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I shrugged. “You want to humiliate me, I get that. I’ve been through worse. But somehow, I don’t think you do. Something’s pissing you off, and you don’t have the guts to own it. So I’m gonna go get dressed, because I’m tired of having this conversation naked, and I’ve got shit to do today.” I headed for the bedroom door. “See ya, Gwen.”
She was quiet for a minute, and I was already in the bedroom when I heard the front door close behind her.
Chapter 11
Gwen
He blew me off.
Max Reilly blew. Me. Off.
No man did that to me. Ever. Sure, I’d been a bit rude—okay, bitchy maybe—and sure, I’d been unfair. The truth was, after that unreal sex session on his kitchen counter, I’d felt completely out of my depth. Like something was happening that I couldn’t control. It had seemed fun and exciting, being out of control the night before. But after that—God, it had been so intense—I had felt like I was careening down a hill with no brakes. Like there was no way this was going to end well.
And then I’d remembered my job.
Like Trent had suggested, I’d t
aken extra gigs to help pay my back rent. Three of them in one night. I’d never had a problem getting naked—it was what I did. But suddenly, after being naked with Max, the idea made me queasy. Being naked with Max was nothing like being naked with anyone else. They were on two different planets. And since work-naked paid the bills and Max-naked didn’t, I’d had to make a choice.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
I got myself home, entering my tiny apartment on orgasm-weakened legs, my brain still spinning. I had a rented matchbox in a high-rise building, which sounds luxurious but was anything but. It was the smallest apartment known to man, the cheapest thing I could afford without roommates. It was a single room, with a kitchen counter along one wall and a queen sized bed on the other. The bathroom door swung halfway into the main room. Even with its stingy square footage, the rent was still outrageous, and my few attempts to decorate had been so pathetic I’d simply given up.
I took a long, hot shower, then flopped on my back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. My traitorous body was still blissed out because of Max Reilly. His hands. His whole big body. His teeth on my neck. His ridiculous biceps. His smoking hot beard, which was surprisingly soft when you ran your fingertips through it, or felt the edge of it on your tongue when you licked his lip, or when he put his head between your legs and—
Damn it, damn it. I had to stop. I’d scratched my itch. I had work to do.
But hours later, after I’d rested and prepped and done my first gig, I still felt bad. Pervasively, shittily bad. I didn’t want to be here, doing my Naughty Nurse routine at some guy’s fiftieth birthday party (the evening’s early slot, since the birthday boy wouldn’t last much past ten.) I sat in my car, supposedly on my way to my second gig, but instead parked and looking at my phone, thinking about texting Max.
If you walk out, don’t call me. You’re the first woman I fucked since getting my leg blown off, and I’m not in the mood to be jerked around.
How long had that been for him? Years? I thought I was so goddamned tough, that my life was so fucking hard. With a few words, Max always showed me how shallow I was. How brittle. What if I pushed him too far this time? What if he was really done with me?
I surprised myself by feeling an echo of panic inside my ribcage. The thought of Max being done with me was bleak, even if I’d done my best to push him away only this morning. I was truly going crazy.
So I typed: Are you there?
There was half a minute of silence, and then he answered. Yes.
What are you doing? I wrote, because even when we were fighting, apparently, I was curious about him.
Just left the gym, he wrote back.
That gave me mental pictures of Max, muscled and sweaty, maybe wearing workout shorts and a t-shirt that was stuck to his skin. On any other guy I’d think that borderline gross, but with Max I knew that if I pushed his sweaty shirt up and inhaled, he’d smell like sex. Damn him.
At least he was talking to me. There were very few words, but at least they were there. I gritted my teeth and prepared to apologize to a man for the first time since I was eighteen. I’m sorry about this morning, I wrote.
There was a long, long minute of silence. I’d surprised him. Welcome to the club, because I’d surprised myself. Then he wrote, Where are you right now?
It didn’t cross my mind to lie to him. I’m in my car, between gig one and gig two.
His reply was immediate. Ditch it. Quit. Come over.
I put the phone down on the seat next to me, put my hands on the wheel, and leaned forward until my forehead hit the wheel. Those words were like a punch to the gut, almost physical, painful, breathtaking.
I wanted to do that. So. Bad.
I wanted to start my car and drive to South San Francisco, to Shady Oaks. I wanted to take off these uncomfortable clothes, these high heels, wash off my makeup, and curl up on Max’s sofa, watching TV and breathing him in. I even wanted to listen to his grumpy arguments and non-conversations. And later, when we were both tired, I wanted to climb into his bed with him and have sex in every possible combination until neither of us could move.
