Chapter 6 #2
“That’s not the point.” He snaps the belt tight in a move that, in another life, would’ve made me hot and flustered. Now? Nothing. Even the little glimpse of bare skin above the waist of his jeans does nothing to get my motor running. “You’ve been weird for the last couple days.”
My brow lifts. “Because I didn’t look for your belt…”
“No, because—Jesus, Sunday. Quit being so fucking dense,” he clips, pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. “You don’t even want to come out anymore.”
I take a sip of my room-temperature coffee. “I’m just tired, Logan. I guess I didn’t realize how exhausting constantly being on the road is.”
“So what, you’re just going to spend the whole summer sitting in the trailer?”
No, I’m going to spend another week doing that. Then the boys will be dropping me off at home. Rather… at Logan’s home. And I’ll have to figure out where the hell I’m going from there.
I shrug.
Logan exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he tosses open the fridge and grabs an armload of beer. “Suit yourself. I’m going out, though.”
“Have fun,” I say into my mug.
He side-eyes me as he turns to head outside, clearly expecting me to stop him from walking away. “You’re not mad?”
“Nope.”
I stare at the empty space he leaves behind. I don’t know where he’s going, and the longer I sit with it, the less I care.
A long swig of wine cooler washes down the buttery microwave popcorn, and I use the knuckle of my index finger to flip the page.
With the trailer to myself for the last two hours, I’ve become one with the pile of blankets on the bed and indulged in alcohol and junk food for dinner.
It felt deserved after dealing with Logan’s miserable attitude all day.
The trailer door swings open, and Holden comes lumbering inside. He kicks his boots off and reaches back to peel his shirt off in that sexy way guys do. When he starts on his pants, I make a tiny throat-clearing noise so he notices me.
Holden abruptly stops undressing. “You good?”
“Me?” The sight of Holden, bare-chested and with his belt buckle hanging undone at his groin, has me wanting to slip my hand between my legs, but aside from that… “Yeah, I’m great.”
Jeans unbuttoned and dangerously close to sliding down his hips—possibly taking his underwear with them—he assesses me. “You look like you’re in a depression cocoon.”
“A what?” I glance down at the tangle of blankets around me. Admittedly, they’re cocoon-esque. “This is self-care, actually.”
“Right…” The look he gives is equal parts judgmental and curious. “Um, I’m going to take a shower, if you don’t mind.”
“Go for it.”
The bathroom door clicks shut behind him, and a few seconds later, the low groan of the pump and the water stream hitting the shower basin fill the air. It pervades the space in a way that makes me acutely aware of how small this place is. How thin the walls are. How close I am to his naked body.
I don’t trust myself with this setup.
In a flash, I throw the blankets off and chug the last of my wine cooler. Grabbing my sweatshirt from where it’s draped over the back of the dinette bench, I head out into the dark rodeo grounds.
I’ll take a walk, give him enough time to be fully dressed before I go back. Or put on something, at least. With any luck, he’ll be sleeping, and I can continue my sinless night of reading and drinking.
The night air is sharp and carries a dampness that has me stuffing my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie. The low bass of classic rock music drifts from the far side of the campground, and I move toward it without meaning to, weaving between quiet trailers and weary-looking horses.
In the amber glow of a crackling bonfire, I see a handful of people I know, and even more I don’t recognize. They’re laughing and drinking and playing cards in their underwear.
Strip poker, I presume.
I grimace. Even during my college days, no amount of alcohol would warm me up to the idea of sitting outside in my underwear on a night like this. A shiver wiggles up my spine, as if I’m experiencing a second-hand chill seeing girls in thongs and bras when the air’s so frigid.
But my heart stops when I spot Logan amongst them.
He’s in an old-school folding lawn chair, beer bottle braced between his knees, wearing only his jeans. He laughs at something one of his friends—a bull rider we’ve seen at nearly every rodeo we’ve been to so far—says to him and tips his head back to chug his beer.
The now-empty glass bottle clinks against the rocks beside him, and he smiles at a blond girl I’ve never seen before. He seems loose and happy in a way he hasn’t been with me all week, if not longer. Certainly a major change in his attitude compared to when I last saw him.
The woman slides onto his lap, straddling him in her underwear. He doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Then she kisses him. A quick, soft, hesitant kiss. One I know he’s going to melt into, because I’ve been that girl straddling his lap and tasting cold beer on his tongue.
Regrettably, I’m correct. Logan’s fingertips glide down the valley of her spine, pausing to toy with the thin black G-string, then settle on the globes of her ass as he deepens their kiss.
Someone cheers.
I turn away before anyone sees me, and before the embarrassment really sinks in.
All these people know Logan’s doing this.
They see me with him, hanging on his arm like a stupid lovesick puppy, and they know.
They know he’s lying to me, and they’re fucking assholes, because they lie right to my goddamn face, too.
My ribcage cinches around my lungs until I’m gasping for each breath on the slow, staggering walk back to the trailer.
Logan’s been stabbing me in the back for the entirety of our relationship, and each girl’s girl in my inbox or inappropriate photo on his phone wedged the knives deeper, but watching him kiss another woman—and the blasé reaction of his friends—twisted them, carved up my insides.
I’m bleeding out, and nobody around cares.
The shower’s still running when I step inside.
A million emotions slice through my brain at different angles.
I’m relieved to have confirmation of his infidelity.
I’m angry and aching and sad. I want to be that spiteful girlfriend who tosses his shit outside and sets it ablaze.
Want to scream. Want to pack up my things and figure out a way to get home tonight.
But isn’t this what I signed up for when I told Holden I’d play nice for a couple weeks? When I realized he wasn’t stopping at a light touch on that other woman’s hip? God, what I’d give for another hit of that emotionally-stunted apathy I experienced watching him walk out the door earlier.
A minute later, the bathroom door opens and Holden appears in nothing but a towel around his hips, shrouded by steam.
Lord help me. A towel. His hair’s still wet, and the long, dark tendrils curl across his forehead and around his ears, dripping water onto his shoulders.
The heat of the shower rolls off his skin in heady, intoxicating waves.