Chapter 7 Wyatt #2
Absentmindedly, I type a text while monitoring the situation unfolding across the room. The guy is young, early twenties, but something about the way he’s leering at Blake gives him a creepy old man vibe.
Thoughts on mullets?
GIGI
Your subject changing skills never fail to amaze me.
I don’t like them.
Exactly. Nobody fucking likes them.
At the bar, Blake laughs at something the Mullet says, then touches his arm. It’s light, casual. But intentional. I know that move. I do it all the time. Laugh, lean in, touch the arm.
My hand curls around my empty beer bottle, my grip so tight I’m surprised the glass doesn’t shatter in my palm.
I have to remind myself that only twenty minutes ago, I had decided to let her have fun.
If she wants to flirt with a guy whose barber should be executed, then fine, I won’t get in her way.
I shift on the stool and force myself to focus on the music. A live trio is playing on the small stage, blasting out an old grunge song. It’s not half bad.
But all I can hear is Blake’s melodic laughter rising over the crashing cymbals.
My gaze unwittingly returns to the bar. The Mullet is even closer now, practically draped over the damn counter.
He has way too much confidence for someone wearing that many bracelets.
Like, they’re taking up half his arm. One bracelet, cool.
That’s punk rock. Some rings, okay. This is extreme. And sad.
When my jaw tightens to the point of pain, I have to forcibly unclench it. Christ. I don’t know why this bothers me so much. This girl is off-limits. I won’t fucking touch her.
But here I am, sitting at a sticky high-top table contemplating murder while Blake smiles at some asshole who doesn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as her.
Not that I do either. She’s too damn good for me. She’s clever and funny and fearless, and she deserves someone who can make her feel…safe. Cherished.
That’s not me. I break women without trying.
Without meaning to. They always fall for me, no matter how clear I make it at the beginning that it won’t lead to forever.
I’m not built for forever. I can’t commit to one girl, and I certainly can’t be tied down, not when all I desire from this life is to be on the road, touring and making music.
But women always think they’ll be the exception, the ones to make me fall—and they always get hurt. I don’t want to hurt Blake.
And maybe…maybe I’m also resisting opening that door because she looks at me sometimes in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Like she sees straight through the chaos inside me.
Her laughter travels in my direction again. I hate the gleam in the Mullet’s eyes every time Blake laughs. I’m a man, so I know what he’s thinking: What are my odds of going home with her?
Zero, pal.
Maybe I should just fuck her.
I let the idea percolate. Sex always has a way of squashing a crush. For me at least. I know from experience that all it takes is one night for me to get my endorphin rush and be on my way.
Who knows? The sex might not even be that good, right? Maybe these past few years of lusting from afar have built this up into something that can never live up to my jerk-off fantasies. Hell, and it’s presumptuous to think she’d even let me in her pants. She’s got better taste than that.
At the bar, the Mullet makes her giggle by tugging on a strand of her hair.
He’s touching her goddamn hair now?
Oh hell no.
This isn’t jealousy, I assure myself. It’s responsibility. She’s fresh out of a relationship and she’s vulnerable. She doesn’t know what she wants right now. But I guarantee it’s not the douchebag with the mullet.
I cross the bar in three long strides, sliding in beside her.
Blake turns in surprise. “Hey.”
“It’s late,” I say coldly. “We’re leaving.”
The Mullet interjects. “We’re in the middle of a conversation.”
I spare him a look. “She’s done talking.”
Frowning, the guy glances at Blake. “Is this your boyfriend or your bodyguard?”
She huffs out a laugh. “Neither.”
“Let’s go,” I tell her.
Our gazes lock, and whatever she sees on my face has her capitulating.
“Sorry,” she tells the Mullet. “I guess we’re leaving.”
Without another word, she grabs her purse off the stool and follows me out of the bar. It isn’t until we’re halfway across the parking lot that she stops in her tracks.
“What happened back there, Wyatt?”
I continue walking toward the Jeep. “Nothing. I wanted to go.”
“Were you jealous?”
The accusation stings my back. I stop, waiting for her to catch up to me. “I don’t get jealous.”
“Everyone gets jealous,” Blake says irritably. “And honestly, you’re kind of acting like it right now.”
“I have no reason to be jealous of anyone tonight, Logan.”
“Right. Silly me.” Her lips curl. “I guess this is just your celibacy plan making you act like a dickhead again?”
“Yes,” I say lightly. “That’s all it is, freckles.”
I pretend not to see the hurt that clouds her expression. Same way I pretended not to see it when she was sixteen, confessing her crush, and I patted her head like she was a toddler. Or the way I pretended not to see it the morning after I almost fucked her on Christmas Eve and played dumb.
I still believe I was doing the right thing in both instances, but the pain in her eyes has stayed with me. Haunted me.
For a second, I almost tell her how goddamn often I think about her. But keeping her at arm’s length is what I’m skilled at, so I keep talking like an asshole.
“I’m just annoyed, okay? I didn’t want to spend the rest of my night watching you fake laugh with some bartender.”
“Who says it was fake laughter?”
“That kid has never told a funny joke in his life, Blake.”
