Megaballs

  My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I know I need to correct him, to tell him that I’m no closer to finding a life partner than the business is to running itself… if there even is a business after all of this. But he continues on before my voice ever finds me.

  “I want to meet my great-grandchildren before I’m too old to enjoy them. I’m no idiot. I know my years on this earth are limited, and the quicker you get married and knock that little bride up,” his proud grin stretches ear-to-ear, showing off every one of those pearly whites I bought him a few years ago, “the sooner I’ll be able to rest assured the Goodman legacy lives on.”

  His words do things to me I can’t explain. This man has raised me as his own since my mom took off not long after she had me at seventeen. Everything I have in life, everything I’ve accomplished, is because this man has supported and believed in me. How in the world can I crush him with the truth?

  I can’t. I just can’t do it.

  “Well, Grandpa,” I force a smile and lie through my teeth, praying there’s some kind of clause in those Ten Commandments where I’m exempt for the sake of not triggering a heart attack in an elderly person, “I did meet someone, but I’m not quite sure she’s ‘the one’ just yet… but there’s definitely a possibility.”

  “Who is she? What is her name?” he urges.

  Not knowing what to say, I blurt out the first name that comes to my mind. The one I moaned as I stroked my cock to finish in the hotel shower last night. “Finley. Her name is Finley… uh, Finley Robinson,” I say a random last name. Oh, good Lord, what am I doing? How can I just lie to him like this? Just stop talking, Teague.

  “Finley,” he repeats, contemplating the name on his tongue for a moment before nodding his head with acceptance. “Finley Goodman. It’s a little different, but I like the sound of it. It has a good ring. Now tell me about her. What does she do? What does she look like?”

  Ugh… and here we go. What a tangled web we weave… “She lives in San Francisco, works in the hospitality industry there. I met her on a business trip there not too long ago. We met in a bar one night and just hit it off. With the long distance thing, we’re still just getting to know each other, but there’s definitely potential.” Okay, so at least it was partially true. I feel half-better about myself.

  Leaning over close to my chair, he cocks a fuzzy gray eyebrow, and asks, “Well, most importantly, does she have a good rack? You can never underestimate the value of a nice set of boobs, boy.”

  The memory of what her full tits looked like pressed against the thin white fabric of her work blouse with an abundant amount of cleavage on display pops into my head and a shiver trickles down my back, settling in my groin. I choose not to think about the memory of me trying to scalp her with my watch the one time I tried to get close to grazing my forearm against her boobs.

  “Yeah, she’s got a great rack, Gramps.” My lips curve up in a wicked grin as I nod, the guilt of lying pushed to the side of my forethought with images of my hot little waitress from last night emerging. If only I hadn’t gotten the call from Mitzi at the end of my meal that I had mistakenly left the one and only credit card I use at the airport restaurant in Cedar Rapids, then I would have had that tight piece of ass laid out on my hotel bed, finding out just how great her boobs really were… among other things. But instead, I was forced to walk out on my tab like a fucking schmuck, leaving a note on the lottery ticket I’d bought earlier that morning — just like I still did every Friday for Grandpa, who could no longer drive to Rudy’s to buy his own.

  Thankfully, my hotel room and plane ticket home were all prepaid beforehand, because I quite literally didn’t have a penny in my pocket until I landed back in Iowa this morning and claimed my credit card. But I’m still pissed about the missed opportunity with Finley. There was something about her I really liked. Awkwardly adorable meets sex goddess. And don’t get me started on the electricity zapping between us when I followed Dimitri’s rule number two. I couldn’t have torn my gaze away from her if I wanted to. Our eye-contact was off the fucking charts. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to lean her over that damn table and fuck her right then and there.

  “Well, sounds like you got yourself a keeper. You need to fly her out here with all that money you got, so I can meet her soon.” Grandpa’s raspy voice cuts through my fantasy and jerks me back to the present.

