Daddies Brat

Leslie

One marshmallow kind of guy.

I froze. “What did you say?”

“Oh, sorry,” Riley replied. “I wasn’t trying to be obscure. It’s this study where-”

“I know what it is,” I interrupted.

The marshmallow experiment was a study performed at Stanford University back in the seventies. In the study, a child was offered a single marshmallow. But if the child could wait fifteen minutes without eating it, he would get two marshmallows. The researchers then left the room and watched to see if the child ate the first marshmallow, or waited for two instead.

The study was a way of measuring delayed gratification and willpower. It was my favorite cultural reference. And this guy just dropped it casually within the first few minutes.

Okay, now my vagina is humming.

“I love the Stanford marshmallow experiment,” I said, leaning a little closer to Riley. “You might be the first person I’ve ever talked to who knows about it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same to you.”

“Well, I’m a psych major,” I replied. “So it fits with my area of study.”

“A shrink,” he said approvingly. “You’re not going to psychoanalyze me, are you?”

“Oh, I already have,” I said. “It’s kind of my superpower.”

Riley gulped the rest of his beer, put the cup down on a nearby table, then stood up a little straighter like a man preparing to receive a punch. “Okay, go ahead. Do your worst.”

I cracked my knuckles dramatically and then spent a few long seconds looking him up and down. The tight T-shirt that fit snugly against his muscular torso. The faded blue jeans with a single hole over one knee. The tattoo ink peeking out of his sleeve on his right bicep.

“You’re an athlete,” I said. “Probably competing at the college level. You received a lot of positive reinforcement as a kid. Your parents made sure you knew you were special, and insisted you would do great things in life. You’ve spent your life trying to live up to those expectations, but you still have impostor syndrome. You’re confident enough to turn down sex from a woman. That’s big one-marshmallow energy. It shows you know what you want, and aren’t afraid to wait for it.” I held his gaze a moment longer, then flicked my eyes down to his crotch. Just for a split second. “You’re probably well-endowed. Okay, how did I do?”

Riley blinked in surprise. “Wow, yeah. I’m an athlete. I was the best player in every sport I’ve played in since I was five. My parents spent a lot of money on travel camps and summer leagues. It was a lot of pressure.” He gave me a small smile. “And yes, I know exactly what I want.”

“So I nailed it?”

“Everything except the part about being well-endowed,” he replied. “I actually have a micro-penis.”

I was caught off-guard so thoroughly that I almost spit out my beer. “A micro-penis?”

Riley nodded gravely. “Afraid so. It’s so small it goes back up inside my body. It’s like a black hole.”

I pointed at him and said, “Black holes are massive. Your analogy doesn’t make sense.”

He snapped his fingers. “Damn. I guess that’s why I’m getting my degree in Environmental Studies, not Astronomy.”

“The environment?” I asked. “Okay, I’ll admit I wouldn’t have guessed that. You going to save the world?”

“That’s the idea,” he said. Was he being sheepish, now? The music swelled, and he leaned closer to me so I could hear him. “Yeah, it’s cliche, but it’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

“I think that’s admirable.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Maybe. Sometimes, when I see all the shitty stuff in the news, I lose hope. Oil spills. Train derailments that spill toxic chemicals. Antarctica melting. It makes me wonder if there will even be a world to save when I graduate. But I figure I have to try.”

I felt myself leaning in to him, drawn in like he was an aforementioned black hole. Why did I feel so connected to this guy I had never met?

To ground myself a little more, I pointed to the ink on his arm and said, “Your noble career goal is undermined by this.” I pulled the sleeve up an inch, allowing my fingernail to drag across the skin. “A barbed wire tattoo? Really?”

“As a straight white man, I’m legally required to have one of these,” he replied.

I tried not to laugh. It was a good save. “My friend didn’t think you were straight.”

“Your friend was unhappy I turned her down. I’m guessing that doesn’t happen a lot. Assuming I’m gay was her defense mechanism.”

I cocked my head at him. “Hey now, stay in your lane. Leave the psychology to the professionals.”

“Are you a professional?” Riley asked.

“Not until I graduate in the spring,” I admitted. “But seriously, what possessed you to get that tattoo?”

“Why does any guy make terrible mistakes? A group of pushy friends.” “Let me guess: a fraternity,” I said.

“Worse,” he muttered. “A baseball team.”

“Whew,” I said, dramatically wiping my forehead. “That’s a relief. I don’t date frat guys.”

A tiny smile touched his lips at the word date. “Well, a baseball team is basically the same thing as a fraternity. Except we have to wake up at five every morning for practice.”

“For your sake, I’ll pretend that’s not the case. So you want to save the world. Does that mean you’re not going pro in baseball?”

He barked a laugh. “Not likely. I’m good, but…” He shrugged sheepishly again. It was a strange gesture from the tall viking of a man. “You have to be really good to play professionally. We’ll see what happens next July.” “July?” I asked.

“That’s when the baseball draft is,” he replied. “But I doubt any teams are interested in me.”

Look at you, I thought. You’re much more than meets the eye.

