Which, we all know is a total load of horseshit. I can one hundred percent verify that being a dick feels way, way better.
When Calloway didn’t respond—I wasn’t sure he even blinked—I pushed my way out of the changing room and stomped down the hall. Instead of shouting or pummeling the wall with my fists, I forced my head down and checked to
see if Kylie sent any texts (she didn't).
“Seb.”
I winced and sped up.
Keep walking, St. Clair. Pretend you didn't hear.
Hurried footsteps grew closer. “Seb!”
Fils de pute!
I peered over my shoulder to glance at Amanda and ended up doing a double take worthy of a Three Stooges episode as I scrambled to a halt. Whoa. If there’s one thing I can unequivocally, without a doubt, say is true about my ex-fuck buddy, it’s that she never stepped out of the house looking anything less than perfect. From the top of her silky, thick head of hair, down to her sexy painted toenails.
I flicked my gaze up and down her body, and had to strain to not frown. She wore jeans. Jeans! With flat shoes, not a spiky stiletto in sight. Topped, not by her usual silk blouse, but a plain navy tee. Amanda pulled her shiny waves into a high, tangled knot I’d never seen on her before. The style took years off her face. To the point I felt a bit uncomfortable having screwed her senseless. Without the makeup and power suits, Amanda could pass as jailbait.
I couldn't help but gape.
“Mandy?”
I locked onto her lush lips, which normally looked ready to suck my dick. Except they were pinched into a thin, tense line. I glanced up and only then did I notice Amanda’s eyes. They were all bloodshot and swollen, and around her nose was red and raw. It looked like she'd been… oh fuck. I cringed. Crying.
I took a giant step back. I don’t do crying females. Nuh uh. To this day, thinking about it makes my skin crawl. I have no clue what to do or say around a weeping woman. It’s like handling a live grenade. One wrong move and they'd explode, zero hesitation in taking you down with them.
“Do… do you have a minute?”
Câlasse. Amanda sounded different, almost vulnerable. Being an idiot with a Y chromosome, I blurted out, “Sure.” The second it came out of my mouth I wanted to kick my own ass.
“No one's in the lounge.” She pointed to a nearby door.
Instead of saying, “no” and bolting for my truck, I nodded and followed Amanda into the media lounge, the one visitors and reporters use while they wait for press conferences and the like. She closed the door and I broke out in a cold sweat. Memories of the clink of the front gate at the detention center as it snicked shut, the finality of that sound and what it meant, sent ice trickling through my veins. Locked in for twelve months. Caged. Trapped. The day I got out of that shithole, I vowed I'd never let anyone trap me again.
I took a shuddering breath. The walls of the media room shrank and a burning pressure pinched my lungs. I shivered and broke out in chills as nausea pushed its way up my esophagus. I swallowed several times just so I wouldn't puke. My nerves jittered and the prickly sensation of ants under my skin returned tenfold.
“What do you want?” I barked. Amanda flinched, and I cursed under my breath.
It wasn't my fault, it was just, that room. The perception of being imprisoned. My rational mind knew nothing bad was going to happen. I could reach out and open the damn door whenever I felt like it, but tell that to the fucked up part of my brain. For a second, I swore I heard the aaack, aaack of Henri Allaire as he cleared his throat over the thundering of my own heart. The tingling of an oncoming panic attack took root, ready to seize my lungs and shut down all but the most basic of bodily functions.
What I really needed was to light a fucking Valium scented candle and huff that the fumes until pink elephants danced around me.
“I, um…” Amanda twisted her fingers together and ducked her head.
My jaw fell. I was beyond flabbergasted. Screw the panic attack. What was unfolding before me was shocking. I watched Amanda Brooker, a confident and powerful woman with a firm, no bullshit, take-no-prisoners attitude, nervously squirm and twitch. Awkward as fuck, she reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face, then took a deep breath.
“Look, I know I took things too far and you got upset.”
I stared, wary, but decided to be honest. “Yeah, you did.”
Amanda frowned, but didn’t look away. “I’m so sorry. I just… I was hoping maybe we could, you know, forget about it and go back to the way things were. I thought maybe tonight…” She reached for me, but hesitated and dropped her hand.
My anxiety, fueled by the confrontation as well as Amanda’s bizarre behavior, made my racing pulse stumble. I stared in disbelief.
“Let me get this straight. You… you’re saying you want to keep fucking? Even after…?” The I acted like a total bastard and treated you like a fuck toy was inferred.
Amanda inhaled, held steady, and never broke eye contact. That was more like it. More like the assertive woman I met two years ago and found irresistible.