“I know that look.”
I glance over to Emerson. “What look?”
Desi laughs that cackle of hers. “The I’ve fallen for a Malone man and I can’t get back up look . . . although, I’m not sure why you’d want to if one of them have fallen on top of you.”
“I have not fallen for a Malone man. I’m with Jett—”
“Such bullshit.” Desi laughs. “You so have and your secret is safe with me.”
“You two have had too much to drink and are now hallucinating.” I laugh and try to play off the raised eyebrows she’s giving me—the ones that are saying she knows the truth but won’t tell—as another round slides in front of us.
“Pregnant woman here,” Emerson says and points to herself. “Not drinking.”
“Then pregnancy brain,” I reassert.
“You are such a liar,” Desi scoffs. “You’ve seen Grady, right? All ripples and perfection and—”
“I’ve seen him, all right,” I murmur as I take a sip and think about yesterday. Grady coming home from being dad on Brody’s first day of school. The silent desperation in his every movement and expression. The way he held me, pulled me in, and didn’t take his hands off me until a long time later when we were naked beside each other in his bed and his breathing evened out.
“She’s fucked him.”
I’m not sure what else was said while I was thinking of all things Grady, but those three words definitely catch my attention. “Excuse me?” I sputter out a laugh.
“It’s written all over that face of yours,” Emerson says.
“Dreamy eyes,” chimes in Desi. “Check.”
“Squirming in your seat because . . . just damn.” Emerson sighs and then winks. “Check.”
“You guys are incorrigible.” I shake my head.
“We might be, but you know it’s true.”
“Double check,” I finally confess, garnering a holler from Desi.
“I have a million does-he-know-how-to-use-his-hose jokes I can throw at you, but I’ll spare you,” Desi says as she taps her wine glass to mine. “Just tell me one thing . . .”
“Oh God.” Emerson puts her hands over her eyes, worried about what comes next.
“Does he find you hot and leave you wet?” Desi throws her head back and laughs as I roll my eyes. She slaps a hand on the table. “I’ve always wanted to ask that.”
“Hey, Desi,” I say as I crook my finger for her to come closer. “You know what they say about firefighting, right? It’s all about the size, the equipment, and the technique . . . I’ll vouch that Grady’s the total package.”
“Well, hot damn. At least there’s one Malone man left. I still have hope.”
“Grayson is so not your type,” Emerson says.
“For the night he could be.” She lifts her eyebrows and laughs.
“Who’s gotta go pee? This prego,” Emerson says and raises her hand.
“C’mon,” Desi says as she slides off her own stool. “I’ve gotta go, too.”
I watch the two of them weave through the bar toward the bathroom as I play with the stem of my wine glass. This is just what I needed.
“Management says you’re not allowed in here for another week,” the bartender at my back says.
“I didn’t start shit,” a voice says, and I hate that every part of me hunches over to hide. It’s Wes Winters. The last time we saw each other, he was making an excuse as to why he couldn’t get hard and rabbiting out of Grady’s house. The night of reckless sex Grady said I needed to have in order to get over Jett ended up an embarrassing catastrophe.
But at least I got the good end of the stick. I smile and straighten my shoulders. I’ve got Grady Malone. Does Wes really even matter anymore?
Desi and Emerson come back and are getting seated when something is said that gets all of our attention.
“Why are you not allowed in here?” a male voice asks.
“Because of that asshole, Grady Malone. The fucker took a shot at me a few weeks back,” Wes says, and I can see Emerson slide a glance over to her side to see who is speaking.
“Malone? He’s usually chill. Why’d he have a beef with you?”
“He didn’t like the truth.”
The three of us look at each other, and suddenly, there is a pit of dread dropping into the bottom of my stomach. Like I want to turn this show off but can’t stop watching it, either. Because the only tie that connects Wes to Grady is me.
“The truth?” the friend says and laughs. “You’re worse than an old lady, Winters. Quit beating around the bush. What the hell happened?”
“Malone got all fired up because he overheard me talking about his roommate. Shit, I had beer goggles on when she asked me over to her place, and once I got there, I couldn’t fucking follow through. I’m all about getting laid, but even a drunk man has standards, and she . . . dude, you know me. I like ’em petite, and she’s definitely not petite, if you know what I mean.”
My cheeks grow red and heat flushes my entire body as Emerson and Desi give me the dreaded look of sympathy. Every part of me wants to crawl under the table and die from humiliation.
