Authors: Nazarea Andrews
"Fine.
Lunch. But nothing fancy."
A
secret smile colors his voice when he says, "Deal."
We're
silent for a moment, and I can hear the sound of someone in the background
calling his name, and I flush. "I should let you go."
"Yeah.
I left a client in the middle of a tattoo piece. I should probably finish. But
I'll see you tomorrow, perfect girl."
I
hang up the phone, and turn it off. Because as much as I want to look at the
texts I know it’s a bad idea.
But
I can’t keep the smile off my face. Tomorrow, I’m going to see him again.
Chapter
11
:
Before
I’m
not sure what hurts more—my back or my head. It’s pounding and my back feels
like I brawled with Scott. I glance down and mutter a curse.
I
groan and roll to my stomach, propping my head in my hand as the world spins
dizzily.
“Scott,”
I croak.
“He
went to get breakfast. Said to let you sleep.”
I
jerk upright, and glare over my shoulder at the blonde girl leaning against the
door jam.
“What
the hell are you doing here?”
Lindsay
lifts one eyebrow, a quiet censure in that single move, and I am suddenly
acutely aware that I’m naked in a room that doesn’t belong to me. “What
happened?” I demand.
“You
were drunk, Rike, but I didn’t think you were that out of it,” she says stiffly.
I flip her off weakly and she makes a grumpy noise before retreating. I
scramble to find some clothes in her absence, and tug on my jeans.
I hear a door slam, and for a moment, I think she’s
gone before I hear Scott talking to her, his voice pitched low. Then he
appears, and his eyes skim over me, assessing.
“What
happened?” I ask. I haven’t been blackout drunk since the night—I shut that
thought down and focus on my best friend. “Did I fuck her?”
Scott’s
expression turns grumpy. “You’re a self-destructive bastard, you know that?”
I
stare at him.
“You
wanted to do this. Remember? You wanted to get laid and get Peyton out of your
head.” His voice is mocking and angry.
I
do remember. But the thought of anyone…it makes my stomach twist and I want to
shower that dirty feeling away. A look of disgust flicks across Scott’s face
and he steps into the room, crowding into me. “You’re being a dick, man. I know
shit with Peyton is messed up, but there’s no reason to drag another girl into
it. Especially a girl like Lindsay.”
My
eyebrows climb. “Lindsay is a one night stand that keeps coming back. What the
hell does she have to do with anything?”
Scotty
makes a disgusted noise and turns away. “You called her a whore, man. And then
passed out naked in my bed. I’d be careful who you throw stones at when you’re
trying to cheat.”
I
flinch but he doesn’t see and he wouldn’t care.
Scotty
doesn’t like when we treat the girls like they’re disposable. It’s one thing to
take a pretty willing thing back home for fun. It’s something else to treat
them like trash.
“I
asked her because I knew she wouldn’t go through with it. She wouldn’t let you
fuck her. So even if you didn’t get your head out of your ass, you wouldn’t
destroy the only good thing you’ve got going for you,” Scott says. “You’re
welcome.”
I
flinch. What the fuck was I doing last night?
No
answers to be found in bed and I’m not quite ready to face either of them. So I
do what any self-respecting dude would do and I duck into the shower.
When
I emerge, I feel vaguely human. My head is still pounding and my stomach twists
with the remnants of too much beer the night before. Or whatever we were
drinking. I dress silently and then step out of the bedroom and come
face-to-face with Scotty and Lindsay.
I
manage, barely, to keep from making a face at the sight of her.
"Coffee?"
she says, her voice false warmth. I grunt and she moves to pour a cup, shooting
Scotty a dark look while she does.
"Someone
want to clue me in on what the hell happened last night?" I grit out.
Scotty
lets out a slow breath. "You wanted a girl. I don't know what happened
between you and the siren, but we started the set and you drank yourself
fucking stupid. Lindsay and I got you home and I knew you what you said—but
when she tried to touch you, you flipped the fuck out. Almost hit her."
