By the smug smile on his face, I’d say he’s enjoying me fumbling over myself. He closes the gap between us, his chest against mine. The urge to reach up and pull on his blond hair has my fingers twitching.
“Dik …”
My gaze falls to his mouth, and there’s no doubt that I want him, but I won’t be that guy for him. “I can’t,” I whisper and step back.
“You can. I’m not Eric.”
My eyes dart to Stacy who’s still passed out on the couch. My family can’t know what happened. Ever. “As much as I want to kiss you again …” I force myself to spit out a lie. “I’m not into the whole inexperienced guy in the bedroom thing. But I know a heap of guys who’ll jump at the chance to help you out.” My feet shuffle toward the door, walking backward. “I’ll, uh, text you. I’m catching up with the guys next weekend.”
Maddox puts his hands in his pockets. “Yeah … uh, sounds good.”
I mentally check off a list of all my friends who would be into Maddox. And then I make a note not to invite them next weekend. Because even though I can’t be his experiment, I don’t want them to go for him either.
Asshole level achieved: expert.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MADDOX
What am I doing here?
Since Damon made his escape from my apartment last weekend, I’ve been telling myself to let it go. He doesn’t trust me not to freak out on him. End of story. I need to move on.
So now I’m standing outside the bar where he told me I could meet his friends—friends who could “help me out.” Damon doesn’t understand this isn’t about experimenting but wanting to go out with him. If I was looking for a hookup, I’d go out and do what I’ve always done.
Why is it that the one person I’ve genuinely liked in years—the one person I could see myself having more than one date with—doesn’t want to go out with me because I’ve never been with another guy before? And that’s a technicality because I’m not sure what my thing with Matt would be classified as.
A guy passes me, and his piercing blue-green eyes roam over me. When his lips quirk, I realize he’s checking me out. Do I have a sign on my forehead now? Or am I only noticing it now?
When his lips turn into a full-blown smile, I swallow hard and turn away from the bar. I swear I hear the guy chuckle, but it might be my imagination.
I only get a few steps when I stop and turn back. Then I change my mind and go to leave again.
I get seven steps this time before I pause.
Just do it. Enter the bar.
When I turn this time, I almost run into Damon.
“When Noah said there was a hot, freaked-out guy out here, I thought it might’ve been you.”
“Noah?”
“The annoyingly attractive black guy with blue eyes who eye-fucked you until you got weirded out and left.”
At that, the tension in my gut eases. “Oh. That guy.”
“In my defense, Noah wasn’t supposed to be here tonight. Wyatt invited him. I didn’t want Noah to … uh, scare you off. Apparently, he doesn’t even need to open his mouth anymore before people run the other way.”
“It wasn’t him that scared me off. I-I don’t know what I’m doing here.” I mean, I do. I’m here for Damon, but I can’t say that aloud. This isn’t supposed to be about that.
“Come in and meet everyone, have a drink, and then you can go. This was to make you more comfortable, not intimidate the hell out of you.”
I manage a nod, and he leads me inside to a table with four other people—including the guy who checked me out—and their conversation doesn’t stop at our arrival.
“How can you say that?” a skinny guy says. He looks like he could be a surfer with his sun-kissed, long blond hair. “It’s the most offensive thing to ever come out of your mouth.”
A girl with long, wavy brown hair throws her arm around a chick with a short, black bob haircut. “Stop being so dramatic. Skylar’s trying to get a rise out of you.”
I look at Damon for any type of explanation. He shakes his head with a smile.
“But she … and …” The guy’s voice goes high-pitched. “There are lines, Rebecca. Your girlfriend crossed a major one. No one can say things that offensive without being ridiculed.”
In my experience, only three things can create this type of argument: politics, religion, and—
“All I’m saying is,” the girl with black hair says, “The Phantom Menace was so much better than Empire. Get over it.”
“Agreed,” Damon says.
Star Wars it is. This shouldn’t need debating. I turn to Damon. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be friends with someone who thinks Episode One was better than the originals.” Then I face the rest of the group. “And if any of you say The Force Awakens was even better, I’m going to walk out. Right now.”