Chapter 12 #3
He guides me to his truck parked on the curb outside the bar with his hand resting gently on my lower back.
I try to walk a little quicker than him to avoid as much physical contact as possible, but he notices, and turns his head down to me with an almost wounded look in his eyes.
I ignore him, and the little pang in my chest from seeing it.
Friends. Friends. Friends.
I’m starting to consider pavlovian style training myself to dislike him. Maybe set up and watch a slideshow of his photo every night, then pinch myself, or maybe eat black licorice the whole time. Anyone who says they like that catastrophe of a candy is a liar.
We reach the truck and I pull the handle to open the door, when a big tattooed hand appears above my head and slams it shut. I turn my head and look at Wesley over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I ask, just wanting to get in the truck and repeat my new “friends” mantra the entire way home.
“I could ask you the same question.”
I give him a puzzled look. I’m trying to open the damn door. What does it look like I’m doing?
“Move your hand,” I demand.
“You first.” I look down and see my fingers still wrapped around the handle.
I peel my hand off as requested, wondering what the hell is going on.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
He replaces my hand with his, grabs the handle, and opens the truck door.
“Go on. Get in.”
He’s waiting, hand on the door.
“What just happened?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “That prick really deserves a good ass beating.”
“Who?”
“I’m openin’ your door, honey. Get in. Please.”
Oh.
“You closed the door, just so you could open the door for me?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Alright.”
I grab the “Oh shit” handle and hoist myself up in the vehicle.
I need to add this to the list of things he does that will make it impossible to be his friend.
I’m not sure in our entire relationship, Daniel ever opened the car door for me.
I always saw it in movies, or read it in books.
But I thought it was just fluff, you know?
Like pierced dicks, and billionaires that fly you across the country for a special donut shop you want to try.
He closes my door, and rounds the hood to get in.
“Where to?” he asks.
“Turn left out of here.”
He starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot.
We drive in comfortable silence, and I give him a few more directions until we’re pulling up outside Rose’s house.
He slows at the curb and puts the truck in park, cutting the headlights.
It's completely dark out, the interior lights of the cab the only thing illuminating us.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yep. Lilah and I are all packed. You?”
“Yeah.”
It’s quiet for a moment, and it’s as if my subconscious knows I want a few more minutes with him, which is why I stupidly ask, “Do you like it? Tattooing?”
He turns his body slightly, angling so I can see him better.
“I love it. I’ve always loved art. I drew on everything I could get my hands on as a kid, my mom would get so mad,” He huffs a laugh, like he’s remembering. “I was an apprentice in college, then I got my degree, started my own shop, had a baby, and now we’re here.”
“You make it sound easy,” I say.
“It wasn’t. I was a hot mess for a long time, Ivy,” he replies, letting out a self-deprecating laugh this time.
I don’t like that. “Hey.”
He meets my gaze.
“You started your own business, then had to figure out how to be a new dad while grieving and keeping that business afloat. That’s not an easy thing to do,” I say, and I can tell he’s getting a little uncomfortable.
“Not a lot of people could do that Wesley. You deserve a lot more credit than that.”
He stares at me for a moment, and just when I start to get nervous that maybe I’ve said too much, he replies, “Thanks.”
I slap my hands on my thighs, “Well, I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you again. I’ll see you at the airport?” I look over at him, and he dips his chin.
“I’ll have your car back to you in plenty of time,” he says softly.
I grab my door handle. “Thank you again for that.”
“Of course,” he replies, then unbuckles his seat belt. “If I asked you to stay put until I can open your door, would you do it?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
I open my door and hop out, only to see him rounding the hood.
“What now?” I ask incredulously. “What are you going to do, carry me to the door?”
“I would if you asked.”
“Wes,” I say, deadpan.
“I’m just walking you to the door,” he concedes, revealing one dimple to me.
“I’m perfectly capable.”
“I’m aware.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, come along then guard dog,” I toss out.
“Brat,” he mutters under his breath, and I giggle.
We approach the stairs, guided by the faint glow of the small porch light.
As I start to ascend, I turn around and stop my shadow. “That’s far enough. You can watch me from there.”
He slides his hands in his pockets, and the corner of his mouth lifts, but he obeys.
I start up the long staircase, and throw over my shoulder—because I’m feeling feisty and on edge after this whole night, “Friends don’t stare at friends asses.”
His deep chuckle rumbles from behind and follows me all the way up to my door. I turn my key in the lock, and enter my apartment. When I turn to shut the door, he’s still standing at the bottom of the steps, with a faint curl to his lips.
“Good night, Wes.” It’s a command to leave.
“Close the door.”
I roll my eyes to the back of my head, and slam the door. This man is something else.
“Lock it,” I hear muffled through the wood of the door.
I growl in frustration and flip the deadbolt.
“Good night, Ivy.” His voice is dulled by the door, but the teasing in his tone is still very present.
I drop my purse haphazardly on the ground. I’m going to be in a hotel room with that man for the next two nights. I need to strengthen my resolve immediately.
He wants to be your friend.
Friend.
Nothing else.
Don’t ask him to fuck you.