One week stand a fun and.., p.1
One Week Stand: A Fun and Flirty Romantic Comedy, page 1
One
Week
Stand
M. Mabie
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
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Also by M. Mabie
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
Epilogue
Also by M. Mabie
About M. Mabie
Copyright
One Night Stand © M. Mabie 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1701597501
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of the material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/ publisher. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, alive or dead, is coincidental and not indented by the author.
LICENSE NOTICE. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
DISCLAIMER. This is a work of adult fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
The author does not endorse or condone any behavior enclosed within. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel contains adult situations.
Cover Design Copyright © 2019 by M. Mabie, Editing by Felicia Wetzig.
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Also by M. Mabie
THE WAKE SERIES
Bait
Sail
Anchor
THE KNOT DUET
Twisted Desire
Tethered Love
STANDALONE ROMANTIC COMEDIES
Fade In
All the Way
CITY LIMITS SERIES of STANDALONE ROMANTIC COMEDIES
Roots and Wings
Sunshine and Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
THE BREAKING TRILOGY
Break My Fall
Break Me Down
Break the Faith
1
No Strange Dick
Peyton
I’ve never run this hard, for this long, in all my life. My eyes scan the long corridor for a screen or monitor, not that I’ll ever be able to find my flight on it as I sprint by, dragging my flopped over carry-on. Gallons of sweat stream down the inside of my shirt, and I’m panting like I’m an old perverted guy camped out in front of the cheerleaders during a high school football game.
But I can’t give up.
Outside the windows to my right and left, it’s snowing like a motherfucker. Surely, the flight is delayed, but I can’t take the chance and slow down to check because the plane should have already been boarding when I arrived. You heard that right: when I arrived. And that was well over forty-five minutes ago.
Security, I know you’re needed, but why me? Why today? Something swabbed funny in my carry on and so I got to spend quality time with the oldest FTA agent in the lower forty-eight. Not only was she old, but talkative, thorough, and unbothered that I was in a hurry.
I’m. So. Fucking. Late. But I’m paying for it because my tits are flinging and flopping all over the place as I hustle. It does not feel good and this alleged sports bra is a joke to all athletic wear.
I round the corner at Terminal C and count the gates down backward from—I glance up again—twenty-two. Twenty-fucking-two!?
I’m still twenty gates away.
Fuck my fucking life! This shit only happens to me.
Actually, this shit never happens to me because I never go anywhere.
Spring break was supposed to be my one and only last hoorah before graduate school, and the non-refundable, highly discounted, last minute trip to Cancun was going to be my only chance to spend time with my friends from home.
I should have gone to the University of Nebraska like everyone else I knew, but no. I chose Minnesota. It’s not even like Minneapolis was the only place in the world with an art school and programs for film and sound. Los Angeles would have been an insanely warmer choice, and that’s all I really want. To thaw for a few days. Warmer would be enough.
I’m not optimistic as I slow my pace at gate two, the one I was supposed to be at almost a full hour earlier. It’s basically empty, but I don’t stop when I get to the seats. I lumber straight to the massive window and stare out at the snowy tarmac.
No plane.
“Real fucking cute, Peyton,” I chastise myself and press my forehead against the smudgy glass. “No sandy beach, beech. No friends. No fruity cocktails. No strange dick.” All hope is lost.
“Well, I don’t know what you mean by strange, but...” a familiar mocking, masculine voice hits me in the back of the head like a spit wad from the back of the class in junior high while I stand here and try to catch my wheezing breath.
This isn’t happening. Not him. Not now. I groan.
Why, God? Why don’t you like me? Is it because I masturbated to Passion of the Christ last week? It was the only thing on, I swear. I was bored. It was Easter. I was alone, and Jim Caviezel is hot. That’s your fault. You know I haven’t had sex in three years.
It won’t matter how much I bitch and whine at the Lord and Savior on this blustery April morning in Terminal C because I’ve missed my damn flight. And, the only way it can possibly be any worse, is if Julien Carson, my arch nemesis and the bane of my college existence, is really here.
And according to the voice I’ve heard ribbing me nearly every day for the past four years—he is.
Crumbling to the floor, cross legged, I don’t bother turning around. I’ll just spend my spring break at the airport. I have a little money to spend. I could sleep in one of those massage chairs. There is alcohol to be found, after all.
It beats going back to my duplex and riding out the week alone.
I knew what the risks were when I made the hasty last-minute vacation plans. No refunds. No alterations to the itinerary. No exceptions.
