“I think we’re done here,” I said, feeling tired and high and nowhere near coming. My dick was hard, but it wasn’t for her.
“Let me help you,” she said, trying to sound coy as she pushed back on my shoulders and reached under her skirt to slide her panties to the side.
“I said we’re done here.”
Pride good and wounded, she righted her dress, swiped her purse off the floor, and stormed toward the door.
“You should see a doctor for that little issue,” she said.
“It’s not me. It’s you,” I said flatly.
She growled, flinging the door open, only to reveal Allison and her little hipster boyfriend out front. Allison’s face changed when she took in the scene in front of her. Her expression went from shocked to…hurt, if I wasn’t mistaken. It was subtle, but I saw it. I should have told her that it didn’t get that far. That she managed to cockblock me without even being here. But I was too busy relishing in the fact that she did want me on some level. She just needs a little push.
I hear the shower start above me, the water rushing through the pipes, interrupting my thoughts. I groan. This is torture. Pure fucking torture. The only girl I want, in this moment, is naked right upstairs. And I can’t have her. Probably not anytime soon, after tonight.
I feel my phone buzz somewhere underneath me, and I stick my hand in the crack between the cushions until it finds the cool, hard case of my phone. Turning it over in my palm, I see a text on my screen.
Tomorrow. 5741 East Baker Rd. 10P.M.
I clench my jaw, simultaneously hating being under someone’s thumb while itching for the thrill that’s sure to come. Plus, I could use the extra money. I punch out a reply.
I’m in.
As if I have a choice in the matter.
I went to bed feeling irritated, but when I woke up Saturday morning and found the trash can full of unopened snacks, I felt a twinge of guilt, which is ridiculous. I couldn’t have known he planned that for me. And if he wanted to hang out, he could have—oh, I don’t know—asked me?
The next few days go by without any more Jesse sightings. I try to casually ask Lo where he’s been during my shift at Blackbear Sunday, but she laughs and says it’s better that she doesn’t ask. At first, I was glad I didn’t have to face him, but when Thursday rolls around, and he still hasn’t shown his face, the disappointment sets in. I find myself wondering where he disappears to. And why isn’t he in school? Why is he so hot and cold with me? But mostly, why the hell do I care?
“Albert.” Dylan snaps his fingers in front of my face.
“Sorry.” I shake thoughts of Jesse from my head. “What were we talking about?”
“The show,” he reminds me, tuning his guitar while we sit at his kitchen table.
“Right. So, there’s this new venue called The Lamppost. I went with this guy from school Friday, and you guys have to try it out. The place is massive. You remember Victor from The Cold Snap?” I ask, and he nods.
The Cold Snap was a hole-in-the-wall venue in town that Victor owned. I don’t know what happened, but it’s a sandwich shop now. “He owns it. Turns out, he doesn’t have the first clue as to how to throw an event.”
“Shocker,” Dylan says, full of sarcasm.
“He gave me his card—”
“He has a card?” Dylan laughs, his beer bottle halting at his lips.
“I know.” I smile. “Anyway. He wants my help with the next one. And naturally, I thought about you.”
“Sounds fun.”
I nod. “I have a good feeling about it. You in?”
Dylan nods. “Our schedule’s not exactly full. Can we play your song? You can sing it with me.”
I shoot him a look as if he proposed kidnapping the president. There’s a better chance of me doing just that than getting up on a stage and singing, no matter how small the crowd. “You’re high. That’s not happening.”
Outside of singing to whatever my dad plays—played—on guitar, and the occasional song with Dylan for fun, I’m no singer. It’s not what I want to do. Songwriting? Maybe. Owning my own venue, or even producing music? Definitely. I always thought I’d do it with my dad. The plan was to open our own place together when I graduated college—hence the music business major—but now, everything seems like one giant question mark.
“When’s the last time you wrote, anyway?”