8. God, I’m Going to Miss that Thing
eight
God, I’m Going to Miss that Thing
Leah
M y eyes open as I try to take in the room around me. It only takes a moment to feel the man next to me stir.
Looking over, I see Dylan, and everything comes rushing back to me.
The bar.
The bet.
The booze.
The sex.
That gets me to stop and focus on that part because it was freaking incredible. Parts of the night may be a blur, but that part remains extremely clear.
Four orgasms aren’t easily forgotten.
I look over at him again. Nothing but a sheet covers his lower half, and I can see his cock is half hard beneath the light fabric. I consider pulling it out and taking it for another spin, but I decide against it.
I really hate small talk after these little encounters. I’d rather just sneak off and avoid talking altogether. It’s not like this thing between us is going to go anywhere. I’m in no position to give anyone more than a night of fun especially since now, I have a whole lot more on my plate than I did yesterday at this same time.
As quietly as I can, I slip out from under the sheets and tiptoe over to grab my shoes, pants, and underwear. With them all in hand, I head into the living room to get my bra and shirt. I quickly throw everything on and get my phone from my purse.
Pulling up the ride-share app, I realize that I have no idea what the address is here. I don’t want to open up the front door just yet and risk waking up Dylan.
Time to do some snooping. I don’t have to do much, though. There’s a small pile of mail sitting on the kitchen counter.
“Dylan Lawson,” I whisper to myself. My eyes move further down the envelope to see the address. Quickly, I type it into the app and see it tells me I have twelve minutes until my driver gets here.
Once it’s confirmed, I hunt for a bathroom because I have to piss like a racehorse. I find one just off the living room and duck inside.
After emptying my bladder, I step to the sink to wash my hands, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Holy shit. Talk about ten miles of bad road. My hair is basically a tangled, matted mess. My eyeliner and mascara has turned me into a raccoon. My lipstick has worn off now, leaving my lips with a slightly red hue. I definitely look like I’ve been fucking all night .
I’m a hot mess—minus the hot part.
I do my best to comb through my hair with my fingers and wipe off my face. This is as good as it’s going to get. With one final glance in the mirror, I head back to the living room.
Pulling out my phone, I see that I still have a few minutes to kill. I walk around the room to take a look. This place is certainly well-decorated. It’s hard to believe a single guy lives here. Everything seems to have a woman’s touch. That may sound like a stereotypical assumption. But really, I’m just going off of my experience. Most of the guys I’ve been with didn’t even bother to hang things on the walls.
Maybe I’ve been with the wrong kind of man.
Or maybe this place has a woman’s touch.
That last thought comes when I spot a picture frame on the mantle. Inside is a photo of Dylan with a woman kissing him on the cheek. They both look really happy.
Hm. I didn’t take Mr. Golden Retriever for a cheater. I guess I don't know that for a fact. Maybe they’ve since broken up. Or maybe they are pulling a Ross and Rachel and are on a break.
Whatever the case may be, he must still like her enough to keep her photo around.
Not that any of this is my concern.
Last night was fun, but I didn’t expect it to get further than that. I’m not looking for some bit of commitment.
Hell, I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready for that.
I don’t even have my next steps even remotely planned. But it seems that Dylan Lawson has it all figured out. I’m sure he’ll make some woman very happy one day—if he hasn’t already.
Especially with that tongue of his .
God, I’m going to miss that thing.
Not wanting to be a complete ass, I walk back over to the counter to grab a pen and the back of an envelope to write on.
Thanks for the fun.
XO.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, signaling that my driver is pulling up. I take one final look around before heading out the front door.
See you around, Mr. Lawson.
I have just enough time to get home and shower before I need to go to work. I see no sign of Amy at the apartment, so either she’s still on her date, or she went into the shop early.
Either way, I’m happy to have some quiet time. My head is pounding. As much as I’d love to go back to bed, I have shit to do.
Adult responsibilities and all that jazz.
Besides, I’m no stranger to hangovers. For me, they seem to be the gift that keeps on giving. A shower, some water, and some Ibuprofen, and I’ll be good as new.
Well, I’ll be vertical anyway.
As I’m getting dressed, I look over at my small pile of belongings in the corner of the living room. When I came from Portland, I traveled light—not that I had much of a choice. My ex decided to throw most of my stuff in a bonfire before I left .
He was a real gem.
But surprisingly, I think I’ve been with worse.
Not sure if that says more about them or about me.
Not sure it really matters. I’m a fucking mess either way.
I throw on some jeans and a tank top. I consider doing something with my wet hair, but when I see what time it is, I decide to just run a brush through it and let it air dry.
After some makeup, I’m out the door. On the short drive to the shop, I keep my eyes peeled for any places that may be for rent. That’s something I didn’t have to do yesterday. Since my options will be pretty limited, I may have to open up my mind to moving to one of the neighboring small towns. I make alright money at the shop, but my mountain of credit card debt doesn't do me any favors—nor does my awful credit report.
Before last night, neither one of those things was that big of a deal. I was slowly paying everything down and getting back on track. But a new sense of urgency is front and center now.
Oh well.
Shit happens.
And when the chips are down, I’m pretty damn good at landing on my feet. I’ll just have to keep kicking ass like I normally do.
