Dirty Toe Drag (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 6)

He is just fantastic. He has this wildness about him. His eyes are a blazing blue color, and his hair is dirty-blond, long at the top but shaved on the sides. He has a jawbone that I want to lick and curve my tongue along before capturing those thick lips with mine. He was wearing a sexy gray suit that hugged his shoulders and his hips. His thighs were crying in those pants, but what I loved most was that he wore these funky Bob’s Burgers socks with Crocs. I shit you not. It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen, but then he set me with this smoldering look, and I was a goner.

Or so I thought.

I served him all night and he flirted endlessly with me, but I ignored his advances because I knew he was too old for me. I was only seventeen, and I wasn’t trying to get him in trouble. I’m not that kind of girl. No matter how gorgeous a man is or how much I want him. I won’t screw a dude over; that’s just shitty. I did my best to ignore him, with his quick smirk and those dancing eyes, but it was hard.

But then he started singing karaoke.

He was a mess. He sang at the top of his lungs, he played the air guitar, he danced like no one was watching, and above all, he smiled the whole time. A full, happy smile that took up his entire gorgeous face. I wanted so badly to jump over the bar and go dance with him. Lose myself in the music and enjoy being silly. I’m sorry, but watching a man be a complete dork with no cares in the world turns me on like no other.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m always so put together—the hair, the outfits, the shoes, and makeup—but I attract these serious, no-joking fuckboys that do nothing for me. In high school, those guys were all who wanted me. Not to sound conceited, but I’m a very pretty girl, and I’m smart. I’ve been doing makeup since sixth grade, and I was able to wear my mom’s clothes by tenth grade. I never dealt in petty drama or fought with girls in school. I took care of me. It helped that I went to a private school and I’ve worked since I was fourteen, but I feel like I haven’t really allowed myself to be silly. To be a dork. I’m always too focused on looking good to mess up my appearance, and while I love the attention it gets me, it’s always been from the wrong men.

Until Wes.

Problem is, Wes is funny, dorky, hot, but also, like all men, he is a fuckboy.

Listen, I get it. We live in a world where relationships hardly ever happen. Guys like him think there is always something better, and I don’t want that. I want a man who wants me. All of me.

I don’t want to fuck around. I did that all through my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. It was a blast, but it’s exhausting. It’s the same cat-and-mouse game. Will they call? Do they like me? It gave me serious anxiety, and I don’t think I’m made for the fuckgirl game. I applaud the women and men who love it, but I want security. I don’t mean money either; I don’t need money. I want the security of knowing someone always has my back.

I know that Emery would die—and kill—happily, for me, as well as my parents. But I watch my brothers with their significant others. I watch my mom and dad, and knowing there is love out there like that? It’d be silly of me not to want that. To crave it. To know it can happen for me. I mean, I watched my sister-in-law sing with her whole soul, body, heart, everything for my brother. She loves him. Same with how my parents feel about each other, and I want that all-consuming love.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been in love. Lost my virginity to the first guy I loved when I was fourteen. When he moved, I was heartbroken. And for a while, it made me decide I had to be in love to have sex, so I only loved two more times until my senior year. But after that whole bullshit with Maxim, I decided, fuck boys. I was going to be a free agent, and it was fun. For a while.

Now…now, I want more. Especially after realizing the love I had for those guys was nothing compared to how I feel about Wes. I know it’s totally ridiculous and maybe even just infatuation, but I live for a like or a comment on my Instagram from him. When he comes into Brooks House, I yearn for him to look at me. To notice me. To talk to me. I want so much for us to go out, to be together, and to get to know each other better. I only know stuff about him that I hear when he’s talking to the guys, and I crave more.