“Oh, because you’re hilarious? Cracking jokes left and right? You’ve been a jerk fifty percent of the day.”
“And you’ve been a distraction,” I shoot back. “Flirting. Teasing. Showing off your tits. I’m trying to write.”
“Oh my God, you are such an arrogant asshole. Did you ever think that what I do has nothing to do with you? Maybe I actually don’t want tan lines? Maybe I want to talk to the cute bartender? And I was barely even flirting with him! I was just being friendly.”
“Friendly,” I repeat mockingly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“What the hell is your problem?” Blake demands.
I don’t know, I want to groan.
Instead, I double down.
“My problem is that you’re desperate for attention from any guy who’ll give you five seconds. And now that your boyfriend finally did what everyone saw coming, you’re flirting with everyone to make yourself feel better.”
Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
I plow on, because I’m too reckless and riled up to stop. “You’re not trying to be friendly. You’re trying to be wanted.”
Blake doesn’t say anything for several beats. But behind her look of disbelief, I glimpse that familiar darkness. A storm of hurt.
Finally, she marches to the passenger side of the Jeep. “Unlock it,” she snaps at me.
The ride home is fraught with tension. Blake’s arms are crossed tight to her chest, her body language advising me to keep my mouth shut. For once, I do.
I focus on the curve of the road winding around the lake while Blake fixes her gaze out the window and gives me the silent treatment. By the time we get back to the house, the silence is suffocating, closing around my windpipe. She jumps out of the Jeep, her sundress swirling around her legs.
I follow her to the porch and pretend I’m not watching the way her hair catches in the moonlight. I might be obsessed with her hair. Not sure when it happened, but here we are.
“Good night,” she mutters in the front hall and heads for the stairs.
I go to the kitchen, wondering whether to grab a beer and my guitar and sit outside or just punch myself in the face for how badly I’ve screwed up today.
I choose option number three: go upstairs and try to sleep for once in my life.
I step into the second-floor hallway just as Blake emerges from the hall bathroom, because like an asshole, I stole her room with the en suite.
She’s in her pajamas, though I use the term loosely. It’s nothing but a tiny pair of shorts and a white tank top that I can see right through. Her face is scrubbed clean, pink and shiny with her freckles on full display. Her hair is loose and cascading down her back.
Somehow, she’s even more dangerous like this. Without the sexy, slutty sundress or the mascara and lip gloss. Bare and effortless. The kind of beautiful that makes you forget how to breathe.
“Shouldn’t you put on something warmer?” I ask like an idiot. “It gets cold at night.”
“Always telling me what to wear, huh, Wyatt?” Her voice is surly.
“No, that’s not what I mean. You’ll just get…cold.” Jesus. Shut the hell up, I tell myself.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, then turns on her heel.
She’s done with the conversation.
I let her be done. Because if I open my mouth again, I’m not sure I’d be able to keep lying.
Since I’ve decided to battle my insomnia tonight by actually attempting to sleep, I strip off my clothes and slide into bed naked, trying to make myself comfortable. But there’s no comfortable sleeping position to be had when your dick is rock-hard.
I’m too primed from tonight. Too pent-up from these past six months. Celibacy is not a natural state for me. I like to fuck. I need to fuck.
I roll over, and my erection stabs the mattress. I’m so hard it hurts.
After several minutes of ignoring my aching balls, I think, screw it. Might as well take care of this. Leaning over, I grab my phone from the nightstand, prepared to find some porn.
Instead, I pull up Blake’s IG account.
This is so wrong. On so many levels. I recognize this. Not proud of it either. But knowing all this doesn’t stop me from scrolling through her feed until I find a photo that shows some skin.
It’s a selfie she took last summer at the Di Laurentis place in St. Barts.
She’s sprawled on a lounge chair, wearing a skimpy red bikini.
Her hair is twisted up into a messy bun, wavy strands framing her face to emphasize sun-kissed cheeks and an array of freckles.
She’s got one knee propped up in a pose that draws the eye—my eye, at least—right between her legs.
I imagine nudging aside the thin strip of fabric and exposing her pussy—and holy hell, my dick practically leaps into my hand.
I bite my lip to stifle a groan, gripping the base tight before I come too fast. But then I realize, why prolong it?
The faster I release this tension, the faster I can go back to looking at Blake Logan in an unpornographic way.
My strokes are fast, fueled by pure, helpless, inappropriate lust. I jerk off to the sight of Blake in that slutty bikini, thrusting into my fist while pretending it’s her greedy mouth.
Her perfect face gazes up at me from my phone, and I imagine those pink, pouty lips wrapped tight around me, sucking me dry.
The climax hits me like a train, unleashing a rush of pleasure through my body.
I grunt, coming all over my stomach and squeezing my tip to get every last drop out.
Breathing hard, I grab some tissues from the bed table and clean myself up.
After that release, I should be relaxed.
Drowsy. Ready to finally, finally, sleep.
But it has the opposite effect. I’m more awake than ever now. With a sigh, I kick the covers off my legs and climb out of bed in search of my clothes.
Guess I’m writing on the dock again tonight.