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“Yes.”
Years upon years of being trained to expect every argument to turn violent, usually with me ending up cornered and verbally abused, or more often, nursing injuries, had honed my instincts to expect every confrontation to result in pain. Between the walls that were steadily closing in, Amanda’s tears, and her wanting to get back together, those were the instincts that took over. Unfortunately for Amanda, it meant I turned full-on defensive asshole.
“Fuck no!” Amanda’s face fell and her wide, wounded eyes shimmered with fresh tears. Horrified by my complete absence of tact, I scrambled to fix Amanda before she broke. “I didn't… fuck. I didn't mean it like that.”
See? That’s why I hate this kind of shit. I dragged my hands down my face and tipped my head back to stare at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry, Mandy. It's not…”
I couldn’t bring myself to resurrect the ol’ “it's not you, it’s me,” chestnut. She’d never believe it anyway. I needed something that didn't make it sound like my rejection was Amanda’s fault, and also let me escape without plunging the knife further into her spine. If she cried, as in really started to sob and get all snotty and messy… I wasn’t emotionally equipped to deal with that.
An image of Kylie flickered in my head and again, mouth before brain, I announced, “I’m seeing someone.”
Amanda's jaw fell and her eyes flared. But hey, at least she was no longer on the verge of tears. I double checked to be sure. Dieu merci. Yep. Dry eyes. In fact, Amanda looked kind of… oh fuck, Amanda looked pissed.
“You bastard piece of shit,” she hissed.
Shocked, I backed into the wall and held up my hands, which shook like I chugged six espresso shots in a row. Anxiety clawed up my throat and those damn ants skittered across every inch of my body.
It was my worst nightmares come to life. Cornered. Trapped.
Memories flashed hard and fast. I counted each breath to separate the present from my disturbing past. In, one… two…
Amanda shifted closer, her lips peeled back in an ugly sneer. “Were you seeing her while you were still screwing me, Seb?” Amanda’s sweet, youthful face, a face I once enjoyed seeing in the throes of passion, twisted with rage.
“We were never exclusive!” I lashed out, furious with Amanda for literally backing me into a corner as she dredged up a subject we discussed to death and then some. She was only one of my many fuck buddies and she knew it.
My anger did nothing to displace the fiery glare she aimed at me, as she awaited further explanation. Forced to think on my feet, I yanked an excuse out of my ass, and put the final nail in my relationship with Amanda.
“The girl I'm seeing, it's a new thing. I don't… I can't… shit.” I thrust my hands in my hair, then let my arms fall to my sides. “What do you want me to say?”
“You and me, two years! The sex, the laughs and good times, did all of that mean nothing to you, Seb? Two goddamn years! Was I so unimportant that a couple of weeks after you left my bed you found a girlfriend? Something you adamantly insisted you’d never have, by the way.” Amanda's chest heaved and she bared her gleaming white teeth.
I was at a loss and my silence sent Amanda over the edge.
She got right up in my face and drilled a finger in
to my collarbone. “You're a real fucking son of a bitch, Sebastien St. Clair. You know what?” Her expression grew a little hysterical and her voice pitched up. “I hope you fall in love with her.” Now it was my eyes that bulged. “That's right, love. That's exactly what I said. I hope you fall hopelessly, head over heels in love with this poor woman, and she dumps your pathetic ass. Then —” Amanda stabbed harder and I had to clench my jaw to keep from breaking her wrist, “—then you'll know what it feels like to want something more than anything, only to have it ripped from your arms."
With that, Amanda spun on one of her non-stilettoed heels and flung the media room door open so hard it bounced off the wall and slammed shut after she stormed out. It felt like I got cross-checked by a runaway train. I closed my eyes and sagged against the wall as I attempted to process whatever the fuck just went down. Amanda had no right to be pissed at me for finding someone else. It’s not like I meant to hurt her.
Deep down she isn't a bad person. Like I said, it wasn’t her, it was me. I simply didn’t want to be tied down. To anyone. In retrospect, thinking back on our lame excuse of a relationship reminded me how increasingly suffocating the air between us grew every time we hooked up. By the end, Amanda’s bedroom felt like a prison.
Clammy with sweat, my NHL mandated tie tightened like a noose around my neck, and my dress shirt stuck to my skin, I escaped the media room and didn't look back. By the time I reached my truck, Sasquatch slash Assassin slash Asshat slash What-the-fuck-ever, was long forgotten. Amanda… well, she wasn't forgotten, but at least I was no longer on the verge of losing my shit, though I could really use a distraction.
I snorted. Irony is such a cunning bitch. Getting cornered and yelled at by my ex-fuck buddy left me itching to call up a convenient outlet…you know, like a fuck buddy.
I went to retrieve my phone to call one of my other, less fun but otherwise satisfactory, hookups. My cock throbbed and visions of Kylie flashed through my head. The phone slid back into my pocket, the mood for a random dial-a-fuck passed. What I wanted was to call Kylie to work out my aggressions. But we were too new, which sucked because it seemed, for the moment, my dick was fixated on her. I guess I would be going without. For now.
Twitch, twitch…
Son of a… I ignored my asshole eye and cranked the radio. My one-track mind kept drifting back to Kylie. Gorgeous and funny Kylie. Teasing, sexy, irresistible Kylie. The more I fantasized about getting her naked, the lighter my mood became. I spun a dozen different scenarios that were so damn hot even the sharp twinge in my side where Calloway hit me during practice couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
When I got home I texted Kylie to let her know I'd be there at seven. Since she had a roommate, we couldn’t hang out at her place. Good thing I already had our date planned out. Against everything I’d learned, rules I'd strictly adhered to for years, I decided to bring Kylie back to my place. For one thing, it was private, plus my bed had all the necessary gadgets to make the evening perfect.
After spending five minutes glaring at my phone as if it personally offended me when Kylie didn’t respond right away to my text—while simultaneously expecting smoke and sparks to fly out the stupid thing or for it to catch on fire—a message popped up with her address. I recognized it. Nice place.
With the arrangements taken care of, I spent the remaining agonizing hours putzing around. My stomach clenched now and then, and at one point, got so bad it felt like I swallowed a cannonball. I pressed a hand to my midsection and grimaced. I should probably snag a snack before I head out. Hopefully, food would take care of any nausea.
