By the time I return to my desk, I have half a dozen completely wicked ideas floating around in my head. I force myself to finish with the class registrations first—just to make sure I get something productive done today—and then I pull out my phone.
Your turn. Truth or dare?
He never told me where he was going these next few days, but I hope I catch him somewhere good. Maybe the airport. Somewhere with a lot of people. I’m already playing out the scene in my head when he texts me back.
Truth.
Wait a minute—after what he put me through, he’s going to wuss out and pick truth? What’s wrong with him? My response is fast and furious.
Chicken.
Just trying to mix things up a little, he replies.
I roll my eyes. I’m sorry. I can’t hear you over all of that clucking.
Well, that throws a wrench in my brilliant revenge plan. But I’m not going to let this stop me. I might not be able to knock him out this round, but maybe I’ll be able to pick up some useful information. After a few minutes of thought, I send my response.
All right. Truth time. What’s your filthiest fantasy?
I lean back in my chair, satisfied that I’ve made the best of this situation. Besides, I’m a little curious about his answer. Based on our brief but intimate acquaintance, I’m sure he has more than a few kinky desires hidden away in that brain of his. I want to know them all.
But his reply isn’t the elaborate, detailed answer I anticipated. Instead, it’s two words.
La Tomatina.
I blink. What the hell? I was expecting something with whips, hot wax, toys—I have no idea what to do with La Tomatina.
I begin typing. You mean… that huge tomato fight in Spain?
In Valencia, technically, he replies. But yes.
I’m still confused. I’ve seen clips of La Tomatina on the travel network on TV. It’s basically a huge food fight with thousands of people and literally tons of tomatoes. I get that. But where does the fantasy part come in?
So… you want to have sex in the middle of La Tomatina? I’m not sure how to work with that.
Him: No. I just want to go. Always have.
Me: How is that a fantasy?
Him: I’ve fantasized about going. Just never actually done it.
Me: That doesn’t count. It’s not even sexual.
Him: You never specified ‘sexual.’
Me: I said ‘filthiest’!!! nipples and crotch gsh
Him: You can’t tell me I wouldn’t be filthy after La Tomatina.
I can’t believe it. I can’t freaking believe it. He’s wheedling out of a real answer by arguing semantics?
Okay, scratch that. I can believe it. He’s pulled this shit before. I bet he’s having quite the laugh at me right now.
Me: Ooooh, you’re going to get it.
Him: I’m shaking in fear.
Me: You’re a cheater. I think that’s an automatic forfeit.
Him: I didn’t cheat and you know it. It’s not my fault that your question wasn’t specific.
He’s just toying with me now. The more I argue, the more he enjoys it.
Besides, he texts, I don’t think you’re ready for this game to be over yet.
He’s right, damn him.
Just you wait. I reply.
I swear, I can feel that smug smile of his even through the phone.
It’s your turn again first, he reminds me. But I’ll give you a little break first. I’ll call you tonight.
Fine, I type. But I still think you cheated.
Goodbye, Lily. toward the place where L" aid="
I send him a farewell and drop my phone back down on my desk. I still can’t believe his audacity. There’s no way I’m going to let this slide without a little payback.
I reach down to my purse beneath the desk. I shoved my dirty panties in there when I got back from the bathroom, but I have a better idea for them now. I yank a large manila envelope out of my desk and seal them up inside.
He might not have given me the chance to get my revenge during our game, but I have a few other tools at my disposal. And I’m going to make sure Calder has a fun little present waiting for him with his mail when he gets back from his trip.
* * *
That night, as promised, he calls.
“Truth or dare?”
Right to the point. I’ve been waffling all afternoon over which one I should pick this time, but I don’t realize I’ve decided until it slips out of my mouth.
“Truth.”
He must have been ready for that choice. He has his question ready.
“How many men have you been with?”
Well. He’s not messing around, is he? We’ll just have to have a little fun with that.
“When you say ‘been with,’ what are we talking about here?” I ask playfully. “Do you want the number of boyfriends? Sexual partners? Blowjob recipients?”
“Are they all different numbers?”
“Do college experiments with women count? And how do you want me to calculate that orgy I attended a few years ago? You see, I was blindfolded and I’m not sure how many—”
“All right, all right, I get it. Very funny.”
I grin. “Your question’s not very specific.”
“Fine. Sexual partners. Blowjobs don’t count. College experiments can, voice reminds me.
“Are you going to get jealous if I tell you?”
He hesitates just a little too long before answering. “Of course not.”
I know I shouldn’t, but I kind of like that he’s a tad jealous. I like that I have that little bit of power over him, that I’ve cracked that shell of smug confidence.
And I have no reason to be ashamed of my answer. He knows I wasn’t a virgin when we got together. I’m twenty-five, for God’s sake. I had a sex life before him. He met Garrett, so he knows about one of my exes already—though that experience probably didn’t give him a very good impression of my taste in men.
“Six,” I tell him. “Including you. Plus one girl in college—which was fun, but not quite the same.”
He takes a moment to consider this, and my mind is racing. Is that number higher than he expected? Lower?
“So,” he says finally, “how do I compare with these other lucky fellows?”
I laugh. “You already asked your question. I’m not required to answer any more.”
“You torture me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Tomatina. Are you unhappy with my response?”
“Yes, smart-ass.”
I lie back on my pillow, grinning. “Do you doubt your own skills in the bedroom?”