The music changed to something more upbeat, and I gulped the last bit of my beer. “I love this song! Dance with me!”

For a while, the two of us danced together. We weren’t touching or grinding or anything crazy-just two people dancing while facing each other. I had a good buzz going now, and that made it easier to let loose. Riley didn’t have any crazy dance moves to bust out, but he had an easy gracefulness to his body that just sort of worked, even without much effort. He also didn’t seem very self-conscious, which was rare for someone as beautiful as him.

The song changed, and we danced some more. Then it switched to the dread of every college party: a slow song. Couples paired up, melding their bodies together as they began to slowly sway. Riley and I stared at each other, at an impasse.

“Want another drink?” he asked.

“Yes!” I replied.

We left the living room and went to the kitchen, where there was a line for the keg. His face was red, and I really noticed his scent now. It was delicious and more intoxicating than the beer we were about to get.

“So you play baseball, and want to save the world,” I said. “Tell me more about yourself, Riley.”

“My parents are from Stockholm, Sweden,” he said. “They moved here before I was born, so I’m a second-generation immigrant.” So he’s literally a viking. Nice.

“That’s really cool. Tell me something else about you.”

“Like what?”

I frowned in concentration. “Tell me something about yourself that your friends hate.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “This feels like a trick. Like when you get asked to name your weaknesses during a job interview.” I stared at him expectantly.

“Okay, I’ve got a good one,” he said. “I like lists.”

“Lists?”

“Top five lists,” he explained. “I make them for pretty much everything. Like, say, top five cities I want to live in when I’m older. Or top five musical artists.”

“I like that one!” I said as the line slowly moved. “Let’s hear it. Your top five bands.”

“Only if you tell me yours after,” he said, jabbing a finger at me. “That’s how it works.”

“Deal.”

As we shook hands, electricity seemed to connect between our skin. His hand was so large that it totally dwarfed mine, the fingers long and taut with strength. Just like the muscular arm it was connected to…

I tore my eyes up to his face and said, “You start at number five, right?”

He nodded. “Number five: Red Hot Chili Peppers. My dad used to listen to them while working on the car in the garage, and sometimes he would ask me to help. Number four: Metallica.” “Nice,” I replied.

“Number three: The Airborne Toxic Event.”

I frowned. “Is that a band, or the name of a terrorist attack?”

He laughed, which really made his crystal blue eyes shine. “They’re an indie band, and they’re kind of obscure. But I balance them out with number two: The Beatles.”

“Boo,” I said. “That’s a cliche answer.”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for the classics. Ready for number one? Drumroll, please.”

I turned and began drumming my fingers on the kitchen counter.

“Number one: The Killers.”

I pretended to be immensely relieved. “I like The Killers. That’s a good answer.”

“I’m glad my musical tastes meet your approval.” We reached the keg, and Riley began pumping the tap. His muscles bulged with easy strength.

“Your turn.”

Filling my cup with beer, I said, “Number five: Taylor Swift.”

Riley gave me an even look. “You’re better than that, Lauren.”

“What?” I shot back. “Midnights is such an amazing album! T-Swifty has grown so much since she was a teenager.”

“Fine, I’ll try to withhold judgment until the end. Number four?”

“Post Malone.”

His mane of perfect blond hair swayed as he nodded approvingly. “Okay.”

“Three: Hall and Oates.”

He abruptly stopped pumping the tap. “You’re kidding. I love Hall and Oates.”

I narrowed my eyes skeptically. “You’re just patronizing me.”This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

“Out of Touch is one of my favorite songs.” He abruptly started singing. “You’re out of touch. I’m out of time. But I’m out of my heaaaaaaaad when you’re not around.” He braced me by the shoulders and kept singing. “Oh. Oh oh ohhhhh. Oh oh oh!”

He had a surprisingly beautiful voice, and the bass from the techno song thumping in the other room actually kind of matched with the song. For a few seconds, I was frozen in place as he gripped my shoulders and sang to me. I didn’t get serenaded very often. And certainly not by someone looking like him.

“Watch out,” he suddenly said, voice returning to normal. “Lauren? The beer.”

I realized my cup was about to overflow, so I quickly handed it to him and started filling a second one. “Okay, I believe that you like Hall and Oates, even though they didn’t make your list.” “Number two?” he asked.

“Brandon Flowers.”

He gave a start. “You mean The Killers?”

“Nah,” I replied. “I like Brandon’s solo stuff more.”

Riley paused with the beer at his lips. He lowered it slowly and said, “It’s taking all of my willpower not to snap your neck right now.” “Riley!” I said with a laugh.

“I’m just kidding. I probably won’t murder you over your musical opinions.” He pointed his finger at me again. “But you’re on thin ice.”

“I’ll consider that my first warning.” I finished filling up the cup and handed the nozzle to the next guy in line. “And my number one favorite band…”

I took a long pull from the beer to draw out the suspense. Riley leaned in, totally transfixed by me. I liked having his attention. I liked him. And I was beginning to rethink my plans for the evening.

Suddenly, there was a scream in the other room. Someone shouted, “Cops! The cops are here!”

The police. “Shit!”