Soon enough, I’m pulling into the parking lot of the shop. Right on time. We get to make our own hours here, so punctuality isn’t heavily monitored, but I have a client at ten. I make it a point to be on time for appointments.
As I walk in, Rich is already sitting in the waiting room. His eyes flick up at me.
“You’re late. ”
“Check your watch, old man,” I tease. “I’m right on time.”
“If you’re not early, you’re already late.”
“That’s military speak for you’re lame.”
I’m normally not so informal with clients—especially if someone is new—but this is about the tenth time I’ve inked Rich. We always give each other shit. I’m surprised a former military general continues to choose me for his tats, but I’m grateful for the business.
Luanne, our young receptionist, gives me a cheerful “good morning” as I walk past. She’s super sweet and does a good job of handling all our schedules.
Quickly, I walk back to my room and throw my stuff under one of the tables and get all my equipment set up. I’ve done it so many times that it only takes a minute.
When I’m done, I walk back to the waiting area and ask Rich if he’s ready. He puts down the magazine he was reading and follows me.
“You know, Rich, I think you’re the only one who reads those things,” I say. “Most people just play on their phones.”
“I hate that stupid thing,” he grunts.
“Of course you do.”
I adjust the chair so he can get comfortable while I work on his huge back piece. I have no idea what prompted this retired military man to decide on all this fresh ink, but once again, I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth.
“You want any numbing cream?” I ask, slipping on some latex gloves.
“You ask me that every time, and every time I say no. ”
“I’ll keep asking,” I tell him. “Just in case you change your mind.”
I get started on his tattoo, and both of us remain silent for who knows how long. The only sounds around us are the buzzing of the ink gun and the classic rock station playing through the speakers on the ceiling.
Rich looks over his shoulder at me. “You alright, Leah?”
My eyes glance up to meet his for a split second before back to the task at hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“AC/DC just played on the radio, and you didn’t sing along.”
“So?”
“So, you always sing along—or at least mouth the words.”
“The fact that you know that is a little creepy,” I say.
“I’m just observant. Plus, you can’t sing very well, so I notice.”
“Hey!” I cry, pretending to be offended. It’s all an act, though. I’m well aware that I can’t carry a tune to save my life. That’s not going to stop me from trying, though.
Getting back to Rich, I say, “I’m really okay. Just had a late night. That’s all.”
“Bit of a hangover?”
I chuckle. “Something like that.”
“You’re not going to fuck up my tattoo are you?”
“No, Rich. This isn’t my first hangover, and I’m sure it won’t be my last. You’re safe.”
I do my best to put on my best happy face and act as normal as I can. I don’t want to give Rich any reason to find another artist.
Time to do what I do best.
Time to fake it until I make it.
“Hey, bitch,” Amy playfully greets as she walks into my room at the shop.
“Hey, you. Didn’t know if I’d see you in here today or not.”
“Needed to get some paperwork done and invoices paid. All the boring parts of running a business.” She walks in and takes a seat. “So, what ended up happening to you last night? Did you take the pup home?”
“Well, technically, he took me, but yes.”
“And?” She questions. “How was it?”
“Pretty great,” I answer, remembering every one of my orgasms.
As much as I usually like dishing with Amy after a wild night, today, I’m just not in the mood.
But Amy looks like she’s about to burst at the seams, so I turn it back on her. “What about you? How was the young gun?”
“Girl,” she begins before giving me a detailed account of their energetic sex.
Amy has always liked guys a few years younger than her. She enjoys when they are less experienced than her. She likes being a teacher or sorts. Meanwhile, I’m the exact opposite. I like a guy who already knows what he’s doing. I want him to know how to make me come seven ways to Sunday.
Like Dylan did.
I take a moment to get lost in the memory again before Amy asks, “So, are you going to see him again? ”
“Didn’t plan on it,” I say.
“Why not? You said it was great.”
“It was. But Dylan is someone who actually seems to have his shit together—unlike yours truly. Plus, I have a lot of other shit to figure out before I can deal with anything related to a man.”
Not to mention I think he might have a girlfriend.
“Leah, no one is telling you to marry the guy. But you could fuck him and have some fun. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
She’s got a point, but even sex is a huge distraction right now.
She sees my wheels turning and says, “You deserve a little bit of happiness among all the bullshit.”
“Amy, why do you care so much if I get laid? You’ve never been this persistent before.”
She nervously twirls her hair around her finger “I just feel bad.”
“For what?”
“For asking you to move out.”
“Amy, you don’t have to be sorry for that. You’re putting your family first. Can’t say I understand that concept because my family is trash, but I get the sentiment.”
“You’re family too, Leah. You know that, right?”
I nod, but I also know at the end of the day, she has to take care of her real family.
She looks at me with pools of sympathy in her eyes. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I will be. I promise.”
“Will you call the hot golden retriever?”
“I don’t have his number, and he doesn’t have mine,” I tell her.
“Do you want me to ask Jamie? I’m sure he has Dylan’s. ”
“I don’t think so.”
“Will you at least think about it? Please.”
“Okay, I will.” I give her a fake promise.
But in my heart of hearts, I don’t think I’ll ever see Dylan Lawson again.