Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

He turns to face me, hanging his wrist off the steering wheel, his opposite elbow propped on the center console. His eyes take me in slowly, lips curling into a smile that would make any sane woman feel sexy and wanted and ready to do whatever he asks.

“I’m really glad you let me take you out tonight, Amanda.”

My throat is tight when I reply, “I’m really glad you asked.”

Another smile, and then he’s leaning in, the kiss he’s about to give me so obvious, as if he just knows I want it, too.

I should want it.

But even as his lips find mine, his hand reaching out to curl around my hip, I don’t.

I feel nothing as his mouth explores mine, as he slips his tongue inside with a stiff breath that tells me he wants much more than a kiss.

I try. God, do I try to get into it. I wrap my arms around his neck, pull him into me, will my desire to spark the way it did when Greg just looked at me, let alone touched me.

But I feel like a dead fish.

“Fuck,” Samuel says, breaking the kiss and pressing his forehead against mine. His hand travels up my hip to my waist. “I can’t believe you’re forty-seven.”

I freeze, blood running hot as his hands roam more — but now they just feel like slithery, slick, disgusting tentacles.

I bat his hand away, leaning back. “Excuse me?”

He blanches, confused. “No, I don’t mean anything bad by it,” he says, holding up his hands on a smile. “I’m saying you look amazing for your age.”

“For my age,” I repeat, deadpan.

He coughs a nervous laugh, then tries to save himself, leaning in and brushing my hair out of my face. “You know what I mean. You look like you could be a twenty-five-year-old. It’s a compliment.” He smirks. “I bet you make all the other cougars jealous.”

My jaw drops, and I scoff, sitting back in my seat and pulling every bit of my body away from him. “Wow.”

“What? It’s a co—”

“If you say it’s a compliment again,” I warn, and I don’t even have to finish the threat for him to know.

Samuel sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything bad by it. I’m telling you how gorgeous you are, for Pete’s sake.”

“I’d like to go home now. Please.”

An incredulous laugh leaves him, like he can’t believe a woman — an old woman, from his perspective — is turning him down.

“Come on,” he tries, leaning in again. “The night is young. I’m sorry I upset you. We can—”

“If you don’t want to take me home, I’m happy to get an Uber.”

I reach for the door handle, but Samuel stops me, his hand on my wrist with a curse. Then, he puts his hands up in surrender, sitting back in his seat and firing up the engine. “Home it is,” he says with attitude, and then he kicks us into reverse before peeling out onto Bayshore once more.

It’s the worst car ride of my life, awkward and stuffy and reminiscent of car rides with Josh. Samuel is taking me home. He didn’t cross any lines. He did what I asked.

But I can tell he’s upset.

I can feel the anger and disappointment in his silence, can see it in the way he grips the steering wheel and punches the gas and brake a little too hard.

And I don’t know if he’s like Josh, if he wants to make me feel bad — but whether he does or not, I do.

I feel guilty, and like I led him on, like I stopped something I should have welcomed eagerly. He bought me an expensive dinner, along with two expensive bottles of wine.

I shake those thoughts away as he pulls up to my house.

You don’t owe him anything.

“Thank you for the dinner, Samuel,” I manage as I open the passenger side door. I slam it before he can say anything else, and he idles for only a moment before peeling off.

My nose stings with emotion, tears pricking my eyes as I storm toward the house. I fish in my purse for my keys.

All I want is to take this stupid makeup off, change into sweatpants, and be alone.

I don’t notice the Subaru and BMW still parked in my driveway, don’t even think about the boys still being here until I shove through the front door.

David is passed out on the couch.

Greg is standing at the window.

One look tells me he saw everything.

GREG

“Don’t,” Amanda warns softly, locking the door behind her and kicking off her high heels. She picks up the hem of her dress as she storms toward the staircase.

I catch up to her in the kitchen, hand hooking in the crook of her elbow and pulling her to face me.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Real convincing.”

She grinds her teeth, finally facing me. “It was awful. Okay? Is that what you want to hear?”