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Then that was what I did.
"Tomorrow night," I said as I held open her door, watching her grab her giant blood-spattered purse from the passenger side floor, then digging through it for her keys. Guess she figured there was no need to lock it behind gates with armed guards.
"What about tomorrow night?" she asked, half-distracted as she had to upturn her purse on the seat, making a pile of books, makeup, perfume, nail polish, files, tampons, and gum packs fall everywhere.
"You. Riding me. Your place," I specified, making her turn her head over her shoulder at me.
"I get off at nine. But won't be home until nine-thirty."
"See you at ten then," I told her, slamming the door, and walking away as she finally located her keys, and turned the car over.
Inside, I closed the main door, exhaling a deep breath, resting my forehead against the steel.
"Yer ass is so fucked," Adler declared from behind me.
And, well, I had a feeling he was right.
Shit.ELEVENPeytonJamie wasn't taking a hint.
Or, likely more accurately, Jamie was pretending that she couldn't take a hint. Usually, all I would have to do was cast a look in her direction, and she understood perfectly whatever I was trying to relay. So this... this refusal to get off of my couch and head out for a few hours, yeah, that was on purpose.
She was being a nosey ass.
Which, to be honest, was not like her.
Yes, she could be a bit of a mama hen, always making sure her girls checked in after dates or nights out, making sure we were all happy and taking care of ourselves. But it ended there. She didn't judge; she didn't give unwanted opinions, and she damn sure never insisted on meeting my fuck buddies.
I didn't have time to worry about that though as I ran into the bathroom to do a quick whore's bath in the sink and shave my legs that I had neglected that morning because I was finishing up a good book. Sometimes scratchy legs took the backseat to a serial killer scaring the bejesus out of a sleepy Maine town.
Then, well, I decided my makeup needed to be redone.
Which, again, was not like me.
I didn't normally care if my fuck buddy was on his way over and I had raccoon eyes, shadow in the creases, and dry as paper lips from the matte lipstick I was obsessed with.
As I cold-creamed my face off, then carefully slipped out my contacts to clean them, I pretended it was for me. I didn't wear makeup to please anyone else. I always did it because I liked it, because it was my war paint, because I felt more confident going out in the world with it on.
But then there was a knock, just as I was raising a mascara wand to my face.
"I got it!" Jamie called, making my stomach plummet at the idea of me being in the bathroom while she gave Sugar the third degree.
So, wand still in hand, I ran out.
And there he was.
It was stupid even to think it, but, god, that man could knock your breath out like a fall onto your stomach from a swing.
Oh, good freaking god.
I needed to get a grip.
"Your friend--" Jamie started.
"The fuck is up with your eyes?" Sugar asked, cutting off Jamie, his gaze on me, brows drawn together.
"I know. I haven't gotten my face on yet," I said self-consciously, resisting the urge to look down at the floor. Not many men could claim to have seen me without me having beaten my mug first. Off the top of my head, I could only think of my father and Eli who had seen it since he stayed over a lot when he and Autumn were first dating.
"Not the makeup," he said, shaking his head. "Your eyes, Peyt. Since the fuck when are they blue?"
Oh, crap.
Yeah.
"Well, since birth," I admitted since it was the truth.
"Who the fuck wears contacts to cover up a blue like that?"
"Ah, me," I said, raising my hand.
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"This fucking woman," Sugar said, speaking this time to Jamie, shaking his head as though I was exasperating.
"Right?" Jamie agreed, sending me a smile I didn't quite know how to interpret.
"Well, go cover up all that natural hotness if you want, then meet me back out here."
There was a gooey feeling inside at the idea that he was okay with me fresh-faced, even if I had no intention of being so in front of him.
"Ah, why?" I asked, head ducked to the side.
"Had a lot of shit going on today. Didn't get a chance to eat. We'll go grab something then come back."
A date?
Was that asking me on a date?
Or was he genuinely just too hungry to fuck me?
I mean, I got that.
I once pushed a guy off me mid-fuck because I couldn't take the rumbling in my stomach any longer. I was a prime example of a woman who didn't get hungry, she got hangry.
