Censorshipped (Getting Shipped! #4)

by Savannah Scott

I need a Dukesercism. It’s like an exorcism, but instead of casting out some menacing spirit, I’d have Duke supernaturally removed from my thought life. Only I don’t want to have my head spin around and pea soup to fly in a projectile from my mouth like the girl in that classic horror film. A woman has her limits, even when it comes to getting over a mega-crush.

He’s a flirt. The king of flirts. He could give flirt lessons. Heck. He could even design an online course and become a world-famous flirtation instructor at the International Academy of Flirtation and Woo. Charm, charm, charm. That’s all that was. Standard issue, run-of-the-mill charm from the sultan of sweet talkers.

“Do you have a bucket list of daring things you want to do in life?” he asks casually. If you only knew. I’d reach over and run my hand over your day-old scruff, especially tracing the corners of your jaw where they jut out in that chiseled way making your face seem so masculine and rugged. Then I’d rest my hand on your thigh while we drive. And when you parked, I’d lean over and finally kiss you. I’d kiss you with a kiss we’d both never forget.

Seeing Duke shirtless as often as possible seems like a worthy use of my days.

“What the kiss meant was that I am seriously attracted to you, and not just physically. And I have been for a while. It meant you are too, if I was accurately reading all those soft sounds and the way you cupped my face and kissed me like I was the air you needed to breathe.”

“Do we regret it? I will never regret that kiss. If your brother comes home and sets an entire sniper team on me for touching you, I will still not regret that kiss. Whether you regret it is something you’ll have to tell me.

In an almost inaudible voice, deep, gritty and full of sincerity, he says, “I’ve wanted you for years, Shannon. For years.”

Then she flips over so she’s straddling my legs and her hands are in my hair, cradling my head while she looks at me like she’s in awe. We’re sitting here staring at one another, my hands on her hips, her hands in my hair, and our eyes saying so many things to one another.

When I look back at him, he’s still staring. He’s mouthing, “I want you.”

The rest of us find the good in the simple things like bonfires and festivals, barn dancing and nights around the lake. Most of all, it’s the people. We may drive one another nuts, but we wouldn’t know what to do without one another. That’s the best part of a small town–the people.

I’ve known you for as long as I can remember. And I know what I know. You’re it for me.”

“You’re my end game too,” she says softly.

Tears fall. It’s cool. I’m crying and I earned every drop. This woman. She’s been out of reach, completely unattainable–forbidden, even–and now she’s telling me I’m it for her.

When Chris hears about us, it’ll be an end game, alright. More like Marvel End Game, where half the population is wiped out by the rage of one man.

Bro code is dumb. This is your life.

I’m gone. Lost. At the point of no return. And it’s so much worse than I imagined. And better. Infinitely better.

They had it all wrong. I won’t break Shannon. She will decimate me. And I’m not going to stop her. If all I have are stolen moments between now and when Chris comes home, I’m going to take each one. No regrets. No hesitation. No holding back.

“We’ve basically been raised on corn and gossip with a little lovin’ in the mix for good measure.”

I’ve put together a new spotify playlist set to replay on a continuous loop. I call it “The Saddest Songs of the Seventies.” I’m laying on my couch crying and staring at the ceiling. Anyone who wants to can come grab my man card and throw it in the dumpster. I don’t need it anymore anyway. The only reason I wanted to be a man was for Shannon.