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“Still hear you.” Joey clears his throat, then stands. He turns to face me and gently reaches down and moves my glass to the table before offering me his hand. “Time for our dance.”
“I don’t want to,” I argue with him.
“Too bad. Now get up.”
“Yeoowww,” Troy says.
I give Joey my hand, and he helps me to stand before guiding me to the dance floor. Everyone starts clapping, and I avoid making eye contact with anyone around us.
“Didn’t take you for the shy type,” Joey remarks as we get to the dance floor. He pulls me into him so our bodies are touching and puts his hands on my waist.
I feel it.
I feel him.
Everywhere.
His touch is warm and inviting.
I hate that.
Hate that my body likes it.
That it likes him.
It’s a deceiving little bitch.
“I’m not shy.” Our bodies are locked tight, my hands resting on his shoulders as the song plays. I can’t even tell you what song it is. All I can hear is the rhythm of my own heart beating. It’s the alcohol. That must be the reason he’s having an effect on me.
“You’ll be staying with me tonight,” he states, making my feet halt where they are. He notices before he steps on my foot and looks down at me. “You knew this was going to happen.”
“I like my place.”
“Sell it.”
“I don’t want to sell it.” I try to pull back, but his grip doesn’t waiver.
“You can sell it and put that money into your bookstore and hire someone,” he suggests. I hear the logic in his words, even his soft delivery, but I don’t want to reason with him because I don’t want him to be right.
“I don’t want to share a bed with you.”
He says nothing, but I hear him take a deep breath.
“Why are you so calm through all this? This is a fucked-up situation.” He pulls back this time. His hand catches my wrist, and he tugs me, angrily, but his grasp is still gentle. I follow him until we get to a back room, and he slams the door shut behind us.
He turns to face me, then starts pacing back and forth. Stopping, he looks at me quickly, his eyes wild, then he resumes his pacing.
“Is this a panic attack?” I ask him, confused by what is going on.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Fuck off,” he growls.
We hear footsteps before he turns and faces me again.
“What?” I ask him.
“Is this what I want?” He scoffs and waves his hand up and down my body. “A fucking woman who prefers pussy over cock.” He shakes his head. “Is this what I want? A woman who is annoying at every fucking turn.” He takes a breath, and I’m about to speak, but he holds up his hand. “You are not what I want. I would prefer to marry who I want, who I love, but because of the stupid fucked-up life I am living, I get you.” He snarls the word then continues, “You… you are the last thing I want.” Then he turns and storms out, leaving me standing there by myself, feeling sick to my stomach.
