Page 20 of Our Sadie

If Sadie becomes any tenser I’m afraid she’ll snap like a worn rubber band. Once upon a time, I used to be as no-holds-barred as the next guy when competing, especially at sports back in high school. But the rearrangement of my priorities has taught me that those kinds of wins and losses are trivial. Fleeting. Also, games and competitions are intended to be enjoyed.

Even if I don’t think Sadie’s enjoying a fucking thing.

She’s trembling all over, and not the kind of trembling that comes from catching a chill. No, this is a lot more ominous. Like the shaking of the ground right before a seven-point nine earthquake registers on the Richter Scale. I’m realizing that if this keeps up, she’s gonna blow.

And I don’t mean her sucking me off.

“I’m thirsty. Are you thirsty?” I ask.

I can’t afford for this woman to detonate like some ticking timebomb. I need her to decide that she’s having a good time because I’m doing my damnedest to give her one. I need for her to enjoy herself with me. But what I’ve been trying isn’t working.

So much for convincing her that I’m the one she should keep.

I remember the soda machine I passed on the way in, and stride over to it, ready to do anything to turn things around. Reaching for my wallet, I produce a couple of crisp singles and slide the cash into the slot, only to find it blocked.

“We rigged it,” she grunts as she tears her most recent round of darts—each of which are along the outer ring and beyond—from the target as if they’ve insulted her personal code of honor. “No cash needed.”

“Got it.” I deliberately avoid eye contact as I scan to see what’s in stock. “Preference?”

“Orange Crush.”

Don’t hear that one every day.

Grabbing myself a cola, I offer the bottle of orange soda to Sadie, monitoring her out of the corner of my eye. The only reason I went with the game room idea in the first place was I thought it’d be foolproof.

Talk about not calling it.

I’m debating whether I should start over with an activity that’s different or stick with air hockey. Is she so on edge about this because the outcomes aren’t what she thought they’d be or because she’s not big on games in general?

Right before I suggest a venue change, she crosses over to the air hockey table. She sets her bottle down without opening it and seizes one of the paddles. Guess she wants to attack this one next.

I know there’s a third option that would typically be my go-to, but my steps are so much more uncertain with her. I could plant a kiss on Sadie, make out with her until she’s basically in a needy frenzy, then throw her a nice unhurried lay. In my experience, orgasms do wonders for women who are stressed.

But just like the first time I went out with her, figuring out how she might react in advance is difficult. I could still probably persuade her if I initiated, but when you’re the hired help, initiating can be frowned on. It’s too bad since if she let me rest her back across that pool table to lick her clit until she comes, I could have her blissed out of her mind.

My tongue speaks a lot louder than my actual words tend to.

Yet, she’s in charge. And it’s too early to tell if veering into sex would be a mistake.

So, I join her at air hockey, hearing the gentle whirring of the air jets creating less resistance along the surface. While I suspect that her range of movement may be holding her back—I’m not one hundred percent on that—this game requires reflexes and speed more than precision.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Ready.”

For the first time, I consciously consider throwing the whole thing. If winning is what’s so important to her, I can make sure that’s what goes down. I’m not a huge fan of being all dishonest like that, but if it’ll make her less unhappy, I’m willing to try it.

I’m studying the table, the disk, and her posture as I figure out how to do this without being too conspicuous when she grabs the disk and lurches forward.

And just like that, she’s earned her a point.

Based on her reactions up to now, I expect her to cheer or display some sort of celebration, but she doesn’t. If anything, she looks even fiercer.

How this woman didn’t wind up playing professional sports is lost on me.

I shoot the disk to her side when she bullets it back and earns her second goal. Then, before I can even absorb her slamming it toward me again, she’s shot and scored a third time.

“My game is ass today,” I mutter, because I didn’t throw a thing.