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My life really is sad.
Screw it. I'm better than this.
Tossing the remote on the couch, I stomp to my room where I left my phone charging and make quick work of sending off a text, not willing to let myself think twice about it.
Me: My place. Tonight.
I look at the screen then consider that might have been a little rude.
Me: Please. It's important.
Ignoring the shake to my hand, I palm my phone and try to calm the nervous flutters. Thank God I changed his contact picture from the erection picture he had texted me, or I imagine I would be even more nervous than I already am at this moment. My eyes remain glued to the television when I drop back on the couch, trying to listen to the words the hunky salt and pepper cop on the screen is saying, but all I can feel is the giant weight of my phone--the phone that hasn't gotten a response.
Another hour passes before I lie down and continue watching my show, doing a terrible job of ignoring my phone. The workweek doesn't take long to catch up with me, though. The second my head is resting on one of my many throw pillows, I'm out.
"JOE JONAS!" I SCREAM, RUBBING my head and blinking the sleep out of my eyes. The pounding at the door starts again, reminding me how I ended up on the floor after cracking my head against the corner of my coffee table.
Climbing off the floor, I glance at the clock hanging above the television. Three in the morning? The banging starts up again, spurring me into action and out of the zoned-out, half-asleep state I had been trapped in.
It doesn't take me long to throw all the locks and yank open the door. "What?" I grumble to the chest right in front of my eyes. I peer up, and the rest of the sleep that had been fogging my head clears.
Shane.
Here.
Oh, boy.
"Why are you bleeding?" he questions with concern lacing his words.
"Huh?"
"Your head, Nikki. It's bleeding."
"It is?"
His eyes narrow a split second before pushing his way gently around me. Taking my hand, he urges me to follow. Beyond over everything at this point, I slam the door shut and follow. He stops in the kitchen, moving around like he's been here a million times. Correctly opening the drawer where my towels are, he moves to the laundry closet to grab my first-aid kit before dipping the towel he grabbed under the faucet. Then he walks back to where I'm standing and places his hand against my stomach, pushing me backward with a tender touch. I sit, mutely, while he dabs my head with the towel. My eyes never leaving his face as he continues to care for me. I never would have imagined he was capable of such gentleness.
"You don't need stitches. The butterfly bandage should be enough."
"Uh, okay?"
He studies me for a beat before opening his mouth. "How hard did you hit your head?"
"I'm okay."
He doesn't look convinced.
"I'm fine, Shane."
"You might think you are," he mutters under his breath.
"What are you doing here?"
Again, his expression gets a little wonky before it visibly washes clean, void of any emotion. "You texted me earlier."
"Oh, yeah. That."
"Yeah, Nikki, that."
"That, Shane, was hours ago."
He shrugs. "We were short staffed tonight at Dirty. I just walked out the door ten minutes ago, cherie, and I'm fucking beat. You texted, I came when I could, so what's up?"
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Oh."
"Nikki," he groans. "What's up?"
"I figured you would just text me back."
"Not a big fan of wasting my time. Your place is on the way to mine, figured I would stop by and see what you wanted."
"At three in the morning?"
Silence. His handsome eyes a murky brown, watching and waiting. However, it's the absence of golds and greens in those eyes that tell me more than his silence will.
"You're angry," I whisper with a frown. "Why?"
"It's been three fucking weeks, Nikki. I don't hear a peep from you until today, and after your text, I had to hear from Ember about some bullshit with your ex stalking you, showing up at your work scaring you, and then I get some short, curt message in a text and nothing else. You didn't tell me all that shit when we were together last, so yeah, color me fucking shocked. I couldn't leave Dirty if I wanted to, didn't have time to text you back, but my mind had plenty of time to imagine a million things you might need and not all of them were good. How do you want me to feel?"
"You were worried?" I don't call him on the fact we're actually a few days past three weeks even if I just want to be a smart-aleck. I have a feeling he's not going to handle my lame jokes very well.
He throws his hands up, making me flinch. His eyes get even darker. I'm having a hard time following him, but I can't imagine what I did to piss him and those damn mood ring eyes of his off.
"Yeah, I fucking was, and I don't like it."
"I'm sorry?"
With his hands on his trim hips, he glares at me. "Don't be fucking cute right now."
"I'm just being me, Shane."
"And that's the fucking problem!"
Needing a minute to wrap my head around his confusing behavior, I stand from my seat at the two-person kitchen table and walk to the couch. Clicking off the television, I toss the remote down and look at the man in my apartment. His head bowed, tension radiating off him, and his breathing coming in shallow pants. The silence around us uncomfortable, but I'm at a loss of how to break it.
"I left here three weeks ago thinking that you might have been serious, but then nothing. I figured if we were going to do this fake bullshit, you would at least reach out. I was game. But fuck, Nikki, you completely ghosted me. All I've thought about was what changed. Millions of shit-filled reasons going through my head, but it always ended with me fucking worried that something happened with that asshole ex of yours, and he was keeping you from reaching out. Then you finally do text, and I show up with you bleeding, and still, I fucking worry."
