“WHO WAS THAT?” Tiffanie asks, breathless and chest rising and falling. She brushes the messy hair from her face.

“My roommate,” I say. My hands slide away from her thighs and I breathe in a lungful of her overzealous perfume. The plan was to kick things off down here and then carry her up to my room and have my way with her, but she pounced on me the second she stepped through the door.

It all happened so fast, and I’m not even hard anymore.

One look at Melrose’s tear-stained face and my little party-for-two was ruined.

Crying girls is my Kryptonite. It’s the one thing I can’t handle, the one thing that reminds me I do, indeed, have a heart and the ability to feel as much as I like to believe I’m immune to that shit.

Mom left when I was in high school and I spent the majority of my formative teenage years under the roof of an authoritarian dictator who solved all his problems with a nightly bottle of Ten High from the liquor outlet on Harvester Road and a two-liter of store-brand cherry cola.

Emotions weren’t a thing in our house.

Didn’t make the cut for the team? So what. Stop being a crybaby and find another sport.

Girlfriend dumped you? Screw her. Women are nothing but trouble anyway.

There was never sympathy, never any pats on the back or words of encouragement, and I grew up thinking that was normal, that men were wired not to feel a damn thing. Turns out when I got to my twenties and had a string of failed relationships, I realized being stone cold was not normal.

And I also learned I had no clue what the hell to do or think or say when someone else is visibly upset … but I can’t sit back and do nothing.

I can’t screw Tiffanie tonight while Melrose is upstairs crying.

“Sutter.” Tiff rakes her nails through my hair, pressing her tits against me before nuzzling her nose against my ear.

My hands rest on her hips and I release a hard breath. “I’m sorry.”

She sits up, chin angled to the side as she studies me. “You’re sorry? What are you talking about?”

I glance at her smooth, O.C. tits and feel … nothing. They might as well be non-sexual grapefruits at this point. All I keep picturing is the look on Melrose’s swollen, makeup-stained face when she walked in, and all I keep thinking about is that squeeze in my chest when I knew something was wrong.

“You should go.” I reach to my left, grabbing Tiff’s top and bra and handing them over before sliding her off of my lap.

“You serious?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I straighten my jeans and glance toward the stairs. I need to go up and check on her, but I have no idea what the hell to even say.

We’re not even friends and she’s done nothing but annoy the ever-loving shit out of me since she got here, but something compels me to go to her.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, clasping her bra.

“No.”

She tugs her top over her hair before fluffing her hair over her shoulders. “I don’t understand …”

“I’m … not in the mood anymore.” I swipe her purse off the back of an arm chair and hand it over before escorting her to the front door. “I’m sorry. Another time?”

“I cancelled a Bumble date tonight to come over here.” She steps into her heels, speaking through clenched teeth as she eyes the staircase. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. And go fuck yourself.”

With that, she yanks my door open and slams it behind her, and I head to the kitchen to grab a couple of beers.

By the looks of things, she’s going to need one, and if I’m going to be putting my assholery aside, I’m going to need one too.

A moment later, I’m standing outside Melrose’s door, two sweaty beer bottles under one arm as I knock.

“Go away, Sutter,” she calls, voice stuffy.

I knock again.

“Go. Away,” she says.

A third knock should do it. A fourth if I must. I’m not going anywhere tonight.

Seconds later, the door swings open with a hard pull and Melrose’s frown neutralizes when she sees the drinks in my hand.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“You look like you had a rough night.” I hand hers over, but she doesn’t accept it right away.

Her tired stare rests on my outstretched hand. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Weirding you out too, huh?”

I manage to get the smallest smile out of her. I think. It’s gone before I can be sure.

Finally taking my generous gift, Melrose raises her brows and takes a swig. “Guess not.”

“You want to talk about it?” I ask, hooking my hand behind my neck. I’m terrible at these kinds of things and I don’t like to talk for the sake of talking, but I’ve come this far.

“Is your girlfriend gone?” She ignores my question.

“Acquaintance. And yeah. I sent her home.”

“You did?” Her forehead crinkles, like she doesn’t believe it.

I nod. And I don’t believe it myself. I’ve never put sex on the back burner so I could comfort some crying chick.

