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I stood up. "Why?" I asked indignantly.
Stupidly.
He eyed me up and down. "You're cute. Funny. Know how to hold your end of a conversation." I bristled preemptively, knowing this was heading in the wrong direction. "I'm just looking for someone...different."
And there it was.
The disdain, the judgment, that kept coming back to haunt me.
I was a twenty-four-year-old fuck-up, and now, I must have been radiating it out of my pores because even random guys were picking up on it. It had followed me halfway across the planet. The stench of failure was glued to me, inescapable and insufferable.
Worst of all, it was affecting my ability to get laid.
Sure, being a go-go dancer wasn't exactly what I had imagined for myself. But neither was becoming an Oxford-educated barrister, which was the future my parents had mapped out for me since I was old enough to walk.
Hence me escaping the UK on nothing more than a whim and putting my dance moves and killer body to a practical application, while trying to figure out—on my own, and unencumbered by familial and societal expectations—just what the fuck it was that I wanted to do with my life.
Don’t get me wrong. Go-go dancing wasn’t it, but it paid well, let me travel from coast to coast, and, until tonight, had gotten me laid whenever the desire arose within me. Which was pretty much every other night.
Miguel sauntered over to me, giving me my second comforting pat on the back of the evening. I appreciated the friendly gesture.
The rest of the group slowly returned to what they were doing before my dramatic entrance. I met Leo’s gaze, and he gave me a tight-lipped nod, before turning his focus to his laptop again. Knowing him, he’d follow up with me the next time he saw me one-on-one to make sure I really was okay.
"What do you think? What am I doing wrong, Miguel?" I searched his face, as if it somehow contained the answer within his strong, chiseled features and big brown eyes.
"Do you think guys can sense I'm getting"—I dipped my head, my insides flooding with shame—"older?"
I was one month shy of twenty-five.
Miguel's dark eyes grew wide and his lips thinned. He leaned forward to speak. "I heard that when you turn twenty-five, Grindr emails you a death certificate."
"Fuck off." I flipped him the bird, trying to suppress a snicker.
In addition to being a senior staff member at the resort, Miguel was a closet comedian who was waiting for his big break. He was known for his quick wit and banter. But underneath his occasionally acidic tongue, he was a genuinely decent guy. It was one of the things I liked most about him.
"Seriously, though," he continued, his voice returning to its usual friendly tone, "you do have a particular...type."
"I do?"
He nodded. "You're a bad-boy chaser. The meaner they treat you, the keener you are for it."
I bit my lip.
I couldn't disagree with him. He had a point, I did like mean guys, the thrill of the chase being the best part. Once I landed my target, hot sex would normally follow and...I’d never see them again. Then rinse and repeat. Like my job, not something I planned on doing forever, but for right now, it suited me just fine.
I shrugged. "Bad boys are just more...fun."
"No, bad boys are assholes who cover up their shittiness under a wall of emotional immaturity disguised by muscles, tattoos, and whatever other physical features we deem attractive." His jaw twitched as he steadied his gaze. "Fun is a nice guy who treats you right."
"Huh?"
It was as if he was speaking a foreign language.
Miguel smiled warmly. "Trust me, once you find a sweet guy who you can be yourself with, you’ll never go back to bad boys again."
"Mmfph…"
I wasn’t convinced, but considered his words.
