Chapter 9
LYRIC
“What the hell is this guy’s problem? I mean, what the hell is his actual problem?
” I pull my makeup brushes from their sleeves, lining them up on my tray as I speak.
“I mean, we kiss. He rejects me and we don’t speak.
It occurs to me that maybe he was under the impression that I wanted a commitment. Which I didn’t.”
I swirl my brush into the light pink blush, tap it against the tray, and begin applying it to Mrs. Barbedian.
Her sons will be here to see her in an hour, and she still needs a little work.
“So I offer myself to him and he does it again. Rejection. Twice. By the same guy. Now, I’m into a lot of weird stuff, Mrs. Barbedian, but rejection isn’t one of them. ”
There’s something about the slight hook of a smile on the right side of her mouth that makes me think she knows exactly what I mean.
“To make matters worse, I just know I’ve accidentally made it awkward between us.
I don’t know that for sure, but you don’t get to come back scot-free from an offer of sex.
” I sigh, brushing along her cheekbone up to her temple.
She has delicate features, and I don’t want to overdo it.
In all the photos they gave me for reference, her makeup is modest. And my goal more than anything else is to make her as she was to her loved ones.
“So, I mean, I guess I should take the hint at this point. He’s clearly not attracted to me and that’s that.” I blush the end of her nose and then lay my brush down. “You’re right,” I tell her. “I probably should talk to someone who can talk back.”
I pull my gloves off and reach into my pocket for my phone.
ME
I propositioned Waylon for sex last night and he rejected me again.
I don’t have to wait long for Darcy’s reply.
DARCY
Oh my god.
ME
Yeah, so I’m done with that. My ego can’t take it.
DARCY
Didn’t you tell me that you told him no hanky-panky when you moved in? I remember because you used the phrase “hanky-panky” and I rolled my eyes.
ME
Well, I had a momentary lapse in judgment fueled by how damn sexy he looks all the time. Do you know he wears glasses?
DARCY
He does? I’ve literally never seen them.
ME
That’s not the point.
DARCY
You brought it up.
ME
Focus! I need to move past this whole Waylon thing.
DARCY
I can assure you, had I known he was a whole thing you needed to move past, I wouldn’t have suggested him as your roommate.
I may have underplayed the evening with Waylon to her. I didn’t want to make it a thing when she was just getting with Ridge and I knew we’d all be hanging out more. There was no way I was going to be the one person in the group who causes problems.
To be honest, I just want to fuck him. Connection and blah blah blah—none of that concerns me.
I’m not looking for forever. But Waylon looks like he knows what he’s doing.
And it’s been a while since I have been in expert hands.
And fuck me, what, just because I’m a woman I can’t just want what I want? Because that’s bullshit.
Let me calm down. No need to be outraged on account of my own thoughts.
I’m feeling very out of sorts, which can only mean one thing.
I’m about to bleed for a week straight and not even die.
It sounds impressive when you say it like that, like it’s a superpower or something.
But what it really means is I’ll be doubled over with the worst cramps in the world while my uterus feels like it’s about to fall out.
Don’t worry. I made the doctor check for endo-everything and PCOS and all that, but turns out, I just have really bad cramps.
Yay me. I get about two weeks of normal, a week of cranky and painful cramps, then a week of bleeding like a stuck pig.
And then we repeat. It’s so fun being a girl, let me tell you.
I estimate I have about twenty-four hours before the cramps start. Thankfully, tomorrow is Friday and I can curl into a ball for the following forty-eight hours until the pain lessens. Just how I wanted to spend my weekend—holding my aching uterus and wishing all men would cease to exist.
The good news is, that includes Waylon. Which means I won’t be tempted to try and fail at seducing him. Hell, he will be lucky if I talk to him without calling him an asshole every five minutes.
I check the clock as I pull into the driveway and see that I’m right. As predicted, it’s almost exactly twenty-four hours later, and I’m dying right here in the driver’s seat of my little black Toyota. But let’s call it what it is. A hearse. Carrying my body to its final resting place.
A groan escapes me as I rock myself out of my car. I’m hunched over when I step inside, which Tater doesn’t mind because he seems to think I’m bent over to pet him. I mean, I am petting him, so I can see why he’d think that.
“Are you okay?” Waylon asks, tilting his head at me. He’s standing at the counter, pouring something into a glass.
