Milkrun by Sarah Mlynowski Page B

knees, holding what I’m assuming was his surging manhood. “Do you believe?” Nat cried.
    I whipped my head away, and grabbed the phone again. This time I tried my answering machine code: five-four-three-two-one. I know, I know, I’m not the most original.
    Ring, ring.
    â€œDon’t look! Don’t look!” Natalie whispered frantically, but I could see his reflection in the inside door, and he was just…going at it.
    Ring, ring.
    â€œI don’t believe this is happening,” I whispered. “We have to do something.”
    Suddenly he “finished,” did up his pants, and walked away.
    â€œHellooooo?” said a very groggy, very annoyed voice from the nice people who lived at my answering machine. I hung up.
    â€œEw…” I said, pointing to the gift he had left us in the form of a white lump on the sidewalk.
    â€œI think I’m going to be sick,” Nat said.
    We waited until we saw a harmless-looking couple walk by, and then ran hysterically into the street to beg them to walk with us home.
    Nat slept on my couch because she was too freaked to drive home alone. “What if he creeps into my car and attacks me while I’m driving? What then?”
    We woke up Marc and Sam, forcing Marc to look out the window to make sure he wasn’t outside.
    â€œYou guys should never have walked home alone,” Marc criticized.
    â€œSo it’s our fault?” I asked. “It’s our fault that some guy’s a perv?”
    Marc shrugged. “I only meant that you should be more careful. Did you at least get a good look?”
    â€œDon’t be disgusting. I didn’t want to look down there.”
    â€œI meant at his face. You know, to identify him.”
    â€œOh. No, I didn’t.”
    â€œMaybe I should carry some sort of weapon,” Natalie piped up. “Like Mace. Or a gun. Something that would really scare a guy away.”
    â€œDo you think this is Texas?” I commented. “We can’t just go around shooting people.”
    â€œYou should have just ran outside and told the guy you wanted to get married, that you’re looking for a serious commitment. That always seems to scare them off,” Sam answered, shooting a sarcastic smile at her boyfriend. We all ignored her.
    â€œDo you at least remember what he was wearing?” Marc asked.
    â€œYeah, a jean jacket and jeans.” Natalie said. “Do you believe? You’re not supposed to wear a jean jacket and jeans together. What a fashion faux pas.”
    Then we ignored her. Then she actually had a half-decent idea—to take a self-defense course. So, yesterday at work, I spent half the day on the Net researching our options. It seems that most classes are all female and are led by male martial arts teachers. I could learn all kinds of cool moves like how to kick a guy where it hurts and poke his eyes out, without offending the teacher.
    Because I spent so much of yesterday surfing the Net, I have fallen more than slightly behind in my work. It’s just so hard to focus. I’ve started to see commas in my sleep, like when you play too much Tetris and start to mentally insert your pencil holder into that space between your bulletin board and the wall. Today I will work through lunch on this week’s manuscript, For the Love of a Cowboy.
    I take a bite of my sandwich and read on.
    â€œThe sensation made him cry out. He lowered his head and ran his hands over her peaked nipples. He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted Julie. He caught her hips, wrapping her long silky legs tightly around his waist, and drove himself deep within her hot wetness. She was tight and slick. With every stroke, his thrusts became deeper, harder, faster, and she moaned. He no longer cared what his family had said. Now that he had this woman, he knew he could never let her go.”
    â€œOh, Ronan!” I cry out through sticky lips that have been partially