His
tone is dark and furious and I understand it. I've never touched a woman. Not
in violence. That I was that shitty… "I'm sorry," I whisper. There's
a breath of silence, and I stare at the dark coffee swirling in my mug. I don't
want to see the disappointment in Scott's eyes and I'm not ready to look at
Lindsay, not yet. "I don't know what else to say. Just that I fucked up
and I’m so sorry. It's won't happen again."
"Do
you even understand why it happened this time?" Lindsay asks, and her
voice is tinged with annoyance.
"Because
you aren't Peyton."
"You fucking knew that, Rike. You weren't
under any illusions about who you were going home with."
I
wasn't but I don't like what that says about me. "Why the fuck were you
about to cheat on her?" she asks. “Even if I wouldn’t have let it
happen—what the fuck were you thinking?”
"It's
not your business," I say, my gaze finally lifting to find hers.
"Bullshit.
If you want that, you should probably avoid bringing me home. But here I am,
and I got to deal with your shitty temper, so why don't you do us both the
favor of being honest?"
"I
was pissed. I don't know. It was a shit move and I won't repeat it."
She
sits in silence for a moment, and I want to shove away from the table and bolt.
Her gaze is too sharp and too assessing, and she doesn't like what she sees.
I
don't blame her. I don't like me very much at the moment either.
"She
cares about you, Rike. I know you're probably wondering, because I know Peyton.
She likes her privacy and she fucking adores her secrets. But she likes you and
she's let you get close to her. She doesn't do that for anyone. Don't fuck that
up. And don't use me to hurt her. I'm not down with that bullshit."
My
gaze cools and it skates over her, just as judgmental as hers on me had been.
"Then what the fuck are you doing here?"
She
shrugs. "I'm here for Scott, asshole. It has nothing to do with you."
I
jerk, throwing a startled look at Scotty. He’s ignoring me, sipping his coffee
with a careful eye watching Lindsay.
What
the hell is happening here, and how did I miss it?
“If
you got your head out of your ass,” Lindsay says, “maybe you wouldn’t miss it.”
Scott
snorts a laugh and I realize I’ve spoken out loud. I flush.
“I’m
gonna
go,” Lindsay says. Scott rises and kisses her
briefly, and my eyes narrow. “Call me later?”
He
nods and she waves at me with a narrowed eyed look before ducking out of the
kitchen. I hear the apartment door slam behind her and my eyes go wide as I
stare at my best friend like I’ve never seen him.
“What
the actual fuck, Scott?”
He
shrugs. “She’s a nice girl, man. And we’ve both been bored, with you and
Pey
so wrapped up in each other.”
I
stare at him for a long minute, long enough that he fidgets and finally looks
up at me.
His
eyes are bright and daring me to say something. And because I'm an idiot, I do.
"You actually care about Lindsay?"
"Why
the hell is that so hard to believe?" he asks.
"Because
that's not your M.O."
"Taking
a month to fuck a girl isn't yours," he snaps back. And stands. Rinses his
cup with his back to me.
It's
covered in tattoos and scars, and I know all of the markings as well as I know
my own hands. Fuck, I put some of them there. "She matters, Rike. End of
story. Go back to your siren, and try not to fuck up what we both have going on
here."
He
doesn't say anything else as he stalks out of the kitchen and I'm left standing
with a cold cup of coffee and no fucking clue how the hell our life got so
weird so damn fast.
***
She's
furious when I step into the little deli. It's off the campus of
UT ,
cheap and not very good, but she likes it and I humor
her. Right now, she's sitting in our normal booth, her computer on the table
next to her BLT, ignored as she taps angrily at the phone in her hand.
Her
gaze, when it swings up to meet mine, is hot and hurt, her lips a tight
unforgiving line, and I let out an inaudible sigh.
"What
the hell were you thinking last night?" she snaps while I slip into the
booth.
"Why
do psychologist hate elevators?” I stare at her, my gaze pleading for her to
pick up her line of the joke, but she just sits back and crosses her arms over
her pretty breasts, glaring and waiting for the explanation I don't have.