Still, it isn’t in me to give up easily, so I pull out my phone and call the customer service number on my confirmation email. Ten minutes later, I’m only more pissed at myself. If I want a one-way ticket to Cancun, it’ll be another eight hundred dollars, and that’ll only get me on standby in this weather. Paulette in customer service says they’re expecting most flights will be canceled or at very best delayed until Hell stops freezing over.
Just perfect. Thanks a pant load, Paulette.
I’ve lost a lot of money, which I don’t have lying around just to throw away, and I’m so disappointed I might just die here on the ratty carpet in Gate Two. Additionally, I don’t even have a car for the next week because I loaned mine to Jacquie, my roommate, so she could go home to spend time with her sick dad.
I’ve really screwed the pooch this morning, and, to add insult to injury, that proverbial canine is probably the last screw I’ll ever have. I’m taking it pretty hard.
Finally, since he’s still behind me—I can hear him humming just like he does in class—I flop around on the Berber covered floor to face him. I didn’t even know he was going on a trip for spring break.
Then again, I didn’t ask—I don’t really care.
“It’s pretty shitty that you missed your flight.” He states the obvious. I’m sure next he’ll inform me it’s snowing in the Twin Cities.
“No shit, Sherlock. You were going to Mexico too?” I shouldn’t think it’s that strange. We are college seniors, and frivolous spring trips toward the Equator aren’t anything new for our demographic. Plus, I’m sure somehow we were both targeted with the ads online. They are everywhere.
“I was.” He’s sitting there in board shorts, Vans, and a hoodie. I bet under our alma matter’s sweatshirt he’s got on one of those stupid-ass tees he wears. The dickhead has an addiction to puns and ugly attire. He adds, “I don’t know why I’m so surpr
I hate that he’s not wrong, but I’m better than I used to be. Still, I’m almost always late. Our professors gave up trying to punish me for it a long time ago. They know I might be five or ten minutes tardy, but I’ll be the last to leave at night, and I more than make it up.
“You’re still fucking here too, smartass? You have a lot of room to talk. Doesn’t look like you’re on a plane to Cancun. Unless you’re early for a different flight and just waiting for the—” I stretch to get a glimpse of the monitor across the walkway. “—six-fifteen to Butte.”
His dark brown eyes roll skyward, and I notice he’s trimmed his beard a lot closer to his face and has a new haircut. It’s short on the sides, but he’s left some of the top longer. It’s not one thick messy wad of dark brown fluff atop his head anymore.
Guess there will be two of us stranded on campus not getting laid on vacation. I even got a wax for this shit, but it’s doubtful anyone besides me will be enjoying my Brazilian genitals. What a hairless shame.
If I would have known he was on the same flight, I could have just ridden to the airport with him. However, he missed the flight too. So I guess I wouldn’t be any better off. He sucks either way because he knew I was going and didn’t offer a ride.
I guess that’s just like Julien. He’s a professional pain in the ass.
Smug as ever, he bites back. “Butte is lovely this time of year.”
I stand and bounce to adjust my overly full backpack and then yank my roller suitcase behind me.
I don’t need his smart mouth, and I hip-check his shoulder as I pass.
Marching out of the gate, I decide I might as well get some breakfast before I find a cab to drive me home in this blizzard. My nose leads the way, and since I’ve had a year’s worth of cardio this morning, I want all the carbs I can shove in my face. After I pay for my Cinnabon and coffee, I take a seat at a small table in the corner of the miniature restaurant.
The airport isn’t that busy, but I watch the people who leisurely pass. They are definitely not late for a flight. Then, strolling down the path, rolling his luggage, Julien spots me and turns into the eatery where I’m binging on my feelings. Surely, it’s only the first time this week I’ll be doing it.
I don’t like him on good days, so I refuse to give him any attention and I don’t bother to watch what he’s doing. I’m not in the mood for his sarcasm and bullshit—especially while I sulk and scarf. Head down, I focus on my second cinnamon roll.
He doesn’t ask to but takes the seat across from me at my table. My table.
Petulantly, I turn to the side. It’s childish, but he is too so he should understand. He doesn’t say anything as he eats. Thank God. In fact, the only time I hear him is when he’s sucking the frosting off his fingers.
Thumb to pinky. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Like a moron, I glance up and watch him do it to the other hand.
