Chapter 23
twenty-three
“Excuse me—what?!”
After lying in my bed for half the morning, trying to sort surreal memories from my night with Marco, I finally call for reinforcements.
I had to bribe Tris with a fresh pot of coffee and her favorite hangover mélange of sausage gravy and a buttered bagel, but she finally drops down onto the couch and listens to me recount the entire evening.
By the time I get to the endearment he used and the way he kissed the top of my head, her mouth hangs open.
“You kissed him?” she shrieks.
I wince. “Yes.”
She lurches up onto her knees, her face alight with awe. “He called you ‘sweet girl’?”
“Um…” I’m still unsure. Did it really happen the way I remember? What other explanation is there? “I really think so.”
“He gave you his book?” she squeals, bouncing. “He kissed you back with tongue?” Before I can answer any of her questions, she hits her grand conclusion. “And you made him leave?!”
I expected her to be shocked, but I didn’t expect this to be the reason for her disbelief.
In all honesty, I had to ask him to go. It just isn’t healthy to let my foolish hope run away from me. It isn’t as if he will ever want me—he wouldn’t even look at me twice if he wasn’t being paid to watch me.
And I’m pretty sure if he so much as stripped his shirt off in front of me, I’d faint.
How would that even work? I wonder. He is so big. Large and—if the feel of him when he swept my body into his was any indication—completely covered in muscle.
The whole idea makes me slightly manic. “Well, he couldn’t stay! Tris, that would be like giving a Maserati to someone who just got their learner’s permit and asking them to win—to win—I don’t know, whatever competition a Maserati races in!”
Instead of laughing, she takes on a grim air. “You don’t think you can take him? Why not? Is he hung?”
I throw a pillow at her head. “Tris! This is serious! I’m not going to talk about h—his—”
“Cock?” she supplies, overeager. “Oh my God, have you seen it? Does it curve to the left? I don’t know why, but I have him pegged for a Southpaw penis.”
I groan, dropping my head to my knees. “Can you please stop asking me about his penis and help me?”
“I am,” she huffs. “Listen, Alley Cat, I know you haven’t been on the dating scene in… well, ever, but shit’s wild out there. A man like Marco Amir probably gets laid five nights a week. He’s definitely not used to sitting around reading, waiting for the girl to get a clue and take his pants off.”
Stinging mortification prickles my cheeks. Great. I can’t even get used properly.
I slump back, letting my eyes fall to my hands. I didn’t even kiss him well. On the off chance he may have had some real interest in me… I’m sure he doesn’t anymore.
I can’t say anything in my defense, apart from the truth. “I—It never occurred to me that he w-would want that.”
Tris’s shoulders fall forward in an exasperated slump. Sympathy fills her fine features, pinching her auburn eyebrows under her bangs. “Alice,” she says, her voice quiet, “that makes me so sad.”
“Sorry,” I peep lamely.
She sighs, reaching over to pat my hand. “Babe, as a rule, when a man invites himself over for some dubious purpose and then finds excuses to stay and make out with you—he wants you to take his pants off.”
Tris obviously knows more about men and the removal of their clothing than I ever will. But I’m too embarrassed to tell her the real reason I’m hesitating. If she knew he’d been manipulating me with his charm, she would rip his (possibly-left-leaning) dick off.
I bite my lower lip so hard, I feel it blanch. “He asked if I’m going to the Strykers’ party tonight.”
Panic wells in my middle anytime I picture myself actually attending.
I only have one dress that’s formal enough—a pale blue recycled prom dress that’s over a decade old.
And, of course, I’d turn into a stammering, sweaty mess whenever one of Mrs. Stryker’s wealthy society friends asked about the wedding.
If Marco witnesses that, after last night, he will probably cringe at the thought of me. He will definitely regret trusting me with his prized philosophy book. Hell, he’d probably be mortified to admit he even pretended to be interested in me.
“I can’t go,” I cry. “No way.”
My best friend jumps to the edge of her seat. “Are you crazy?! Of course you have to go! You have to keep him wanting more—so you show up and look gorgeous and then let him make the next move.”
I blink, thrown. Unable to even envision what she’s describing. “Tris, this is me. My life. Not yours.”
Tris shakes her head. “No, Alley Cat. This is romance. A tall, dark, and handsome man inviting you to what is basically a ball? Literally sweeping you off your feet last night? Jesus, babe, what more do you want?”
I want it to be real.
But I can’t tell her that.
So I guess I’m going to have to shave my legs.