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We face off a moment, my future meal forgotten as I let the hand holding my phone dangle at my side. “Why would I look you up?”
He doesn’t answer, giving me a long, assessing look. “You’re pretty good at making me feel like shit, you know? Are you like this with everyone?”
I scowl. “No. But you’ve made me feel like shit more times than I can count, so you’ll have to excuse me if I’m constantly wondering what the hell I’m doing here.”
“What are you doing here, Drew?”
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? “You really want me to answer that?”
He nods.
“I’m not sure I have a good reason yet.” He managed to totally dodge the fish hook I sent down to him—letting him know I wouldn’t be around for two days and implying—at least I thought I’d implied—I was interested in what his plans were. Maybe I need to be more direct, but the idea of that makes my insides clench. “Anyway, it’s nicer here than my place. It’s hard to sleep with three—two roommates.”
“What about your girlfriend? Does she not live with you?” he asks.
“No,” I say, choosing this time to refocus on my phone and not the sharply curved outline of his lips.
“How long have you been together?”
“About three years.”
“Huh.”
I arch a brow without looking at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That’s a long time. Have you ever cheated on her before?”
I nearly choke on my own spit. “No.”
“Hm. I take it you don’t see each other that much.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“She doesn’t live with you. You work nights. You’ve spent a lot of days here recently…not that big of a stretch,” he says with a smirk.
“Guess you’re right. I see her about once or twice a week,” I mumble. Although, now that I think about it, we’re going on two weeks.
“You planning on keeping that up?”
I listen for an edge of jealousy or anxiety in his voice but find none. “I think if there’s one thing you and I can both agree on is that this—whatever it is—surprised us both.” I have yet to stop reeling from all the new developments. “I haven’t figured out how I’m going to approach it with Jericho yet.”
“Jericho, huh? Cool name.”
“Yeah. She’s a cool lady. Deserves way better than me,” I say quietly, settling on a chicken parm and placing an order under Olivier’s name.
Olivier tuts. “You’re not that bad.”
I eye the bruises on his neck. His face flushes darkly as he notices me doing it. “You sure about that?”
18
OLIVIER
I’m not sure about anything. Literally anything. I can still taste his cum in my mouth for Christ’s sake—feel the raw spot in the back of my throat he left, the soreness on my ass cheek. I’m vibrating from all the sensations I get when he’s around me—when he touches me. It’s fucking me up and scaring the shit out of me.
At the same time, I want more from him—a kiss—a different kind of grope. There’s also a large part of me reminding me to steer clear—that he’s a one-way ticket to my destruction. He’s the loss of my safety net. More is a risk I can’t take.
“Oh, please,” I dismiss the question. “You were practically a pussycat this morning.”