“No, there’s a freaking dragon in my uterus.” I slump into the chair closest to me at the edge of the living room. This chair is not ideal for it, but I manage to contort into a ball and pull my knees to my chest.
“Jesus, is there anything I can do?” Waylon rushes over and kneels next to me. He seems genuinely concerned, and I would think that was sweet if I didn’t want him to shut up so bad.
“I just need to not move. Or breathe. Or exist. Just for like a couple of minutes.” My eyes flutter shut as what feels like a white-hot branding iron is being shoved into my vagina.
“Should I get you some ibuprofen?” he asks as I groan again. “Or maybe some weed?” The next groan melts into a whimper. “Maybe both.”
“Both would be good.” I’m trying my best not to be mean to him. He seems to want to help, so maybe if I let him, he won’t talk as much. “If I can make it to the bathtub, a nice hot soak will help too. I just need a minute.”
Waylon stands, looking down at me. Then he looks down the hallway.
“Uh, okay, I’ll be right back,” he says, disappearing out of my line of sight.
I press my hands flat against the lower part of my stomach. I’m convinced I’m literally holding everything in at this point.
Waylon returns next to me. “Here, put your arm around my neck.” He slides his arms under my back and behind my knees.
I don’t even have the strength to argue with him.
He presses my body to his as he lifts me out of the chair, one arm draped around his neck and shoulders as instructed.
He’s so warm. His skin feels like he was just laying out in the sun.
He also smells fantastic—a hint of warm vanilla mixed with something woodsy, smoky even.
His foot pushes open my bedroom door, and I hear the water running in the bathroom. He started my bath for me? Ugh, I could kiss him for that.
Waylon sits me down on the side of the tub. He’s added bubbles to the water and salts as well, from the looks of the open container on the counter.
“Can you turn off the overhead light?” I ask. There’s enough natural light that comes in through the small window above the tub that I hardly ever use the big light. There’s no need for it.
He steps away, flips the light off, then returns to place a steadying hand on my back. I’m having a difficult time even getting my shoes off because of the pain.
“Do you need help?” he asks.
When I finally look at his face, worry is written all over it. From the crease between his brows to the stern, flat line of his mouth.
“Okay, but just don’t look at me,” I say. “I don’t want you to see me naked.”
“You didn’t seem to feel that way two nights ago.”
“Well, that was then. And this is now. And don’t be a butthead.” I groan again as I try to hook my finger into my sock to get it off.
“Believe it or not, I’ve seen boobies before,” he says. “I promise I won’t make a big deal out of it. Just let me help you.”
“Okay.” I’m relenting mostly because I think the water will be cold by the time I get myself undressed. “But you have to let me see your penis. You know, to make it fair.”
“What? No,” he says.
“Waylon,” I whine. “That’s only fair.”
“Listen, darlin’. If you let me help you get into this tub like a good girl, I might show him to you. But you gotta get in.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t like the way he said that. Or maybe I do. I haven’t decided yet. But either way, I hold my arms up so he can slip my shirt off. My shoes and pants follow. When my bra goes, I study his face closely. His throat bobs, but he never breaks eye contact.
He helps me stand, gripping my left hand as I use my right to push my panties down. They pool at my feet, and I step into the tub and sit with my back to Waylon.
He clears his throat as he takes a seat on the edge next to me. Without a word, he dips the loofah he’s holding into the water and pulls it back out. He gives it a gentle squeeze over my shoulder and then begins to run it over my skin.
“Feel better?” he asks, brushing my hair back out of the way as he continues to run the loofah over my collarbone.
“Mmm, yes.” My shoulders sink under his touch.
He dips the loofah again and runs it over my other shoulder.
And even though I can still feel some cramping, I’m not lying when I say it’s much better.
The hot water is so soothing, I could probably fall asleep in here.
My body has been in knots all day, but it finally feels like it’s untying itself.
Waylon washes across my shoulders, down my back to the water line, and then hands me the scrubber he’s using so I can wash everywhere else.
He sits down on the floor, his back against the tub, so it’s like we’re back-to-back. For a few minutes, there’s only the sound of my body moving through the water.
“I’m going to run and get you that ibuprofen,” he says.
“Can you get me some pajamas from my top right drawer?”
“Of course.” He nods and leaves the bathroom.