His eyes meet mine. It's like he's daring me to take the gig. You don't affect me at all, Vi. I don't give a fuck if you're around or not, but we both know you can't survive being around me for a week and a half.
Fuck, I practically begged him to fuck me last night.
I'm not that girl. I don't beg guys for sex. I don't beg anyone for anything.
Clearly, I can't handle being around Ethan.
My body has other ideas. It's already humming from the proximity of his body. It's already begging me to take him up on his offer.
He's sweaty from his workout. His dark, wavy hair is sticking to his head. His tattooed arms are slick. He only had one sleeve, the left, when things ended. Now he has a right sleeve too. It's as bright and vibrant as his eyes.
He takes a deep breath, stretching his arms over his head. I can see inches of his taught stomach. I can see that flash of pubic hair. The happy trail. God, that was a happy place.
My body screams Ethan, please give me Ethan.
It's not a good idea being around him. Even if it will get me out of my parents' house. Even if I need the cash.
Even if I miss him as much as I miss Asher.
I shake my head. "Thanks, Mal, but—"
"Think about it," Mal says.
I slide off my seat and take a step towards the door. "I'm going to call a cab." And wait for it far, far away.
"I'll drive you home, Vi," Ethan says. "We need to talk."
Talk? Uh-uh. I don't have anything to say to Ethan besides fuck you for making me feel like my dreams were worthless, or maybe fuck me in the backseat of your car.
"Just need ten minutes to shower." Ethan nods to the kitchen island. "Have another cup of tea."
I wouldn't mind another cup of tea.
I certainly don't mind the vivid mental images of pounding water dripping off Ethan's naked body.
Still, I should say no.
When I open my mouth to speak, words refuse to fall. I don't say no, that's okay. Or, actually, I'm going somewhere out of the way.
Instead, I press my lips together, and I nod yes.
5
Violet
I hug my seatbelt. Otherwise, my hands might get ideas about Ethan's arm. It's awfully inviting by his side, his fingers trailing over the gearshift the same way they glide over his guitar strings.
I want to trace all the lines of his new tattoos. I want to learn every shape, every color, every hidden meaning behind the ink. Ethan always wore his h
eart on his sleeve. Now it's literal.
Hugging the seatbelt isn't working. Better play with the radio instead. That's safe enough. I tune it to KROQ 106.7, the Los Angeles alternative rock station. I still remember the first time Ethan's band was played on KROQ—his eyes were lit up like he had just won a trip to the moon. He scooped me into his arms and spun me around and promised that we'd have the world together, that this was great for us.
It was supposed to be that we were a team. Ethan was the only person I ever trusted, the only person I ever let into my heart.
My chest tightens. What's it matter now? Ethan is going to drop me off at my car, I'm going to drive home, the last twelve hours are going to become a distant memory.
That's how things should be.