  My shoulders sag back against the old chair and I sigh, unable to tell him that’s never going to happen. Not to mention, all that money is about to be gone. “I’ll see what I can do, but with both of our busy schedules, it might be hard,” I lie again, feeling even shittier about myself.

  Before he has an opportunity to say anything else about Finley, a late-model navy sedan drives up and parks next to my truck, and a middle-aged woman wearing scrubs gets out of the driver’s side. “What’s she doing here? Is it four o’clock already?” Grandpa grumbles, his temperament taking a harsh turn downward at the sight of his nurse.

  Nancy offers a quick wave as she approaches, and I stand to greet her, not forgetting the manners my grandparents instilled in me. I know Grandpa doesn’t like her because she’s brutally honest with him about his diet and lifestyle habits, and she’s a reminder that he’s getting older and needs someone to help take care of himself. Not because she’s mean to him. I made sure, before I hired anyone to come out, to secretly install cameras around the inside of the house so I could monitor what was going on. Maybe I watch too much TV, but I don’t trust people to not take advantage of him or to be mean to him, and since Nancy’s been assigned to him the last seven or so months, after his minor heart attack earlier this year, never once have I witnessed any mistreatment or anything else to warrant alarm. She just tells it like it is, and most of the time, he simply doesn’t want to hear it.

  “Teague, what a nice surprise,” she says, as she wraps me up in a warm embrace. “You’re usually headed back to Cedar Rapids by the time I make it out on Saturdays. It’s good to see you.”

  Nodding, I smile and take a step back to make way for her to get to the door. “Yeah, I just flew back in town this morning, so I was a little late getting out here,” I explain. “But I’m just about to leave, so you can do what you need to do.”

  “Nonsense,” Grandpa protests, stomping his foot like a stubborn child. “You don’t need to leave yet. She can wait a little bit longer to start yelling at me. That’s all she does anyway.”

  I hear Nancy chuckle under her breath as she makes her way toward the house, shaking her head but saying nothing. Once she’s inside and out of earshot, I turn to face him, my eyebrows pinched together in a scowl. “Would you just try to listen to what she has to say? She’s not here to make your life a living hell. She’s trying to help extend your life so that you are around to see the next generation of Goodmans,” I insist. My tone is much more stern than I typically use with him, so I throw in that little part at the end about great-grandchildren to help soften his rigid stance.

  Thankfully, it seems to work, as his posture relaxes and his mouth curves up in a small smile. “Well since you put it that way,” he relents, “I guess I’ll try to be a little easier on her. But there’s no way in hell I’m giving up the root beer and licorice. You might as well tell her now, that’s just a waste of her breath.”

  A tiny bit of relief washes through me and I tip my chin up at him. “Thank you, and I’ll let her know to lighten up on those two things, but everything else she says is important. I need you to try.”

  “All right, I guess, but you better work on getting that girl out here for me to meet. I haven’t seen a nice rack in at least five years.”

  Snickering, I stick my head inside the house and call out a goodbye to Nancy then give him a tight hug. “I’ll see you next Saturday, Grandpa.”

  I stride out to my truck and open the door, but just as I go to hop up in the lifted cab, he calls out, “Hey, Teague, I forgot to ask if you checked our lottery ticket this morning. Did we win?”
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  “Nah,” I shake my head, adding one more lie to the pile I’ve already told him today, “not this time, old man. Maybe next week will be our lucky one.”

  “Maybe,” he laughs with a wave, then turns around and walks inside.

  I sink into the leather seat and slam my fists on the steering wheel, pissed off at myself for the entire visit. Not only am I a pussy for not being able to tell him about the Apex settlement and what’s about to happen to the farm that he’s poured his life into, but now I’m a lying pussy for making up all that shit about some waitress who probably wants to stab my eyes out with a fork possibly being my girlfriend.

  For Christ’s sake, what is my problem? This isn’t how a man who is in control of himself and others around him acts. Dimitri would probably say I need a good caning to get my head on straight and man the fuck up to the confident, respected, commanding guy I am. Or maybe I just need a session with Jessica to remind me how to be all those things. And help me forget all about Finley, who I will never see again in my life.

