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“Evie, what is it?”
Her shoulders tense. She speaks again, this time with her back to me. Probably so she doesn’t have to watch my face when she delivers her blow. “It’s just, he’s really good-looking. And his body is … wow. He just seems like maybe one of those types. The not-serious types.”
In other words, the not serious about dating a thicker girl type. I get that I’m not model thin, but I like my body—from my height to my big boobs and ass. I like my size, a 14 that’s curvy and firm in all the right places. But what I don’t like is that I’ve been hearing crap like this my entire life.
You would be a knockout if you lost…
God, your face is perfect, but can you…
You sure you want to order that burger—wouldn’t you be happier with…
My chest burns and I grit my teeth into a smile that I force at the back of Evie’s blonde head. “So he seems not-serious just because he’s hot?”
“You didn’t wonder why he asked you out?” She still has her back to me.
That’s good, because I don’t particularly want her to see my face right now either. Suddenly, I’m furious. “Why, because no hot guy could possibly want to date a cow like me?” I reply, my voice low and sharp.
Startling, she whips around to face me. “No, Skye, that’s not what I—”
“Oh, I get what you’re trying to say. Don’t worry. Message received.” I snatch up the coffee tray at last and storm across the diner, practically flinging the mugs and creamers in front of my customers. I apologize, but the damage is already done and they’re giving me that look that makes me think I’ll be lucky to get a tip at all from them. Not that I’m thinking about tips right now. Because Evie’s words are still pinging around my head, filling me with that awful sinking feeling I’ve spent years trying to overcome.
How dare she? one part of my brain screams. Just because she’s bony, she thinks she has the right to tell me no good-looking man could ever possibly show an interest in me?
And yet, at the same time, there’s another side to my internal brain-battle. Another voice in there whispering, Maybe she’s right. There’s a tiny part of me that’s been asking that same question all along: What could he possibly see in me, this boring overweight waitress in a run-down diner in a dying city?
The fact that some small part of me agrees with Evie makes me even angrier. It also stabs a pin straight into that bubble of happiness I’ve been carrying around all day, buoying myself aloft with.
In the end, there’s no way to know what Stone wants or whether he’s actually going to show for our second date on Friday night. Whether he wants me for anything more than a quick fuck. The thought of never seeing him again, of not getting to explore this connection we’ve found, makes my intestines knot themselves around my stomach.
I want this
thing with him to be real. And that scares the hell out of me.
11
Stone
I’m not proud of what I do next. I’m not happy that I sit in the driveway a few doors down from Skye’s parking lot to watch in my rearview mirror as she climbs into her car to leave for work.
Ah, fuck it, I enjoy the watching her climb into the car part. I could watch that woman spread her legs 24/7.
But the part I fucking hate is creeping back to the entrance to her building, picking the lock and tiptoeing up the staircase to the door of her apartment. The whole time, I try to imagine that I’m with her. That she’s the one leading me up these stairs by the hand, her delicious ass swaying just inches from my face, daring me to lean up and sneak a bite before we reach her doorway.
I imagine, when I pick the lock to her door and it swings inward, that she was pushing it open eagerly and pulling me inside—where I don’t even wait for her to shut it before I grab her face in both hands and press my lips to hers, crushing her body against mine, her soft curves making my cock throb instantly.
I wish that instead of me studying the ceiling for cracks, for fan fixtures and easily hidden areas, I was lying her down on that long green sofa and fucking her until she screamed my name.
Instead, I drag her couch to the center of the room and balance on it to fix one of the three small cameras I’ve brought with me into one of the blades.
After I dropped Skye at her apartment this morning, I circled around the block to the nearest coffee shop and wasted an hour there downing black coffee. I hadn’t gotten any sleep last night—not that I’m complaining—but I needed a quick pick me up. After I finished, I swung by my place again to pick up the supplies I’d need. I’ll need this surveillance footage after I leave her the clues I plan to drop about her brother. Hopefully she’ll either bring him over here for a serious heart-to-heart, or she’ll call him from here and I can hear at least half the conversation.
Either way, I need more information about Ian Banner and I need it fast. Otherwise Rich will hang me out to dry.
When I move the couch back into place, my eyes wander across the paintings she’s hung on her walls. They’re simple. Photographs of places I recognize, like the beach after the last hurricane hit and a photo of the interior of one of the casinos, shot in black-and-white film while some costume event was happening. It’s shot in a way that makes the whole casino seem classy and beautiful, like a still-frame from a 1950s noir movie instead of a den of assholes like me and her brother.
My chest clenches even tighter.
I ignore the rest of the room, feeling like if I have to watch this place, the least I can do is give Skye’s personal possessions some privacy. I stalk toward kitchen. Planting the camera there is easy—it blends in with the exhaust fan above her stove, which is clearly out-of-order and probably hasn’t been turned on in a decade.
