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  Making Her Wait

  Brianna Cash

  Making Her Wait Copyright © 2019 by Brianna Cash. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Cole Gordon

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Brianna Cash

  Visit my website at www.BriannaCash.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: April 2019

  Making Her Wait

  Genny’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

  Except she’s one of the many girls that frequent my roommate’s bed on a regular basis.

  Also, Genny doesn’t date.

  And… I don’t do hook-ups.

  Considering those three major obstacles, Genny and I will never be anything more to each other than two almost strangers, who occasionally pass each other during the night.

  Life throws us together one evening in early spring, deciding it has plans of its own. Genny swears our story has a horrible ending, before we even take a single step down the road we find ourselves on. I think she’s right, but I still can’t stop myself from trying to figure out all Genny’s secrets.

  I have a feeling our journey is going to be a hell of a lot of fun, no matter how it ends. And until Genny lets down her walls and gives our ill-fated relationship an honest chance, I’m really going to enjoy making her wait…

  Genny

  Beep beep, beep beep, beep beep…

  I roll onto my back with a groan, reaching for my phone so I can shut off the damn alarm. Slamming onto the floor half a second later, I cringe in pain, realizing I wasn’t in my bed. Or even my house. And I don’t have a scrap of clothing on.

  Today sucks already…

  From my cold, exhausted, painful position on the floor in front of someone else’s bed, I take two seconds to focus on the sound of my alarm. I need to figure out where that obnoxious noise is coming from. It sounds close, so I do a visual search of my surroundings, cracking first one eye open against the sunlight streaming in through the windows, then the other. Last night comes back to me in a flash as I figure out exactly where I am and who was sharing that bed with me.

  What were you thinking? I chastise myself, repeatedly, until I’m clutching my phone, the alarm finally falling silent under the murderous poking of my fingers against the screen. My exhale becomes a whimper of despair as I discover that I must have slept right through my first alarm; the one I just turned off was my you’re-going-to-be-late alarm.

  My walk of shame doesn’t end at my back door today.

  Good thing I keep some mouthwash and deodorant at work… And a spare uniform in my car.

  Time to take inventory of the clothes I wore into this room last night. Can I manage to reach all of them from my seated position on the floor? And why the hell doesn’t this guy have a throw rug on this side of the bed? The floorboards are freezing against my bare ass!

  The answer to my first question is no. And in five minutes, I won’t care about the second.

  I make it into a standing position, yanking my jeans up over my hips and pulling my bra on a second later. Stuffing my underwear into my pocket, I spin in a slow circle, looking for my shirt. I’m doing a second pass when I finally catch sight of it. At the top of the bed. Being used as a pillow.

  Instead of risking waking him up, I steal his from the night before, simply because it’s within easy reach and Ben always smells nice. He puts effort into our late-night hook-ups. He asks me questions about my life while we drink a couple glasses of wine on his couch. He kisses me like he actually missed me since the last time we saw each other. He woos me, even if it’s just for an hour before we make it to his room.

  My other boytoys don’t woo me.

  One of them might ask a question or two once the reason for our visit has been accomplished. The other one doesn’t say anything. Except dirty words that never register in my head because I’m too busy feeling the amazing things he’s doing to me.

  As I sneak out of Ben’s room and down to the front door, I tell myself that I will not answer any of his (or anyone else’s) texts in the middle of the week from here on out. What if Callie needed me last night? What if my boss decides to make an appearance at my booth today? What if I give in and act like a responsible grownup for once, instead of giving in to the promise of an orgasm or two?

  That last one’s funny… Acting like a grownup is all I ever get to do.

  I stop for coffee because come on. I can go to work in a dirty uniform without showering or eating breakfast, but facing the world without at least one cup of coffee is something I’m not willing to do. While waiting for my order at the drive-thru window, I check out the damage last night did in the mirror. My plain brown hair is greasy and unruly, but I smooth it out and secure it in a tight ponytail. My face isn’t too bad. Thank God I only put on one swipe of mascara last night before I made the trip to Orgasm-ville. It’s almost as if I expected to fall asleep in that bed, instead of high-tailing it out of there at half-past three in the morning…

  I make it to work on time, but only because I cheat. Snapping the flashers on in my car, I waltz into work with thirty seconds to spare, clock in, then disappear for the fifteen minutes it takes to park my car in employee parking. A few nasty looks get thrown my way when I make it to my computer, but technically, I was here on time.

  I’ve been late three times in the last two months. One more incident and I get written up. Michelle, my favorite co-worker and good friend, vouches for me, claiming I was trying to find a new ink cartridge for her printer that’s spitting out flawlessly printed pages as we speak.

  Work is registering patients for radiology studies and labs. I don’t like my job, but who does, really? A job is a means to an end. A paycheck that, if you’re lucky, covers all your bills until the next one rolls around. With that said, the best part of my job is the patients. I hate the computer stuff, the paperwork, the mundane data entry bullshit we have to do when we’re slow. But I love interacting with the people who come through my booth.

