Athena, on the other hand, well, she either didn’t get the memo that because she wasn’t born with a dick, daddy dearest isn’t going to give her the company, or she doesn’t give a fuck. She conducts herself as though she’s going to inherit the world and run it in her five-inch Louboutins.
I didn’t always have this level of self-awareness. In fact, I drowned my daddy issues in liquor and coke for a while. And any time I got those negative feelings about myself and lack of self-worth, there were only too many beautiful people ready to purge my brain of them by sucking them out of my dick.
But now that I’m clean, well, hindsight is twenty-twenty. I don’t want to be Papá anymore, but that doesn’t mean some days that I wouldn’t like for him to at least acknowledge my existence. Even if he is an asshole.
I shoot off a reply to Apollo. Blasé, and I-don’t-give-a-fuck. And I’m trying really hard not to. Give a fuck, I mean. Can’t deny the sting in my chest though. I’m sure I felt my teammates’ eyes on me when Papá called the twins to the bench.
I know what they were thinking: why aren’t you being called over too, Ares?
No one said it. No one needed to.
I’m a block away from my place when my phone buzzes again. My stomach sinks a little more. Still not Eloise.
Sure, a part of me is smarting. Fine, a big part—mostly my fucking pride. I’m not used to this, and I can’t say I like it.
I should probably view it as a lesson in humility, and I’m one hundred percent behind setting and enforcing boundaries. If the girl wants nothing to do with me, I’ll accept that. But it’ll sting like fuck.
Not because I think everyone should want me. I want her to want me. And I thought she did.
Apollo’s text tells me to stop pouting and go stroke my pig. I can’t tell if he means Bacon, or if he’s using it as a euphemism for getting off. Either way, my dick agrees that it’s been too long and a date with my right hand feels like just what the doctor ordered.
As I approach the building entrance, Alfred already has it open, waiting for me, when my phone buzzes again. I damn near groan. It’s not cool when the most action you’re getting comes from a piece of technology in your ass pocket. It’s not even like my phone is designed for sexual pleasure either.
Eloise: Thanks, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea.
My heart does a swoopy thing, and I might be having a heart attack. That’s what this is, right?
I stutter to a stop on the sidewalk, about six feet away from Alfred.
Damn.
For so long, I’ve been the one to do the rejecting. Have people felt this weird chest thing when I said no? That’s not fucking cool. This feeling sucks ass.
I’m torn, caught between respecting her ‘no’ and not actually believing it. I’m not willing to give up. That kiss was mind blowing, life altering, and I know she felt it too. At least I think she did. She had to. It couldn’t have been one way.
I glance at the time. She could be any number of places, including the comfort of her own bed since it’s pretty early, but I don’t know where she lives on campus, and I don’t know anyone who knows her either.
I guess there’s no harm in checking Bitches Brew. If she’s not there, I can grab one of their festive bougie drinks and pretend I went for the caffeine.
I toss Alfred a salute. “I forgot I have something to do.”
He points to the bag of vegetables in my hand. “Would you like for me to take that?”
Right. Good point. I reach the bag out to him.
“I don’t mean to overstep, but you might want to take the car or grab a coat.” He shivers. “It’s not warm.”
He’s got a point. And taking the car can make it look like I stopped at the coffee shop en route to somewhere else. It would track.
This is ridiculous. Creating an elaborate backstory for going to get coffee. Dios mío. This girl has me twisted up in knots.
That odd flapping sensation remains in the pit of my stomach as I park outside the café. Maybe I’m coming down with something, the same thing the Raccoons goalie coach has. I sure as shit hope not because I don’t have time to get sick.
Inside Bitches Brew, no Eloise. The only pink-haired woman in sight is Taryn, and she’s not the pink-haired woman I need.
I do another scan of the cafe, hoping Eloise will appear, from the bathroom, or, no sé, out from under a table she was hiding beneath for some reason. No such luck.
“She’s not here,” a smug voice says. I realize the owner is standing way too close to me.
