, but my expression is full-on Ew! Who raised you?

  I remove my glasses for this one so he can see the sincerity in my eyes. “I only dance with men who are interested in a serious commitment. My seven kids at home aren’t going to feed themselves.”

  He gives me a look that tells me he’s now doing the Ew! in his head.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I fake a phone call coming in and grab my cell. “That must be Bobby Joe Junior. He just got out of juvey.” I pretend answer. “Baby, did you put out that fire yet?” Pause. “Now, BJJ, how many times have I told you to stop shooting that gun at the neighbors?”

  The man walks away, and I throw back my whisky with a satisfied grin.

  Clap! Clap! Clap! “That was creative, love.” Merrick is standing there, applauding.

  “Thank you.” I dip my head. “See, I am getting the hang of this. And you’ll notice, I didn’t have to insult anyone’s whoring cunt mother.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Har. So what did Jed have for you?”

  “Looks like some local developer has his eye on this neighborhood for a mall, condos, and ten or twelve Starbucks.”

  So few? “Is Jed going to sell?”

  “That’s part of the problem. The developer doesn’t want to pay a fair price, so he’s been making sure crimes are up, and is targeting patrons.”

  “That’s awful. Are you going to help?” I ask.

  “It’s a bit below my pay grade, but I told him I’d make some calls.”

  “Your ‘pay grade’?” I don’t know what he means.

  “I’m working on a bigger story.”

  “You mean Augusto’s family thing?”

  “Care to dance, love?” Merrick holds out a big strong hand.

  No comment, huh? “Nice diversion tactic.”

  “I don’t know whether I detest or adore the fact I can’t get anything past you, Miss Walters.”

  Now I’m Miss Walters again. He’s really trying to distract me. “You’re not going to tell me about this other big story, are you?”

  He holds out his hand, silently urging me to take the offer right in front of me. It’s all I’m getting, so take it or leave it. But I don’t want to dance or feel his tall, hot body close to mine. Or smell more of his amazing breath. Or stare into those seductive, intense eyes that tell me he’s the sort of man who, if you really want to know his story, requires a strong woman willing to scratch her way in and dig deep. An exotic story of dangerous days and cold lonely nights.

  An image of him naked, emerging from underneath a waterfall in some remote, faraway land, flashes in my mind. The tan sinewy muscles of his arms flex as he pushes back his wet hair. Water cascades down his washboard abs, flowing around his thick, low-hanging cock before sliding down his strong thighs.

  I’d have to be crazy to want any of that, I think sarcastically. But I’d have to be certifiable to tease myself with the idea of him wanting to give it. That hotel hug-slash-accidental-kiss episode said it all: he’s not interested.

  Then again, I never really was one to take no for an answer.

  “I’d love to dance.” I put my glasses back on, hop off the barstool, and take his hand. I immediately notice how it’s warm and rough, not the soft, del
icate skin of a pampered man.

  Hand in hand, my arm tingling and my heart pumping like a worked-up racehorse, he walks me over to a spot by the jukebox where the tables are cleared away. I face him, and he stares down with those dazzling brown eyes. The dry lump in my throat and the heat in my chest are immediate.

  I’m an analyzer. Camila would say I’m just anal. Either way, it’s hard for me not to try to understand why I’m warming up to Merrick so quickly. Yes, he’s mind-cripplingly attractive, but he stands for everything I loathe in a man. Pompous, chauvinistic, and stubborn.

  On the other hand, I admire how he doesn’t shy away from ugly situations. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty for the right reasons.

  Merrick slides a strong hand to the small of my back, careful not to press too hard. Maybe he doesn’t want to send the wrong signal? But if that were true, why would he ask me to dance?

  Suddenly, a song I know all too well starts playing, Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You.” I can’t help it, my face flushes. And dammit, Merrick does a double take.

  “Are you blushing?”

  I crinkle my nose, because I got nothin’. No snappy little excuse or explanation.

  He grins and leans down, swaying our bodies side to side. “It’s because you’re dancing to a very romantic song with your handsome British boss, isn’t it?” he whispers in my ear.

  His comment turns an awkward moment into a painfully awkward moment, especially because I’m sure my nipples just perked up when his chest brushed against mine.

  I clear my throat. “I, uh…I’m just thinking this feels a little like dancing to a slow song with my big brother at a wedding.” A lie. “Sorta uncomfortable.” Not a lie.

  Merrick doesn’t flinch. “You have a brother, do you? How come you never mentioned him?”

  I shrug, grateful that Merrick isn’t checking out my red face or noticing the two lightning rods shooting from my tits. I completely have a nipple boner right now.