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When they arch their eyebrows at me, I fling the pencil to my right, and they both turn to look at it sail across the garage.
I’ve lost my fucking mind.
“Why’d he throw the pencil?” Ford whispers, and Cash shrugs.
“Who fucking knows why he does the shit he does?”
It’s laced with venom, and my heart sinks. This doesn’t bode well for me.
“It slipped,” I say defiantly and then march over to where the pencil is, bending over and grabbing it before standing up.
“I got it. You can stop staring,” I say, feeling my hot cheeks flare to epic proportions.
“But you have a scarf on. Why do you have a scarf on?”
“I’m cold.”
Ford arches an eyebrow and Cash cocks his head. He knows what’s behind it. I’m surprised Ford hasn’t noticed.
The two of them glance at each other and then meander back to work, their movements a little stunted. They got into something last night and for some reason, I hate that I wasn’t involved, that I wasn’t part of it.
But then again, what do I expect? For these men to be okay with sharing me?
No, that’s not a fucking thing in the real world.
I keep my head down the rest of my shift. It’s only a few hours, but I hate every minute of it. My mind swirls, wondering what they talked about, what they did together when I wasn’t there. I know that it’s silly, that there is no reason for me to feel this way. I didn’t ask them to be exclusive and have no right to expect that of them either. But I do care. I feel like I’ve been left out, and it’s all my fault.
I made this choice, and I have to live with it.
The clock ticks down, minute by minute until it’s time for me to go. And without a word, I grab my things and trail outside, opening my car and getting inside. Cash and Ford didn’t even say a word to me as I left.
They had to have talked about me, they must know what I’ve been doing. And now they’re done.
My eyes sting as I start my car, and as I drive out of the lot, I see Cash and Ford standing at the open garage door, both of them watching me leave, their arms folded across their chests.
It’s like a bad omen or something.
I force my gaze away and don’t look back.
* * *
I’m moping. I can’t help it. I went from insatiable sex for weeks on end to nothing for twenty-four hours and it’s all my fault. No Cash, no Ford, and my dick feels like it’s going to fall off. And my heart feels as if it is limping sadly along. I will probably be dead soon from lack of sex.
My ass feels empty, so does my mouth.
I’m just an empty shell.
I end up in a theater across town, munching on stale popcorn and watching a movie that is so terrible the chairs all around me are empty—save for a lonely old man in the front row.
He might be dead.
Oh god, I am watching a movie with a corpse.
I stare at the screen and then choke on a popcorn kernel. The man in the front row turns back and glowers at me.
So not dead. Maybe a zombie, however. The way his neck swiveled was eerie.
I should leave, this is just sad. I stay until the credits have stopped rolling and the lights go on.