I’ve always known he had a big mouth, but suddenly I also note how full and plump his stupid lips are. Maybe it’s because he’s trimmed the gnarly, thick-ass state trooper ‘stache he’s been wearing with his beard since Christmas. Maybe it’s because all the licking and sucking reminds me of what I’ll be missing this week.
Dick.
I sigh. This sucks.
He gathers our trash, but I don’t move. I’m not ready to face the blustery wind and wait on a cab. I might need more carbs to do it, and I consider ordering another breakfast.
“If you need a ride, my truck is in the parking garage.”
I’d rather walk back home and my lip curls, mostly from my shitty predicament but some for him.
Although I’d love to blame someone—Julien at the moment because he’s here—this is all my fault.
“But if you’d rather pay for a ride, when we live less than a block from each other, that’s up to you.” His duplex is across the lot and three down from ours. Paying for a ride because I’m stubborn is just another way to sabotage myself this morning, and I’m almost tapped out.
“Fine.”
I am an idiot, and this is probably part of my punishment. I don’t want his help, and I don’t need his help, but it’s the quickest way to get to my warm bed where I can wallow in my self-inflicted misery.
He grabs my suitcase with his free hand which I wasn’t expecting him to do. I can roll my own damn bag, but there’s no time to snatch it back since he’s heading down the walkway.
I follow, but don’t feel like catching all the way up to him.
“Thank you, Julien. You’re so sweet, offering to drive me home in this weather. What would I do without you?” He’s talking to himself, pretending he’s me with a high-pitched and oddly southern accent, which I don’t have. “You’re so thoughtful and handsome,” he tacks onto the end.
Thoughtful? It isn’t like he’s going out of his way. He’s heading to the same place I am.
Handsome? Is Julien Carson handsome? No.
At least, I don’t think so even if a few people online would disagree. Those yahoos would probably buy his dirty underwear because that’s the kind of thing our generation does, I guess.
But like I said, not me. He’s not my type.
I mean, his face isn’t too bad when he’s not creating experimental facial-hair styles. He has nice eyes—except they’re the kind that always seemed to be in on a joke you’re not privy to. Annoyingly, his skin doesn’t look like it has ever experienced a blemish. It wouldn’t be too hard to believe he has a nice body under his clothes, but we live in Minneapolis. People usually stay pretty bundled up here.
Exposure isn’t a cute way to die.
Hell, I don’t think my legs, belly, or arms have seen the sun since I moved here for college, but I’m alive dammit. Pale. Transparent. Visibly veiny. But still kicking.
As we march toward the parking garage, I shamelessly stare at his butt. It’s right there and not all bad either. I focus on just that as I walk while he continues to shower himself with compliments.
I refuse to laugh or play along though. I won’t let my out-of-office under-fucked libido trick me into thinking he’s cute. Or funny. Or charming.
Because he’s not. It’s just another way the Universe is taunting me.
2
Seduction Fiesta
Julien
It’s not exactly how I planned to spend six days and five nights. I should be mid-air on the way to paradise. Instead, I’m tossing suitcases into the backseat of my extended cab GMC, heading back home.
The upside—if there is one—is that Peyton is getting in the passenger side. Because this week, I would finally make my move. Finally tell her I think she’s dope and fun and hot and invite her to use my body in whatever depraved way she’d like.
So if time with her was what I wanted, I’ll have plenty of opportunity now. No friends distracting her. No excursions to keep her busy. No half-naked fuckboys buying her drinks to get in her panties.
For the next week, it’s basically just us.
Missing the flight might be the best-case scenario after all because I want in those panties. I have for almost four years. Four long years of choking when I should have asked her out. Four long years of making a joke when all I wanted to do was take her on a date, spoil her. She works harder than anyone else in our classes, and trying to keep up with her through each semester—so I could merely remain in the program—got me closer to her, but I literally have no balls.
Okay. Literally, I have balls. Blue ones.
Big. Blue. Neglected. Cowardly. Balls.
But maybe this opportunity will change all that. In the short time since the plane left without us, I’ve vowed to myself that this week I’m still going for it with her, and our change of destination plans changes nothing.
I’m not giving up.
She had a quiet tantrum, grumbling under her breath and stomping behind me all the way through the parking garage, but that’s okay. I think we’re both disappointed, but it is what it is.
Time for Plan B.
The truck is cold when I start it. Of course it is. I’ve been at the airport for hours. Checked-in early. One of the first people at the gate. When Peyton didn’t show up, and they announced the final boarding call, I must have looked like a fucking idiot not getting on, but going when she wasn’t was not an option.
