Carrie put down her cell phone and picked up the glass of wine, twirling it idly between her fingers. Brad wasn’t answering her texts – probably busy on business, she got it, but –
She glanced back down at her phone. Still no reply.
Really, what could he be doing at eight o’clock at night?
Her mind drifted to various scenarios, none of them good. In a loud bar, perhaps, checking out waitresses with the other boys from work – but he’d answer his phone for that one, she was sure of it. Maybe he was hitting on some of the local women, she could see them tossing their hair and laughing too loudly at his jokes, leaning in close and trailing a finger over his crisp suit.
Or the other – not alone in a hotel room, sheets rumpled and sweat stained, she could see him emerge from the shower, white towel wrapped around his waist while she – whoever she was – lay waiting on the bed, tanned legs stretched across it.
Tightening the fuzzy bathrobe around herself, Carrie shifted on the sofa, glancing at the TV, the last season of Netflix’s finest still played on, unseen. She tipped her glass to her lips, feeling the warm burn of alcohol wrapped in oaky tannins.
She always was classy. Even half drunk.
Brad always admired that about her, and that’s what made a relationship like theirs work. Openness, in all things. And really, why stay tied down? But now he was clearly busy – with someone else.
Fine. She’d have to make due.
She stared down at the phone, and paused. Considering.
Rapidly, she punched in the contact for the local pizza place. “I’d like a medium pepperoni – for delivery.”
The voice on the other end assured her it would arrive in 30 minutes or less.
That didn’t give her much time.
Quickly stepping into the shower, she swiped the pink razor down her legs, and well, other areas, and then stepping out, donned her silk robe. With luck, the robe would be all she needed.
Patting on scant foundation and blush – just to freshen up – she carefully applied her lipstick, staring at herself in the mirror, and swept her hand through her hair. Not bad.
Leaving the washroom, she picked up her wine glass from the counter, now empty. In the kitchen she poured the remains of the bottle into two glasses, and picked up one; then turned toward the front door.
She stood, waiting.
Another half glass of wine later, the doorbell rang; Carrie tossed her hair and checked her reflection in the mirror one last time, cleavage just peeking from beneath robe, lightly muscled legs visible to well above the knee – not bad at all. She opened the door.
The pizza guy stood there, stunned into silence, orange box stretched out between them. He was cute enough, a scruffy twenty something earning extra cash through college. He’d do, quite nicely in fact.
“Hello,” Carrie smiled at him.
“Uh – I got your pizza.”
“Um,” she tipped her glass to her mouth. His eyes followed her hand, lingering on her lips. Slowly she ran her tongue over them.
The orange box wavered.
“Would you like to come in, join me for a glass of wine?”
“I won’t keep you long, I just need some company.” Smiling, she reached for the pizza box, her fingers grazing his. “And I can’t eat all this myself.”
The pizza guy knew only a fool would say no. And he was no fool.
Stepping inside, she took the box from his hands, and smiled at him. “You know, things get pretty lonely around here – can I interest you in a drink?”
He stood, momentarily dazed, then Carrie reached her arms around his shoulders; the smell of pepperoni and cigarette smoke filled the air. She brushed her lips to his.
It was on.
Orange box left sitting forgotten on a hall table, they stumbled toward the sofa, limbs intertwined; her robe fell away, revealing tanned curves. He grinned in appreciation, trailing soft lips over her body.
Carrie sank back – this was what she wanted – adoration.
She caressed his head as he trailed below; warmth filled her body, orgasm threatening – she smiled and tugged at his shoulders, “Come here.”
Sitting up, his mouth sought hers, he hardened against her, she peeled off his shirt and tugged at his pants. Baggy blue jeans fell to his knees.
Reaching for her purse, she pulled out a foil package and twisted the condom open.
He smiled even wider.
Headlights flashed across the living room, Carrie sat up, listening as the as an engine turned off. “Oh shit, he’s home.”
“Your husband?” the pizza guy stared at her.
“Yes,” she shoved his bundled up clothes at him. “Get outta here.”
“Now – go, before he –”
Soft crack of the front door opening drifted down the hallway, and his eyes widened.
“He’s here,” she hissed. “Go. Now.”
Carrie stood up, tightening her robe around herself, and walked toward the door, calling out, “Honey, is that you?”
“Hi sweetie,” Brad smiled at her, “I thought I’d surprise you.” Reaching for her, he brushed his lips to her forehead, “I got off early.”
She forced a smile at him, “I can see that.”
Then Brad caught sight of the pizza guy behind the sofa struggling into his clothes. He grinned, “I didn’t know you had company.”
“Uh, well,” she tightened her robe around herself. “You know how it is.”
The pizza guy brushed past them, and dashed toward his car.
“I guess so.” Brad stood watching the pizza guy race down the driveway, tugging at clothes and buttoning his pants; and then he turned toward Carrie. “It looks like you’ve been busy.”
She shrugged. “What? I ordered a pizza.”
He draped his arm over her shoulder, and they stood, watching the checkered delivery car peel out of the driveway and speed down the road. “Did you at least tip the guy?”
Carrie blanched. “Crap, I totally forgot to pay him.” Shrugging again, she turned to go back inside. “So, anyway, did you want some pizza?”
Ed Note – First it was Full Service, now Pizza Delivery, Liz McAdams seems to have a thing for those rough around the edges types – naughty girl.
A Canadian writer, Liz McAdams appears in many places such as Spelk, Yellow Mama, Near to the Knuckle and around Twisted Sister, but can be found most commonly at https://lizmcadams.wordpress.com/