I open my eyes to see her dressed in her pants with her hands covering her naked breasts.
“Headache. Probably from the sun.” Bullshit. But whatever.
“What time is it? I should probably get home.”
I cannot fucking believe this shit.
Moving up from the bed, I snag a shirt and slip on my shoes. “Sure, let’s get you home.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
No, I’m sure as shit not okay. “Fine. You ready?”
She nods and moves past me. I don’t follow her right away, but instead stare at my bed. Minutes ago, that place held so much promise, a possible future. Life altering shit. But now, the bed is empty, and the sheets are twisted, just like my insides feel.
She’s downplaying our experience and putting me back into the asshole player category she had me in when we met. Reducing her worth into nothing more than a meaningless one-night-stand, with nothing to show for it but—in her words—a goopy condom in my trashcan.
Nineteen
Layla
I can’t believe it happened. It finally happened! With a man—a gorgeous man—for the first time. Ever.
I’m floating on the high of post-orgasm bliss and empowerment. To add celebration to my sex-high, I didn’t hear Stewart’s voice in my head one time. Blake’s verbal affirmations drown out Stewart’s internal assaults. Is it possible that this could be a breakthrough to my healing?
It’s all so new. A sexual relationship on my terms. Not born out of duty or obligation, but choice. Breathing deep, a grin curls my lips. I haven’t been able to wipe it from my face since… sigh…
My body’s still humming. The memory of what he did with his hands, his mouth, his—wow. A wave of arousal rolls through my body. After we finished, I wasn’t thinking clearly. If I had, I’d have asked for a round two.
I guess it’s best that I didn’t. He was quiet on the drive home and didn’t walk me to my door like he usually does. He said he had a headache, but something tells me it’s more than that. So caught up in my sexual achievement, I didn’t slow down long enough to think about how sleeping with his boss’s assistant might affect him. Or maybe it was the C-section scar that freaked him out? Oh no! What if he thinks I’m horrible in bed? Insecurity washes over me. What if he regrets having sex with me?
“I’m heading out.” Elle strolls into the kitchen, where I’m eating peanut butter out of the jar.
I shake away the direction of my thoughts and focus on my daughter. “No, you’re not.” Licking my spoon, I dig in for another bite.
She slides into the seat across from me. I notice she doesn’t have all that dark makeup on, and she’s wearing a shirt that covers most of her skin. “Mom, I know I totally messed up, and you probably don’t trust me to make good choices.”
I nod. She’s got that right.
“I’ve been hanging out with a new girl at school. She’s friends with Killian. Her number’s on the fridge.” She points to the pink Post-it note stuck to the freezer door. “Her name is Cara, and her mom’s name is Suzanne. I put her mom’s cell number up there too.”
I swing my gaze from the Post-it to Elle. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
She leans back in her chair. “Call her. Call her mom. They’ll tell you.”
Narrowing my eyes at her, I lean in and point my peanut butter spoon in her face. “If you’re not lying, then tell me what your plans are. I’ll call Suzanne and cross-reference your story with hers. If it checks out, you’re free to go.”
“We’re going to the school play and then to have pizza with some friends in the drama department. Killian will be there. And if it’s cool with you, Cara said I could stay the night.”
I hop up and dial Suzanne’s number into my cell phone. After a very pleasant conversation with Cara’s mom, I decide that Elle is telling the truth.
“Okay, your story checks out. You can go, but you have to promise to call me before you go to bed.”
Elle claps her hands and jumps up from her seat. “I will, I promise.” She moves over to me and wraps me in a bear hug.
I hug her back as hard as I can and hope it communicates how much I love her and how proud I am that she was honest with me. “I love you, Axelle.”
She pulls back and studies me, her eyebrows pinched together. “You never call me that. I mean, unless you’re pissed.”
I shrug and twirl a piece of her silky hair between my fingers. “I know, but it’s your name. I should call you that.”
Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she gives me one last hug. Cara shows up a few minutes later to pick her up. She seems like a nice girl, clean cut without a hint of rebellion. After waving the girls off, I go to my room and pull on tube socks that go up to my knees, a cozy pair of shorty-shorts, and a long-sleeved tee. I move into the living room and flop on the couch with the remote.
Seven at night on a Saturday and I’m channel surfing. Alone. Fabulous.
A couple of really bad reality television shows later, I’m wide awake and staring at the clock. What’s a girl to do on a Saturday night all alone? My eyes drift to the clock again. I’d go see if Mac was at The Blackout but don’t feel like getting ready.
Orrrr… One side of my mouth lifts into a grin. I could drive over to Blake’s and surprise him. I’d just check on him and see how he’s feeling. Maybe make him something to eat. My belly cartwheels at the thought of cuddling up with Blake. Holding his head in my lap while we channel surf.
In a hurry, before I talk myself out of it, I slip on some shoes and race out the door. Giddy, I jump into the Bronco and drive toward Blake’s house.
This is so impulsive, and on my terms. I blast the classic rock station that’s playing “Hotel California” by The Eagles. Before long, I’m parked and racing up the stairs to Blake’s condo.
I pound on the door and ring the bell, smiling and bouncing on my toes. There’s music, faint, but loud enough to be heard through the solid wood door. He won’t be able to hear my knock over the blaring beat.
Sticking my ear to the door, I wait for a break in the track. The drum solo throbs against my ears, and I try to identify the song. When the vibration of the bass dies, I ring the doorbell, this time louder and longer. I press my ear to the door again. The music shuts off. Butterflies swirl in my stomach. I lick my lips, so excited to see him and jump into his arms.
By the time I hear the lock click, I’m practically squealing with excitement. The door opens and… my smile dissolves along with my enthusiasm.
Blake stands in the doorway, a scowl etched into his face. His shirtless torso shimmers with sweat down to his jeans, and the top button of his fly hangs open.
And he’s barefoot. What in the hell did I just interrupt?
His narrow glare moves from my tube-socked feet, up my legs, over my belly, and to my eyes. I shake my head, as if my body is speaking the word my lips won’t voice. No.
I take a step back, and for the first time I see something flare in his eyes, but I can’t read it.
“Mouse? What the hell are you doing here?”
“You’re, um… busy.” I can’t take my eyes off the open buttons of his jeans. “I’m gonna go.” But I can’t move.
How could he do this? He had sex with me this afternoon, and now he’s with someone else. The little voice inside my head says I saw this coming all along. It shouts that I should’ve known after he didn’t walk me to my door. This is what bad boys do, and to expect anything else is naive. The voice reminds me I can’t get my heart broken. It’s impossible. But damn, why does it feel like it’s breaking now?