  Quickly pulling my phone out of my pocket, I shoot off a message to Jessica to see if she’s available tonight, since I missed last night’s usual date, and then shift the transmission into reverse and take off down the dirt road. Unfortunately, the sliver of hope that had started to form is trounced before I ever make it off Grandpa’s property when she texts back to say she already has plans. Well, shit.

  I would try to reach out to my Monday hookup, Mandy, but I know she goes out of town every weekend, and Ashley, my Wednesday woman, works on Saturday nights until after midnight. Other than my three regulars, I don’t venture out much in the world of singles in Cedar Rapids. They all know the deal and what to expect from me: just sex, nothing else. And I’m not sure I want to take the chance of having some one-night stand getting all stalkerish on me, or even worse, finding out who I am and my net worth. Well, my net worth for now anyway.

  As I sit at the intersection of the main highway, I get a wild hair up my ass — which I blame on the overwhelming amount of stress I’ve been under in the last thirty-six hours — and turn left toward town instead of right, the way I should be going, the direction of my Cedar Rapids home. And before I know it, I’m cruising through the heart of downtown Dyersville, a place I usually try to avoid when I visit Grandpa, and parking in front of The Drunken Beaver Tavern. I have no idea why I’m here, other than it’s the closest place I know of to get a strong drink, which is the next best thing I can think of to soothe my frazzled nerves since I’ve struck out in the hook-up department.

  Entering the town’s oldest watering hole, I keep my head down as I lumber toward a barstool in the back corner, subconsciously counting them in my head as I pass by. Twenty-three. That’s a good number, one of the most frequent to hit on a roulette wheel. Maybe it’s an omen that this streak of misfortune is ending. And hopefully, I won’t come in contact with anyone but the bartender serving me something to help me forget the shit-storm brewing around me. Even if it is only for tonight.

  “Well, well, well… I don’t believe my own two eyes,” the woman behind the bar says, as she saunters over to me, shaking her head with every step. “Is Teague Goodman, the town’s golden boy, really here at the Beaver, gracing us with his presence? Hell must’ve frozen over last night.”

  I lift my gaze to the bartender’s face and am shocked to find Becca Bingham standing in front of me, looking almost exactly like she did back in high school. With the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and her brown hair pulled back in pigtail braids, she’s cute in that girl-next-door kind of way. The black tank top and cutoff jean shorts she’s got on show off her curvy little body — one I checked out many a time back when I was a teenager, but of course, never touched. After all, she was a high-and-mighty Bingham and I was just a poor ol’ Goodman, and she wouldn’t have dared been caught associating with someone like me.

  “I’m not sure what the Devil keeps his thermostat at,” I finally reply with a smirk, confidently holding her stare with mine, “but it does appear to be your lucky day.”

  She throws her head back with a laugh, which causes her small but perky tits to bounce under her shirt, making me wonder if she’s wearing a bra. My cock twitches in response.

  Becca grabs a napkin and sets it in front of me then leans forward and rests her elbows on the bar. I can see straight down her scooped neckline almost all the way to her nipples, confirming my suspicion. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  “Lucky indeed,” she purrs, batting her lashes. “What can I get you to drink? First one’s on the house, for old time’s sake.”

  Wanting her to think I’m either unaffected or oblivious to her flirting, I reply coolly, “I’ll take a gin and tonic, Bombay Sapphire if you have it.” I’m not much of a drinker, other than root beer of course, but Dimitri says you need to order a refined, sophisticated drink, always top-shelf, to exude your importance and worth.

  It may have been a long time ago when she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, give me the time of day and her older brothers did everything they could to make sure my life was a living hell, but I haven’t forgotten. The thought of having her kneeling in front of me with my cock stuffed in her mouth not only arouses me on a carnal level, but also excites me in a way of retribution for the shitty way they treated me my entire childhood. What could be sweeter than having a Bingham on their knees begging me for something?