  Today, on this sucky morning, a patient strolls into my booth and tells me her name. While searching for her on the schedule, I make small talk, asking where she lives, what she’s here for today, and who she brought with her. I’m a master multi-tasker, but today, my thoughts falter as she tells me her story.

  She lives two hours away and left her house at five-fifteen this morning because she didn’t know how traffic or road construction would alter her arrival time. The procedure she’s scheduled for is a specialized breast biopsy, that’s done while she’s in an MRI machine. She’ll be in a very uncomfortable position for over an hour. And she’s worried sick about the results, because her sister was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. It was very aggressive. Her sister didn’t make it.

  I suddenly feel like shit for rolling out of someone’s bed a mere half hour ago and cursing what I thought was a bad life and a horrible morning. I had no idea what I was talking about. I have it easy. I love life and everything in it. I’m a spoiled person who doesn’t know how good I have it.

  Not true.

  I do know how good I have it. Sometimes I just forget.

  On my break, I find a text message from Callie asking if I’m still alive, since I wasn’t there when she got up this morning. She calls me a hypoc
rite and informs me that there’s a message from the pharmacy, telling me my script is ready to pick up. I also find an email from my ex-boyfriend, Paul. We broke up four years ago, but he still emails, calls, or texts at least once a month, to tell me he thinks we should give our relationship another try.

  I delete it without opening it, although I’m considering sending a snarky, sarcastic response.

  The lights above me flicker and die a second later.

  Maybe I should’ve opened it?

  Rolling my eyes at the power outage, I head back to the department, only to hear that we’re moving to downtime procedures. Which means the power outage won’t be fixed in a timely manner.

  Fantastic.

  During downtime procedures, we can still function and register patients, but everything is done on paper. We have to write down ten times more information than we usually need, increasing the average registration time from four minutes, to a horrifyingly long seventeen minutes.

  The patients are not appreciative. We, the employees, definitely aren’t.

  Michelle finagles her way into a late lunch with me since we’re so backed up. She wastes no time, starting her interrogation with, “How was your morning, Genny?”

  “Very short,” I reply, searching my pockets for my ID badge, which takes money directly out of my check to pay for anything I buy at the cafeteria. “Shit,” I mumble, realizing it’s probably at home on my dresser since grabbing my work ID before heading to Orgasm-ville isn’t something I normally do. My purse is in my car, but if I go get it, I won’t have time to eat. “Can I borrow some cash?”

  “I don’t have any,” she tells me. “I packed today.”

  Double shit.

  Michelle leads us to a picnic table outside, continuing her interrogation. “Have any company this morning?”

  “Not at my place,” I answer, making her level her eyes at me. “Fine,” I relent, not wanting to fight with her. I’m hungry, I feel dirty, my uniform smells and I’m fucking tired. “I woke up at Ben’s.”

  “Dang,” she sighs, looking dreamily off into space. “I was hoping you’d woken up with Chad. Those are the best stories to hear.”

  “No way, Chad never lets me stay. I swear he’s pushing me out the door before I even catch my breath… Totally worth it though.”

  I fan myself a little just thinking about it.

  Chad is the guy you hook up with whenever he sends a text your way. You never text him. You wait for him to text you and thank your lucky stars when he does. I swear he has a waiting list. And you can be damn sure I don’t miss my turn when it comes around.

  “At least it wasn’t Matt again,” she complains. “If it had been, I would’ve told you to cut the others loose already.”

  Matt is my go-to. Matt doesn’t need to talk or catch up. If I stay after, he doesn’t care. If I leave after, he doesn’t care. He’s easy, no pun intended, and very convenient. Ben’s the guy I text when I need to feel like someone cares. Matt is the guy I text when I just need to get off.

  Life can be stressful. Orgasms are the best cure for that. And I usually like them best without any hassle or idle chit-chat that adds up to nothing in the long run except wasted time.

  “Matt’s really efficient,” I reason defensively. “He’s good at what he does, and he does it in a timely matter.”

  “We’re talking about sex, honey. Not work.”

  “Sometimes it’s the same thing.”

  “It shouldn’t be,” she scolds me, mumbling around her sandwich before reaching for a drink. I would give my left foot for half of that sandwich right now. I really should’ve gotten breakfast when I stopped for my one cup of coffee. “Not to change the subject, but I have a date tomorrow night.”

  “What?! With who?”

  “Sam in admissions. He asked me yesterday.”

  “Wow,” I murmur, happy for her, but confused at the same time. “What’s a date exactly? I thought people didn’t do that anymore.”

  She laughs, shaking her head at my ignorance, or maybe our age difference. She’s fifteen years older than me, give or take, and the generation gap is startlingly wide at times. “People who are looking for more than casual sex date all the time.”