"Because they drive you up a wall."
It
doesn't get a response, but I didn't really think it would. I just had to try.
"I'm
not in the mood for that shit, Jokes," she says sharply. "You fucking
took my roommate home last night. How the hell do you expect me to overlook
that?"
"I
didn't know Peyton was your roommate," I say softly."
Her
eyes go impossibly wide. "Is that really what you're worried about right
now?"
"I
think it is," I say slowly, deliberately, weighing my words. My gaze
flicks over her face. "I think it's the issue. I know all the reasons we
shouldn’t work. I'm not good for you. I have a shit ton of baggage. I deal with
shit by avoiding it, or picking a fight. By taking another girl home to fuck.
Those are all the reasons we shouldn't work. But that's not the reason we'll
fall apart."
"No?"
she says sarcastically and I shake my head, leaning back. I'm mirroring her,
and it pisses her off--her arms drop almost defiantly to the table top.
"It
won't work because you refuse to trust me. You won't tell me a goddamn thing
about you. You don't mind seeing my world—"
"What,
a shitty bar and a record store? A tattoo shop? That's the only part of your
world that you'll show me."
"That's
the only part of my world that matters," I almost shout. "That's what
I give a fuck about. So you can think
it's
shit. I
don't give a fuck. But that's the reality of my world. A dirty bar, a shitty
record store and a rundown tattoo shop. A best friend who doesn't know what the
fuck boundaries are. That's what's important to me. The question is if you can
deal with it."
"What
the hell makes you think I can't?" she growls.
"Because
you bolt every time things start to get serious." I shoot back. "You
like the danger of it. You like me finger fucking you on the stage, you like
that I'm not like all the other frat boys you play with. But you won't be
honest with me for five fucking minutes."
She's
pale and almost shaking in her side of the booth, her fingers white-knuckled as
they clench around her glass of unsweet tea. "I'm honest," she
whispers. "I’ve never lied to you."
I
shrug. "There's a
helluva
difference between
lying and not telling the truth. What is it about me that you want but can't
stand to get close to? Because that shit won't work for me."
“I'm
not the one who took another dude home. You took my roommate home and fucked
her and you’re making it seem like I'm the one who fucked up."
"You
don't trust me. So arguing with you about what happened isn't worth it."
I
lean across the table and grab half her sandwich. She's staring at me and her
eyes are furious. I sigh. "I didn't touch her. You can ask her and Scott
if you don't believe me. Or you can tell me to fuck off and we can both cut our
losses.
Kinda
wonder if that's not a good
option."
"How
can you say that?" she asks, hurt crossing her face, scrunching her brow
and shadowing her blue eyes.
I
shrug. "I know why this shouldn't work. I knew before I ever walked up to
you in Barrie’s. But I don't give a fuck. I'm falling for you. And I want to
think you’re falling for me. But you can't even tell me why you're in my bar or
what the hell it is you do on that fucking computer. I find out after three
weeks that the girl I fucked two months ago is your roommate. I can't do this.
I can't fall for you if you're going to pull away from me and keep secrets.
Because I won't be able to put up with them forever and eventually, I'll want
to know some shit you aren't willing to share. And by then, I'll be in too deep."
I look at her, and shrug. Smile a tiny little smile. "If this thing
doesn't work, I'd rather it fall apart now."
I
slip out of the booth. She's still staring at me, her eyes wide and terrified.
Why the hell does she look so scared? I shove that thought aside. It doesn't
matter. Even if I asked, she wouldn't tell me. She doesn't tell me anything.
“You
almost cheated on me. You tried to cheat on me. How the actual fuck did this
become about me?” She demands.
“Because
the only reason I went to her is because of the secrets. I fucked up, even
thinking about it. But this isn’t all on me.”
I
lean forward, "This has to be more than good sex and superficial
conversation, Peyton. As fucking awesome as that is, I can't just do
that." I wait for her to say something—any fucking thing—to stop me. But
she doesn't.