“Oh please, I’m more of a compatible partner for Dixon than Juliet is,” Hunter scoffs in disgust. “Once the novelty of Juliet’s hungry pussy wears off, Dixon will realize there’s plenty of pie out there.”

“What in God’s name are you crapping on about?” I ask, almost afraid to hear Hunter’s pie analogy.

This is the part where I should be defending Juliet’s honor, but for some reason, I can’t. Could it be because there’s some truth in Hunter’s uncouth, but accurate statement?

“What happens when you eat the same ol’ apple pie, day in, day out?” he questions, raising a brow.

“You become a diabetic?” Finch says seriously.

“No, you nimrod,” Hunter scoffs, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “After a while, that apple pie loses its flavor, and before long, you begin to hate apple pie, because all the apple pie wants to do is cuddle on the couch and watch reruns of Friends while you question when the exact moment was when you handed the apple pie your nuts on a platter.”

This is, by far, the most ridiculous analogy, but in a weird, warped way, I totally get what he’s saying.

“So once you’re done satisfying the apple pie—missionary position, I might add,” Hunter says, scrunching up his face. “You begin to think about cherry pie, and how much you’ve missed it. And suddenly, all you can think about is the plump, sugary cherries, and how good they taste compared to the bland, mushy apples, the ones you’ve been forced to eat for the past two months. Before long, you’ll hate apple pie, and you’ll move onto cherry pie, totally forgetting apple pie ever existed.” He takes a sip of beer, his food-inspired parallel over and done with.

Finch looks to be mulling over what Hunter just said, trying to figure out what the hell it means, while I almost choke on my beer because I’m laughing so hard.

“You are an idiot.”

“No, I’m a genius. And tonight we’re going to find you some cherry pie,” Hunter adds with a mischievous grin.

I don’t know how I feel about that, I mean, I would feel kind of bad, boning some random girl just because Juliet couldn’t see me tonight. But it’s not like we’re exclusive or anything. This “thing” with Juliet has crept up on me and yelled “pussy whipped,” and I suddenly don’t like it.

Although I’m not interested in eating “cherry pie,” I don’t see the harm in simply viewing what other pies are on display. Hunter tosses back his beer and hollers when he sees I’ve made my decision, while Finch looks to have finally understood the analogy.

“Holy shit, Hunter! You’re one messed-up bastard,” he says in disgust.

Hunter’s deep chuckle rumbles low and he cocks a cheeky brow. “You think that’s messed up? You really don’t wanna know what happens when you eat pecan pie, day in, day out then.”

Finch takes the bait, and I bite back my smile.

“What happens?” Finch asks, totally falling for it.

“You become addicted to nuts,” Hunter explains with a grin. “And before long, all you can think about is nuts. You’ve got nuts in your mouth. Nuts on your face. Nuts on your tongue. Nuts at the back of your throat,” and I burst out laughing, tears filling my eyes.

Finch blanches, finally understanding. He throws him an appalled look while I fist bump my best friend.

We really are a bunch of nutjobs.

13

Cherry Pie

DIXON

I didn’t realize how much I missed these assholes, but now that we three are out hitting the town, I know Fridays are back to being boys’ night only.

I’ve turned my phone off, as I’m man enough to admit I have been tempted to check it once or twice. But Hunter’s idiotic apple pie analogy had me refusing to yield, so it’s just me, Finch and Hunter—and a thousand other people crammed into the club.

This club, ironically enough, is called Cherry Pop. It’s some new club which just opened up in Manhattan, and the “trendy” trash playing over the speakers really has me wishing they would play some good ol’ eighties rock ballads.

As I look at the scantily dressed females and metrosexual males, I know I’ll need another drink.

“Remind me why we’re here?” I gripe, looking over at Hunter who is feasting on the smorgasbord of young flesh in front of him.

“Are you blind?” he scoffs, waving his hand out in front of him, indicating the barely legal girls dancing to this horrible music.

“I’m nowhere near blind enough to touch any of those little girls.” I swig my drink and make a pained face. “Good grief, even their scotch is atrocious.”

“Oh, lighten up, you old fuddy-duddy. Not that long ago, I recall you not having any qualms touching a certain little girl,” Hunter says, referring to Madison.

“That was entirely different. First, she wasn’t jailbait, and second, she has a lot more class than the tramps that inhabit these quarters.”

“Um, Dixon,” Finch says, and I turn to look at him sitting on his stool, his eyes squinting and looking in the direction of the dance floor.

“Yeah?” I reply, wondering what has him so intrigued.

“Isn’t that your little girl?” he says, pointing in front of him.

“What?” I gasp, my eyes frantically searching the area he’s zoning in on. “That’s impossible.”

Hunter’s laugh to my right indicates it’s very possible. “Holy shit! Little Miss Cherry Pie has grown up.”

I reach out and slap his chest, my eyes never leaving the sight before me, because Madison is very much in front of me. Her body, which has always been incredible, looks even better than I remember. She was always on the slender side, but not any more. It’s only been a couple of months, but Jesus, it’s like she’s taken a crash course in body sculpting and she’s all soft curves and toned, supple flesh.

“And just think, you chose apple pie over that,” Hunter whispers into my ear.

I would usually retort with a smart-ass comment, but right now, I’m surprised I even remember my own name.

A faster song commences, and Madison excitedly latches onto her redheaded friend. They begin dancing together, laughing as they attempt to keep up with the choppy beat.

Her red tube dress is short and low, and each time she moves, the dress slips lower and higher, and I raise myself off my seat, hoping to get a sneak peek at what she’s packing underneath. My raging hormones get doused with a bucket of ice-cold “wake the fuck up!” when an Adonis-looking male wraps his arms around her waist, pressing her back against his hardened front.

The alpha dog in me howls in protest, and I clench the empty glass in my hand, envisioning it’s his head I’m squeezing. But by the way Madison is smiling and leaning into his advances, I dare say this ecstatic asshole is her new beau.

But who can blame him? I mean, look at her; she’s beautiful.

Her long hair, thanks to the vigorous dancing, looks wild and untamed—perfect freshly fucked hair. The thought, however, has my teeth gnashing together, as I don’t want to picture her fucking this douchebag in front of me—or any douchebag, for that matter.

Fuck. I need a drink.

“Well, hot damn, I—”

“Zip it, Hunter,” I snap as I push back from my stool and make my way toward the bar, totally ignoring his snide remark.

The line is long, and due to my foul mood, I have no desire to wait. If I stay here a minute longer, then I need to get nice and drunk and forget that I ever saw Madison.

I don’t fail to see the paradox of my situation. It’s the classic case of you want what you can’t have. I could have had the sweet, innocent Madison, but instead I chose the easy, rampant sex fiend, Juliet, who I was sleeping with before I even knew I had a “thing” for Madison.