“That’s cruel,” the friend says.
“But it’s the truth,” Wes jokes in a boisterous voice. “So he threw a few punches to defend her honor and then probably went home and gave her a good pity fuck until someone better-looking comes along.”
I lower my eyes and stand slowly.
“Don’t listen to him.”
“He’s a prick,” they both say in unison, but I lift my eyes and meet both of theirs. “It’s okay. Please stay. I’m gonna go.”
And with that, I slink quietly out of the bar, mortification skewing my every thought and self-loathing at an all-time high.
I walk the streets of downtown Sunnyville. Each step another thought I shove away. Each street crossed another attempt to hide the heat of the tears coursing down my cheeks. Each house I pass, a way to evade the mortification that I’m slowly drowning in.
And each foot up Grady’s driveway is another stick prodding my shame to morph into anger and irrationality.
I haven’t thought of what I’m going to say to Grady, but the minute I walk in the door, I freeze. He’s sitting at the barstool bringing a spoonful of Cheerios to his mouth, and it stops mid-motion when he sees me.
“Where’ve you been?”
I know Emerson has called him by now. I know he knows what Wes said. The insults repeated for another person to know my shame.
“Is it true?” Was I just a pity fuck?
“Dylan?” He part laughs, part rejects the question with a shake of his head as he drops his spoon into the bowl.
“Yes. Or. No. That’s all I want to know, Grady.”
“What the ever-loving fuck are you talking about? Is what true?”
“Didn’t Emerson call you? Fill you in?” His blank stare tells me she didn’t, and for that, I owe her one for saving my dignity—or what little is left of it. “Your fight. Wes Winters. How he couldn’t fuck me because I wasn’t pretty enough or skinny enough or some shit like that. Ring a bell?”
Grady runs a hand over his jaw, the chafe of his stubble the only sound filling the room. “He’s an asshole.”
“And you punched him, but then when you came home, you couldn’t tell me who you hit or why you did it. Did you not want me to know? Did you not think I’d find out?”
“You weren’t exactly up front about telling me you two didn’t actually sleep together, either.”
I glare at him. His point is valid if who I did or didn’t sleep with is any of his fucking business. The hurt riots inside as I stare at Grady, so goddamn handsome, and I question myself. How did I think there was actually something between us when right now I feel like it was all started on a ruse? Because knowing I was a pity fuck isn’t exactly the best way to boost my ego.
“Would you have come home that night and slept with me without hearing what Wes said? Or did you walk in so pissed at him for being an asshole that you felt sorry for me? First Jett and then Wes . . . poor Dylan, right? So what? You knew I was self-conscious so you thought you’d step into the role—lower your standards—to help me feel a little better about myself for a week or two. Then make sure I’m gone when an attractive woman comes along to twist up your sheets.”
He stands where he is, angles his head to the side, and just stares at me, eyes pinning me motionless. There is so much conflict in his expression, but it has nothing on how I feel.
“You’re actually questioning me on this?” Anger colors his voice and disbelief weighs on his posture. “You actually think it was that bastard’s bullshit comment that made me want to sleep with you? You really think I’m that weak that I need another man to help determine who I fuck? Glad you think so highly of me, McCoy.” He rounds the counter and stands a few feet from me, his spine stiff, the muscle pulsing in his jaw as he glares at me.
“I know what I heard. I know what you did. And since you haven’t told me a fucking thing, I’ll believe what I assume.”
“Fuck you and your assumptions.”
“Considering you haven’t answered me yet, I guess I can say fuck you too.” I grit the words out as my tears burn paths down my cheeks. “Sorry you slummed it with me for a bit. I’ll make sure to be scarce so you can tune into your regularly scheduled program of beautiful women.”
“You’re wrong, Dylan. So fucking wrong.”
“I saw the look on your face when glitter-dress girl left that first morning. No one’s ever looked at me like that. So why should I believe you?”
“I haven’t slept with anyone since you showed up.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Um . . . glitter-dress girl?”
“Correction.” He sighs. “Since I actually met you. Don’t you think that says something? A lot of somethings?”
“Where I come from in Hollywood, all we say are somethings, and none of them hold any value.”
“Well, in my job, sometimes your only value is your word. When I say I’m going to be there for someone, their fucking life depends on it . . . so when I speak, I mean it.” He rolls his shoulders, and I can see his frustration.
