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West and I, we look at each other.
It’s heartbreaking. His pretty cheekbones, the scar in his eyebrow, his nose slightly off center, his ears too small, his mouth so wide and expressive and perfect.
It’s heartbreaking, knowing there was a time when I could’ve taken him inside and put him to bed, given him some ease, given him something. But that time came and went, and this is the time we’re in now.
The waste of it makes my throat tight.
“I feel guilty,” he says. “Like I’m taking advantage of you when you’re watching Frankie, only I can’t stop taking advantage because I never fucking asked you to watch her, and when I tell you to quit, you don’t.”
“That must be tough for you.”
He laughs. “Fuck you, Caro.”
“Wish you would.”
“Christ Jesus.” His hand comes up to brush over his hair and hang up at the back of his neck. He exhales, rough, and I love it. Love getting under his skin.
I love the confirmation and the hit of truth, lust spiking like nicotine through my blood.
It feels like a game, although I know for West it’s dead serious. It’s just that we’ve played this way before. The Caroline who played this game last year was scared and damaged and cautious, but I’m not any of those things anymore. I’m winning, and we’ve barely even started.
“Keep it to once or twice a week, all right?” he says. “You’ve got your own shit to be taking care of. And I don’t want you spending money on her. Leave me your receipts and I’ll pay you back.”
“Really? We’re going to do accounting on this?”
“Cut me some minuscule fucking piece of slack. You’re getting your way on everything else.”
“Not hardly.”
“Caroline.” He recrosses his arms.
“West.” I cross mine.
“What do you want me to say?” he asks.
“I’m going to be around. You’re going to have to deal with it. Deal with me. Stop pretending I don’t exist or that everything’s going to be fine if you say so.”
/> He makes me wait for his reply. It drags out of his chest, rumbling and low. “Fine.”
I lean down to pick up my bag. My knees threaten to buckle. I’m a cocktail of adrenaline and desire, my body dangerous and stupid.
When I return to standing, he’s still looking, and it’s worse. Better-worse.
Always better-worse, with West.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m trying to figure out your strategy.”
“Who, me? Why would you think I have a strategy?”
“You’re a politician, Caro. You’ve always got a strategy.”
“You make me sound so sneaky.”
“No, not sneaky. But you gotta admit, you’re not always direct.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re not so amenable to the direct approach.”
