The Change Up (The Brentwood Boys, #5)

by Meghan Quinn

Before I knew it, I was staring into my fridge at dairy products not made from a cow, but rather from oat. What the fuck is that? Oat milk? Explain to me where an oat has a goddamn nipple. My toothbrush is made from bamboo, which gives off a very woody, splintery taste, and I’ve been using toothpaste tablets instead of paste from a tube . . . because apparently, tubes suck up life in the landfill. The eco-friendly toilet paper in my apartment disintegrates in my hand and is worthless, making bathroom breaks a fucking nightmare. And there’s a goddamn three-legged dog in a suit and tie sitting on my couch that goes by the name Herman.

“Maddox, that’s the most important knot of all time. You can’t leave out the vagina knot.”

“Don’t,” she yells. “I will pee the bed. I will pee right here, right now. All the pee. Puddles and puddles of pee. So much pee you’ll think Niagara Falls just came flooding through your room.”

“Once again, different for guys.” And what the fuck does she care about showing nipples? Hers are trying to poke people in the eyes every damn day.

“Oh good, thought I lost you. Anyway, you know what I’m talking about, right? A girl caressing your balls, pulling them into her mouth while she has a hold on your cock like it’s the only thing keeping her afloat? That’s way different than you just reaching down and fisting yourself. I mean, unless you’re pulling double duty with your hands, but even at that, if I try to picture it in my head, you’re all crouched over trying to waffle your balls around while jerking hard on your cock. Almost seems like you’re trying to do that rub your belly, pat your head trick, which in that case, oh boy, would it hurt if you get the motions wrong downstairs. One harsh yank on the nuggets would have you screaming out the Virgin Mary’s name in vain, along with her son and her husband. You know, a good old Jesus, Mary, and Joseph squeal.”

“Have you ever chafed down there from too much pleasure? I always wondered if that was a real thing. Like actual chafing. I’ve never chafed, but then again I’m not yanking on anything either, just diddling around. All we ladies get are pruney fingers, you know?”

“That’s it, Herman, give me those sultry eyes. Just like that. Make love to the camera. Think about all the bones and treats in your future. Just like that, oh yeah, look at those sad, dark eyes. You’re eating up this camera.”

“And if you tell me I need to take him back, I will cry. I will cry all the tears, and I will be sure to cry over you so you feel every tear that falls from my sad, heartbroken eyes. I will squat over you and drench you in my salty, somber tears, to the point that it turns into waterboarding. I will waterboard you with my tears.”

“Don’t be rude. Shake his paw and introduce yourself.”

“Can you please not swear in front of Herman? He’s dignified. I’m pretty sure he has a monocle somewhere but he keeps hiding it from me.”

“He’s fine. He has his bed. We left a night light on for him. He has one of my shirts and one of your shirts near him that we weirdly rubbed all over our bodies for scent, a blanket from his old home, and you sang him a good-night song.” “I think if you chimed in with backup, it would have helped.”

“Glad you asked. All I want is you naked, a cake . . . spread over your naked body, and for you to have two cherries on each nipple while you sing happy birthday to me.” I wink. “I’m a simple man.”

‘No, she was my courage. How could I possibly call her . . . without her?’”