PREFACE
The 'it's just not going to work' line is pretty infamous.
You can fluff it up as much as you want but what it really comes down to is either A) I'm tired of fucking you or B) I found someone new to fuck. Blunt. But hey, I've been through this before. I'm entitled to a little cynicism.
So, it came as no surprise that tall, dark, and brooding decided playtime was over. I just didn't expect it first date, mid-orgasm.
"Oooh, yeah. Fuck-no, no, no!" Tyler withdraws like my pussy just went into a vaginismus fit and scrambles away from our entwined limbs.
"Um," I blink and control my panting. "What's the problem?"
"Sorry, Darcy," He fists through our tangled clothes and tosses a crumpled picture on the bed. "I can't do this."
The picture is grayscale with a white circle surrounding a human blip. A flash of gold slips around his left ring finger and my gut twists. Fantastic. I can cross home-wrecker off my bucket list.
"A father shouldn't be doing shit like this," He shimmies into his jeans and grabs that absurd chevron sweater. "It was just your breasts and dammit Nancy and I haven't—"
"Dude, don't make this worse," I wrinkle my nose and sink underneath the comforter, fishing for my shirt, underwear, anything.
"Maybe you could have worn something less revealing, and I wouldn't have even—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Are you serious?" I choke and say, "Are you seriously blaming your infidelity on my tits?"
"You didn't have to dress like such a slut—"
"And this is where we say GOODBYE, Tyler. Nice knowing you. Get the fuck out." My head tilts toward the door and it takes an act of God to keep my hands firmly knotted in the sheets.
He makes some other choice remarks, shoves Junior in his pocket, and stomps down the hallway. A few more snarky, muffled comments and … cue door slam.
And just like that, I'm left alone, sticky (ew), and nauseated – feelings usually saved for the morning walk of shame, but now come to torment me early. I find the aforementioned V-neck shirt and reprimand my breasts for being adulterous co-conspirators before tossing it in the laundry bin. I stand, stretch, and shuffle around the apartment searching for purpose.
I need a shower. Scalding hot. Loofa. Almond scrub. Now.
Ding-ding!
"Oh, who could it be?" I gasp, dramatically, and read the text.
DARCY. CALL NOW. – JANE
"Oh, shit," I fumble through Contacts, hit Send, and press the phone hard against my ear.
Jane answers on the first ring, full-blown ramble, "Darcy! Oh God, Darcy! You'll never believe it, the readings were so bizarre, and then that cosmic burst of energy and—oh, oh God, I'm being so rude, am I disturbing you?"
"Jane," I sigh and say, "It's three in the morning, we're past the point of disturbing."
"Sorry, sorry, but, Darcy. He's back. Thor. In my kitchen and—"
"And the first thing you think of is to call me? Your ovaries must be shriveled like prunes, Jane."
"He wants to take me to Asgard, Darcy," She breathed.
My breath catches awkwardly in my throat, "For how long? And wasn't that rainbow bridge thing broken?"
A masculine voice interjects in the background about the fully functioning Bifrost and all of Asgard's finest working toward blah-blah-blah. Jane's voice rustles my attention.
"A few weeks, I look at it as a much needed vacation … will you come with us?"
"Right now?" I sputter and play a quick game of don't-drop-the-iPhone.
"Oh, no, of course not right now – wow, how ridiculous of me, I shouldn't have called so late. Will you think about it and call me back in the morning?"
This mystical land, now offered as something more than a myth, was more than a prime vacation spot – it would trump everything, forever. I hear Thor ramble about Asgardian tradition and his assumptions of what Midgardian women find attractive—flowers, clothes, food, games, yawn, yawn, yawn. But every so often he throws in a few words that spark my interest.
Your arrival would be celebrated with barrels upon barrels of mead and wine. (Sweet Jesus, yes.)
Our libraries are extensive and contain knowledge from all nine realms. (Drool.)
You will be my honored guests, free to do as you wish. (Royal guests? Niiice.)
"That all sounds … perfect," I smile and excitement rushes across my face, flutters in my chest, and tumbles within me. "Yes, I'll go with you guys. But no awkward third-wheel stuff, okay?"
Jane squeals like a pre-pubescent girl, sputters through the itinerary, and asks me five times if I'll remember everything before she allows me to disconnect. But the mind is funny how it drifts from anticipation to rational detachment. Or in my case sarcasm.
"At least no one will label me a clandestine, adulterous slut in Asgard," I muse aloud and fantasize about a steamy, long, skin-scrapping shower.