“I meant the getting up early part,” she interrupts, eyes flashing. “Didn’t think you were the type.”
Fuck. Kingston’s words from the other day are pounding in my head—and although I usually loathe when he’s in my head, I can’t deny that this time he’s kind of right.
I need to apologize.
“Listen, Gwenna?” I inhale sharply through my nose, screwing up my mouth. God, this is hard. It’s like fighting left-handed; I have the muscle memory all backwards.
“About the other day. What I said—I’m sorry. About how you guys were…” I wince, look at the ceiling, and hope I don’t have to repeat what I said verbatim for this to all count. “That was…that was really out of line.” I exhale at last. “I’m sorry.”
When she doesn’t react in the split second that follows, I rush onward.
“I was just trying to dig at King, you know, and he’s—you know how he is. I mean, obviously, you do, if you two are—but I didn’t mean that ifyouare, then that’s, it’s…”
What thefuckam I talking about?
“…it’s not something I need to comment on,” I finish. “What you’re doing.”
Even if I can’t help butnoticewhat you’re doing,I think.
Because I miss her. Sorry not sorry, but I do.
“Oh,” Gwenna says. “Of course.”
There’s an eternity of a pause. Then:
“Apology accepted,” she says.
Jesus. The relief is narcotic. “Great. I’m?—”
“But I wasn’t offended, for the record.” She runs a finger around the edge of a bell guard, not meeting my eyes. “You weren’twrong.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, okay. Sure. But—” I need this to be clear to her, need tomakethis clear. “You know I don’t think you’re that kind of girl, though, right?”
“That kind of girl,” she repeats. Each word heavy.Nowshe meets my eyes.
Oh, no.
“What kind of girl?” she asks. Suddenly light and innocent.
Oh,no.Fuck. This is a trap.
“The kind of girl that has sex, I’m assuming,” Gwenna goes on, jumping her fingers to the next sword in line. “Because if a girl likes sex, that’s a bad thing?” She takes a step towards me, like she’s trying to corner me.
“No,” I say quickly. “No, no, no.”Quite the opposite, I think.It’s a good thing. The ideal thing. A dream come true.
Especially if said girl is you.
“Good,” she says. “I’d hate to be a problem.”
When did she get her fingers in my belt loops?
My back hits the wall.
“Gwenna…”
She pulls me to her by the hips and kisses me. Hard. Rough. With tongue.
And surprisingly fast. Because next thing I know, Gwenna drops to her knees.
