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He glances my way and I’m staring back like a needy hussy. His brows raise as if he missed something I said. But I’ve said nothing, and now I'm busted for staring at him for a ridiculous and unacceptable amount of time. I turn my head, faking a cough into my shoulder like a moron, and cower into myself.
“You alright?” he asks, worry in his tone.
“I'm fine,” I answer quickly, then follow it up with, “Sore throat. Too many shots down the ol' hatch.”
The ol' hatch?!What am I, eighty?!
I'm anxious. I'm nervous. I'm slightly drunk. I'm paranoid because Lake is driving me home, and we just kissed, and we are probably going to kiss again, and my stomach is in knots because I think I really like him, and I shouldn't, but I want to, and…
“The 'ol hatch?” he asks with a coy smile, interrupting my internal battle.
“I, uh...it hurts my throat. All that burning…”—I swallow down sand—“liquid.”
He's staring at me. I see him from the corner of my eye before he says, “You sure you're alright? You seem a little...anxious.”
Oh no. Lake knows I'm anxious around him.
He can't know he makes me anxious. That only insinuates I care what he thinks, and if he knows I care what he thinks, then he knows I really like him as much as I do. He probably assumes I've chosen the colors for our wedding party. Pink blush dresses for the girls and a crisp navy blue for the guys. Rose gold accents everywhere.
“I'm not anxious,” I reply anxiously.
Why is it when someone says you're acting weird that you have to double over, acting normal to not appear weird? I hate alcohol. It's dulling my ability to be snarky and collected. It makes me want to jump his bones and do lots of dirty things girls like me shouldn’t even entertain.This is exhausting.
He turns his head towards me again as I face out through the windshield, focusing on the road ahead of us. Appearing normal.
“You know, they say consuming semen can reduce anxiety. So, if you need to suck me off again for your own comfort, by all means…” He takes a hand off the wheel, pointing a welcoming hand at his groin.
My eyes widen as I turn to face him. I’m appalled. Then I consider it for a moment. Then I’m appalled.
His serious face breaks into a half-grin, which ends up stretching across his entire face until he's finally laughing.He's laughing at me.
“I'm sorry, I had to. You look painfully nervous for some reason, and I wanted to push the panic button, see how you'd respond.” A deep chuckle leaves his throat. “It was as good as I imagined it'd be.”
I playfully smack his arm, making him laugh harder.
I love that sound.
Lake's laugh calms me.
Shaking my head at him and myself for my useless thoughts, I turn my head, facing the window again.
“But seriously,” his voice interrupts, stern and deliberate, as I turn to face him again. “If you want to. Let me know. I can pull over.”
I stare at him, raising a brow, actually contemplating it before his face breaks again and he shakes his head, not even seriously entertaining it.
He’s not entertaining it because I'm tipsy.
I’m tipsy and I want him, but now he wants to be respectful.
Dammit, he's a decent guy.
Life would be so much easier if he wasn't.
39
Dylan
Wehittheroadand begin our quiet ride back home. I find myself counting down the streetlights along the empty road, not wanting the night to end. Wanting to spend more time with Lake is ridiculous when all we do is spend time together. He's practically contracted to see me multiple times per week, and yet it's just not enough. It's never enough.
