"I'm not a therapist."
"Shit, there goes my plans for the night."
She brushes a lock behind her ear. "There's a couch in the back if you want to lie down."
"That's my backup plan."
Her cheeks flush.
Her pupils dilate.
She's thinking about dragging me to that couch.
About fucking me.
This is a done deal.
It should excite me, but it doesn't.
When I close my eyes, I see Chloe's pink lips. Her tight tank top. Her fierce glare.
That makes me warm everywhere.
The shitty pop music and the dim lighting and the cheap vodka—
Fuck, this is so done. I already know exactly how this night is gonna go. And I can't find any enthusiasm for it.
Two rounds of flavored vodka and grapefruit juice later, and Allison is pawing at my arm.
Hinting that her place is nearby.
She's hot. She's eager. She's sweet.
But I'm still apathetic.
My apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I turn my Bluetooth speakers on. Pull out my phone to stream my favorite Sonic Youth album.
The powder blue couch is inviting—I'm fucking wiped—but it's nothing compared to the text on my cell.
Apparently, I'm your shadow tomorrow.
Chloe.
Something inside me stirs. It's not like with the girl at the bar. It's deeper. Achier.
She's an itch I'm desperate to scratch.
I tap a reply.
Dean: Who is this?
Chloe: Cute.
Dean: Is that Chloe with one e or two?
Chloe: Chloee isn't a name.
Dean: You sure?