  “You got it, sweetie,” she replies with a wink, before turning to go make my drink.

  She seductively sways her hips and exaggerates her reach for the bottle to make her tank top rise up and show off her stomach, knowing my eyes are honed in on her. Flouncing back over to me, she sets the drink on the aged wooden bar then makes a big show of bending over to grab a lime wedge from the cooler and securing it on the edge of my glass. I know I should be focusing on the Apex lawsuit, the future of Goodman Farms, and/or the slew of lies I dumped on Grandpa earlier, but damn if I don’t want to just forget about it all for a little bit. And I can’t think of a better way to do that than tugging on those braids while I fuck her sweet, pouty little mouth until she gags on my cock. After I have a couple drinks, that is.

  Another customer on the other side of the bar calls for Becca, drawing her attention away from me for the time being, but that’s okay. I plan on hanging out for a while… like until she gets off or can take a break. Lifting the glass to my lips, I take a big gulp at the exact moment I glance up at the giant mounted TV behind the bar, and promptly spit out the contents in my mouth all over my lap for the second time in the same afternoon. The strong, awful, overwhelming taste of pure alcohol burns the taste buds right off my tongue, but that’s not the reason I just gave myself a Bombay Sapphire bath. No. It’s the news story on the screen that reads “San Francisco college student solo winner in Megaball drawing worth $270 million,” and the picture of the familiar blue-eyed, blonde bombshell along with it that has me leaping to my feet and my jaw hitting the floor.

  Holy shit. This cannot be real life.

  Finley

  “HAVE YOU LOST your bloody marbles, Mum? Do you mind explaining why in the world you have fags in your car?” Fiona exclaims in a British accent, while waving a pack of cigarettes up in the air from the backseat of Farrah’s new Camaro — the one I agreed she could keep in light of the whole ‘we’re millionaires now’ thing.

  The accent, I have to admit, is pretty damn spot-on, as is the onslaught of British slang that has been incorporated in my niece’s vocabulary in the last twenty-four hours, but I still don’t understand why she’s doing it exactly. After a whirlwind of a Saturday, filled with a complete makeover, a press conference outside the salon where Farrah works, an afternoon of fielding calls from what felt like every TV and radio station in the country, and temporarily moving into a suite at the St. Regis Hotel, the three of us all crashed early that night, only to wake up on Sunday — yesterday — to Fiona sounding like she stepped off the streets of London. When we a
sked her about it, she said something about embracing our posh new lifestyle and to bugger off, then stomped away to the bathroom. I’ve decided to just roll with it. She’ll either get tired of it or we can ship her to the UK in twelve years. Plus, I’ve got a lot more to worry about than living with the British princess. Like what to do with all this damn money.

  “Mum, did you hear me?” Fiona leans forward between Farrah, who’s driving, and me in the passenger seat, and pokes her mom’s arm. “I asked if you’ve been smoking. You know for every fag you smoke, you can subtract seven minutes of your life.”

  Farrah’s eyes frantically cut over to me as her knuckles turn white holding the steering wheel. I shrug my shoulders and stare back at her blankly, unable to come up with a believable lie on the spot. My mind currently isn’t processing at its normal speed. With the amount of information and advice thrown at me in the last two days, as well as the sheer number of people I’ve talked to, it’s truly a miracle my brain is functioning at all.

  “No, peanut,” Farrah’s face splits into a big smile as she redirects her focus to the road, then lies through her teeth, “those are Aunt Finley’s. All this lottery stuff has her all jittery and frazzled, ya know? So she’s probably just looking for a way to calm her nerves. They must’ve fallen out of her purse and slid back there. Isn’t that right, Aunt Finley?”

  The next look my sister shoots me is one of complete desperation, begging me to go along with the story so Fiona doesn’t know her mom occasionally smokes. As in, every occasion she’s not around Fiona. My mouth gapes open and my brows catapult up into my forehead, but instead of throwing her under the bus, I protect her. Because that’s what sisters do. Even when you have one that’s as wacky as Farrah.