Getting It Right!. Rhonda Nelson

was the go-to girl for advice.

      “That stare.” She cocked her head toward the bar. “Ben’s been boring a hole through you for the past fifteen minutes.” Her lips curled. “My guess is that he’s mentally stripped you naked and committed carnal acts upon your person on every available surface in this room, ones that would undoubtedly end your suffering,” she said, needling April significantly, then sipped her drink and sighed. “If only you’d let him.”

      April closed her eyes and let go a shuddering breath as Frankie’s graphic description too readily materialized behind her lids. Her friend was right, she knew.

      And she was suffering.

      Without warning and for no apparent discernable reason, her Big O had vanished. Or at the very least headed for higher ground. For the past eighteen months—eighteen miserable, excruciatingly frustrating months—and despite multiple attempts, self-inflicted and otherwise, she’d been unable to climax. It was as though whatever tripped her trigger had been unwittingly put on safety.

      At first, April had chalked her unhappy malady up to stress. With the creation of Chicks In Charge—a brainchild born in this very pub and an organization designed for the express purpose of empowering women everywhere—as the Webmistress of the movement, she’d been too busy to think about whether or not her hot button was disengaged.

      Between building the original site, then pulling the CHiC e-zine together, not to mention maintaining sites for previous customers and working on prior contracted work, she’d been burning her candle at both ends.

      Luckily, she was at her best under pressure and, though she was tired, it was the pleasant sort of exhaustion brought about by a job well-done. It was only in the past month when things had slowed to a more comfortable pace that the absence of a sex life and, more importantly, the melting pleasure of a hard, mind-numbing orgasm, had begun to wear on her.

      And seeing Ben Hayes on a weekly basis—a six-and-a-half-foot, rock-hard and irreverent reminder of what she was missing—certainly wasn’t helping matters. Hell, he wasn’t dubbed The Vagina Whisperer for nothing, April thought with a small smile, wondering if he knew about the nickname.

      Ben was a quintessential bad boy, a guy from the so-called wrong side of the tracks who thumbed his nose at the middle class, hated the idle rich and showed his disdain by competently seducing any girl he supposedly couldn’t have, usually one already attached or engaged to a guy belonging to one of the aforementioned groups. He was a legendary lover, one of those fix-me males, and had left more than one broken heart in his wake…and, April thought as she took another sip of her beer, had her mother not intervened at a timely moment in her midteens, she would have undoubtedly ended up as one of them, as well.

      “I know you said that Ben’s father worked for your family while the two of you were growing up,” Frankie said casually as the rest of the little group around their table continued to chat. “But to be honest, April, I’ve always suspected a deeper acquaintance. Something more than just childhood friends.”

      As usual, Frankie’s perceptive intuition was dead-on. They had been more than friends, at least until her mother had forbidden Ben to come near her. Funny thing, that, April thought now. Ben—her rebel—had been willing to fight for everything. Her lips twisted with bitter humor.

      Everything, that is, except her.

      Honestly, she’d never expected him to give in so easily. She’d been convinced of his affection, so certain of his love. Teenage fancy, she thought now. They hadn’t been in love. She’d merely suffered from an extreme crush and he’d…Well, evidently, he’d just been horny. Furthermore, he’d changed after that encounter. Her good-hearted bad boy had become bewilderingly embittered. Angry, even.

      “There was nothing more,” April lied, the fib souring on her tongue. “We were friends. Our fathers served in Vietnam together. Ben’s dad was injured while under my father’s command, and couldn’t keep steady work when they came home.” She shrugged. “Dad hired him, gave his family a place to live.”

      Frankie quirked a dark brow. “He felt responsible then?”

      April nodded. “Yeah. Still does, I think.” He’d never told her why—and given the fact that she’d unwittingly forced him out of the closet a couple of years ago, their once-close relationship had become slightly…strained of late. April resisted the urge to roll her eyes. As if she cared about his sexual preference. She just wanted her father back.

      Granted, having a father who was just as adept as she was at spotting a good-looking guy was a little unnerving, but in all honestly, after twenty years with her mother—The Great Emasculator—April was just glad that he’d found someone to make him happy. She only wished that her father would share that special someone with her.

      Despite her attempts to wheedle an introduction, her father maddeningly continued to keep his companion’s identity a secret. Her father was a good man, though, and deserved a bit of belated joy. As for her mother, well…She wouldn’t go into what she deserved, April thought ominously.

      “Why don’t you just go talk to him?” Frankie said, once again bringing the subject back to Ben, or more accurately, April having sex with Ben.

      April hesitated, then gave her head a small shake. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

      “And I think you’re overthinking it.” She shrugged. “He’s obviously interested.”

      Yeah, now, April thought, after years of being distantly polite. It didn’t make any sense. She briefly tuned into the conversation currently occupying the residents at their table. Zora and Tate were still arguing over who’d ultimately gotten Frankie and Ross together, and Carrie, the fourth and final member of their Chicks In Charge board, was looking on with an indulgent though tired smile.

      Poor Carrie, April thought. She might have lost her orgasm, but Carrie was the only member of their little group who was still in a miserable job, beholden to a bastard employer. Carrie was a fantastic chef, though, and they were all convinced that good things were bound to be coming her way. In fact, the producers at Let’s Cook, New Orleans!—a nationally syndicated program—were supposedly looking at their friend as a possible host and, in April’s opinion, the show couldn’t come soon enough.

      Satisfied that she wasn’t missing any new gossip, she summoned a wry smile and shifted against her bar stool. “We’re supposed to be celebrating your impending nuptials, not worrying over my little problem,” she said, hoping to change the subject. She knew Ben was the answer to her problem, she just wasn’t looking forward to the conversation that would have to precede the cure.

      Frankie shot a fond look at her husband-to-be. “Believe me, Ross and I have our own special brand of celebrating.”

      Unable to help herself, April grinned and determinedly ignored the prick of envy in her chest. She could just imagine. It was nice to see two of her best friends find their perfect mate. Zora and Tate had already tied the knot and Frankie and Ross weren’t too far behind.

      “And you don’t have a little problem,” Frankie continued doggedly. “After a year and a half, it’s a big problem, babe.” She cocked her head. “If Ben can’t cure what ails you, then I think you need to seriously consider seeing a doctor. Something’s not right. It’s…” She frowned thoughtfully. “It’s unnatural. Seriously. For the love of Mike, just go talk to him,” Frankie ordered with an exaggerated huff. “What have you got to lose?”

      Logic told her nothing, but intuition begged to differ. That’s why she’d been dragging her heels and refused to seek out Ben’s particular brand of expertise. Honestly, hearing about his sexual forays—and there’d been too many satisfied women singing his praises to avoid it—April grimly suspected even a casual encounter would cost her more than she could pay.

      A beat slid into three, then Frankie arched a shrewd brow. “Oh, my,” she said knowingly. “So it’s like that.”

      April’s beer stalled halfway to her mouth and she shot Frankie