“You still haven’t answered my question.” And I don’t care how many words he speaks or if he’s worth his weight in words because it’s the ones he’s not speaking now that scream the loudest.
“You don’t get it, do you? You don’t see what I see.” He steps forward and reaches out to me, but I yank my arm away. I’m too hurt, too ashamed, too irrational to be touched. I don’t trust myself, and if I don’t trust myself, then I sure as hell don’t trust what my reaction to even the tiniest ounce of comfort would be.
“Christ,” he mutters and paces from one end of the kitchen and back before turning to face me. “You want your words? Here they are. You’re fucking gorgeous. There, I said it, and I know you’re going to reject the compliment so I’ll say it again. You, Dylan McCoy, are the things wet dreams are made of. You and those thighs of yours you hate but I love.”
“Grad—”
“No.” He holds his hand up to stop me, and he just stares at me with such intensity I can’t remember what I wanted to say. “You weren’t a pity fuck, Dyl. You were far fucking from it. You’re the woman I keep thinking about, keep wanting more from, but can’t bring myself to ask you for it because I can’t give you shit. I can’t give you what you deserve because every time I think I can, I see Brody and Shelby. So, how can I ask you for more when I can’t give you a relationship? That isn’t fair to you . . . so I’m using you. Yep, I am. Using you because you’re the only thing I can get lost in when nothing else has made a dent in my pain. Using you because it’s what I need when I haven’t asked you what you need. Call me an asshole. Call me a fucker. But don’t you ever tell me this started with a pity fuck. Far from it.”
“Grady. Please don’t.”
“Please don’t? Screw that, Dylan. You wanted to know until I started telling you the truth . . . until I started telling you good things about yourself and made you uncomfortable, so hold tight, sweetheart, because I’m not even close to done.” He takes a step toward me as I shake my head, conditioned to mentally reject the things he’s yet to say. “This started the minute I saw you standing over there in a white fluffy robe held close at your neck, judging me like you had every right to. This started when you walked up to me in the kitchen and kissed the ever-loving life out of me to prove to Jett he couldn’t have you. And guess what? That night, the taste of your kiss seared into my goddamn mind, making sure no one else’s kiss could ever come close. This started when I walked in the kitchen the night of the fight so amped up on adrenaline wondering how in the world a man couldn’t get hard by just looking at you since that’s all I’d been doing since you showed up. You were standing right there”—he points to where I was sitting the night of the fight—“looking so beautiful, and I couldn’t help myself anymore. Sure, I was livid at Wes for what he said, but I was also so fucking thankful he didn’t get to do the things to you I was about to. I jerked off imagining you on my cock the night the bastard brought you home from the bar. Your moans. Imagining your body. Your taste. Your hot fucking pussy. That was all I needed to fucking come, and I hadn’t even tasted you or had you at that point.”
I look at him slack-jawed and stunned, his every word spoken with such conviction that they hit my ears and reverberate through my body so I can’t deny them.
He stares back, teeth gritted, eyes intense. He reaches out, pulls his hand back, and then reaches again without a hint of hesitation.
His lips meet mine. There’s anger on his tongue. There’s frustration in his touch. There’s passion in every movement of his mouth against mine.
I fight him at first. The mixture of his words and my anger and Wes’s shame spin in a storm of uncertainty, making my head dizzy and my heart ache, but his lips . . . his lips steal its thunder with each and every second they claim mine.
He takes without asking. He claims and seduces and demands without a single word. But the one thing that is constant is his anger. And just when I think I’m drowning in the swell of emotion his kiss evokes, he ends it abruptly. He shoves away from me as if he’s been burned.
He stands before me, my lipstick smeared on his lips, his shoulders heaving, his hands flexing at his sides, and his eyes piercing. “If that’s pity, Dylan, take pity on me, because I’m the asshole who would do it all over again without a second thought. So blame me. Hate me. But don’t you ever fucking blame yourself again.”
Grady heaves in a deep breath and then throws his hands my way as if to say he’s so angry with me and this conversation that he has nothing else to add. Then he slams out the back door, leaving me standing there staring after him with my fingertips touching my lips. Lips that are still buzzing from his kisses. My head is a bigger mess than when I walked in here, but for a very different reason.
Tears well in my eyes, and a contradictory laugh falls from my lips.
“You were standing right there looking so beautiful, and I couldn’t help myself anymore.” Talk about the unexpected. Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
Find ’em hot and leave ’em wet just got a whole new meaning.