“I need to let Murphy out.” Melrose scoops the wrinkly beast into her arms and treks downstairs, cutting through the living room and kitchen to get to the backyard.

I follow, stepping out to the patio and sliding the door closed behind me. Murphy trots off, disappearing somewhere in the dark yard, and Melrose takes a seat on one of the steps. The moonlight makes her shine almost, painting a glow onto her bronzed skin and silky hair.

“So … you’re okay then?” I ask, picking at the label on my bottle. It occurs to me that I still haven’t thanked her for folding my shirts the other day, but this doesn’t feel like the right time.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says.

“Do what?”

“Feel sorry for me,” she says, turning and glancing up. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you. I don’t even know what happened,” I say. “But judging by the way you were dressed when you came home … I’m thinking it had to do with some douche.”

“You were right, Sutter.” She picks at the label on her bottle. “I went out with Robert McCauley tonight.”

My chest tightens. I already know where this is going.

“He took what could’ve been a memorable evening and turned it into a Hollywood cliché ripped straight from last year’s headlines.” She draws her knees against her chest and clasps her hands around them. “All my years trying to make it and all the dates I’ve been on, I’ve never felt so cheap and used.”

I take the spot on the stairs beside her, catching a whiff of her fragrant perfume as it’s carried by a breeze. This one’s different from the one she wore on moving day. It’s subtle and pretty, unassuming. Like clementines and apricots or some shit.

Melrose takes a drink, tapping her painted nails on the green bottle and squinting like she’s lost in thought.

“What guy thinks that making you touch his hard-on is a good precursor to sex?” she asks. “Is that supposed to turn me on? Grabbing my hand and forcefully making me touch it?”

“Did he hurt you?” I glance down at her wrists, but it’s too dark out here to tell if there are any marks.

“Not physically, no,” she says. “I was a little shaken up afterwards.” Melrose lifts a hand, which is still trembling. “Guess I still am.”

“You need to report this.” My chest tightens and I realize I’m holding my breath. I could kill him. I could fucking kill him.

For the briefest moment, I picture body slamming the fat bastard against the back of his Ferrari.

Melrose shakes her hand. “I kind of just want to forget it happened.”

Placing my bottle aside, I shake my head. “I’m sure you’re not the only one. Guy’s probably done it to dozens of other girls. And he probably keeps doing it because it probably works for him. I’m glad you were wrong and all and stood up to him, but you can’t let him get away with this.”

“What are they going to do? It’s my word against his,” she says. “They’ll probably think I’m making it up.”

“Who gives a flying fuck what they think? This needs to be reported.”

Melrose turns toward the yard, watching Murphy sniff a magnolia bush.

Rising, I motion for her to join me. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ll drive you.”

Melrose angles her face toward me, resting her cheek against the top of her knee. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Does it matter?”

“No. I guess not,” she says, standing. “It’s just … I don’t know if you’re trolling me or if this is real.”

“I’m not trolling you, Melrose. I don’t joke about this shit.” I have to admit, it’s kind of nice being civil with her for once. “I might be a dick sometimes, but I’m not heartless.”

Her full lips part, like she’s about to respond, but the buzz of her phone hijacks her train of thought.

Swiping her thumb across her screen, she taps on a message. A quick glance shows it’s from Nick. Her swollen eyes scan the words before a smile claims her mouth, and she taps out a quick response.

Funny how one text from Nick can put an enormous grin on her face, probably making her forget about everything that happened tonight.

“Thanks for this.” Melrose points to her beer before rising and calling for her dog. “And thanks for … checking on me. Think I’m going to call it a night. I’ll report everything first thing in the morning, I promise. I just need some sleep. Want to go in with a clear head.”

Her screen lights again with another text—probably another from Nick—and the two of them head inside.

I’m not a jealous man … and I don’t have a thing for Melrose … but a wave of something—I don’t even know what—passes through me when I watch her walk away.

Taking a seat, I finish my beer and brush it off.

“Screw emotions and feelings,” my father once said, “and screw women instead. Save yourself a lot of heartache that way.”

I’ve never particularly admired the old bastard and his quote-worthy fatherly advice was few and far between, but that’s one thing that’s always stuck with me over the years.

And one thing that hasn’t been proven wrong yet.