  Who are those people? I’m definitely not one of them. Not only do I not have time, but I also don’t need the headaches, the time wasted on arguments, or the ultimate break up that having a relationship entails. Sleeping with three different guys, keeping stock in condoms, and getting my quarterly STD checks already take up too much of my time.

  We’re still on downtime after lunch, and the afternoon rush is just starting. With the way things are going, there’s not a chance in hell I’m getting out on time. Unless I wanna come in early tomorrow to finish up the data entry from the patients I had today. I’m pretty sure everyone knows by now there’s no chance of me getting up any earlier than is absolutely necessary.

  By the time I get out of work, I’m ravenous. There’s no way I’m cooking anything tonight, so I stop and grab dinner to take home, using the last of my cash until payday tomorrow, and race to the pharmacy. Literally, race. Because I’m miserable and my stomach is growling loud enough for me to hear it over the radio.

  A few blocks from the pharmacy, pulsing red and blue lights flash in my review mirror and the distinct sound of a siren drowns out my music...

  Un-fucking-believable!

  “License and insurance ma’am.” He doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t have to. I recognize his voice instantly. It’s Paul, the ex.

  Doing my best to not growl out my frustrations at the heavens, I empty out my purse and glove-box looking for the information he requested. Karma’s trying to get revenge on me for not making it home last night. This morning. Whenever the hell it was. Today’s been one thing after another, but she can bring it on. My day’s just about over and there’s not much else she can throw at me.

  “Well, if it isn’t the person I wanted to see! I emailed you earlier, Genny. I don’t suppose you were going to reply though, were you?”

  “I didn’t get it yet,” I lie through my teeth, flashing him an extra sweet smile. “I had to put in some overtime at work, so I’m just trying to get home. Any chance you could just give me a warning?”

  “Like the warning you gave me when you kicked me out of your life? Let me think about that…”

  Hearing my stomach do some of my growling for me, I grip the steering wheel tighter and pray for the day to just be over already. I swear to God and every inch of those pearly white gates that I will stop having casual sex if He can get me home in the next fifteen minutes.

  As much, I compromise.

  I’ll stop having as much casual sex.

  Or maybe I’ll just promise to make it home from now on, because after this day, I could really use an extra dose of stress relief. Which is also known as a trip to Orgasm-ville.

  I wonder what Matt’s doing tonight.

  “You realize your insurance is expired?”

  “The fuck it is! The new insurance card came in the mail months ago!”

  “Says right here,” he offers, tapping his fingers on my proof of insurance. “Expired two months ago.”

  Now that I think back, maybe it was the bill that came in the mail two months ago. Maybe I put it to the side to pay later because that was a rough month. Maybe it’s still on my desk at home, waiting to be paid. Taunting me now, in my moment of need.

  “Want me to let all this go, Gen? I’ll give you a warning and say goodnight?”

  It’s a trick. It has to be. He was never that nice. “I’d like that very much, Paul.”

  “Go out with me this weekend. Give us another chance.”

  Come on! The one thing I will never do!

  “Over my dead body,” I calmly reply with a brilliant smile.

  “I’ll be right back with your ticket then, love.”

  Fucking asshole.

  After shoving my ticket and everything else back in my purse, I pull out into t
raffic and grumble the short drive to the pharmacy.

  The one with the long line.

  Browsing the latest Women’s Health Magazine, I pretend to not eavesdrop as the man at the front of the line tries to pick up his Viagra script. It’s non-covered by his insurance. He seems shocked by this, but I’m sure he got a call from the pharmacy or his insurance company to inform him before they filled it. Paling at the cost, he grumbles his way out of the store empty-handed.

  The girl directly in front of me picks up an ointment for her itch problem. Her copay is only three dollars and forty-five cents. Nice. She pays in cash and walks off. I wonder if her itch problem is the reason she’s walking funny.

  “Name?”

  I step toward the cashier. “Genevieve Stotler.”

  “Date of birth?”

  After verifying I am who I’m claiming to be, she brings my script to the register. My copay is forty dollars. I’d take that three dollars and forty-five cents copay any day of the week. I almost curse as the cashier clears her throat at the sight of my debit card, pointing to a sign taped to the wall.

  “The machines are down,” she quickly explains. “We have signs all over the store. You have to pay in cash or check.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Cash or check only tonight. The power’s back up, but it did something to the lines.”

  Mumbling obscenities under my breath, I search my purse for forty dollars I know I won’t find. Feeling as dejected as Viagra man looked, I leave empty handed as well.

  Stupid fucking power outage. Ruined my entire day. It came back on a half hour before my shift was over, and I should’ve gotten home around five thirty. Instead, it’s almost eight, I’m still not home from work, I haven’t showered, I’m wearing dirty clothes, my teeth are fuzzy and gross, I haven’t eaten a damn thing since yesterday, I had a run in with my ex and got a speeding ticket, and now I can’t pick up my meds.