“What?” I whisper as she focuses on something people rarely see. I know what it is because she reaches up and touches the small scar on my hairline.
“What happened?” She whispers back, and I shake my head. The pain of the memory is far too much to think about, let alone vocalize. Her brows furrow in response, and her fingers lift from my head, hovering for a moment as she studies my reaction. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I would like to.
“Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?” I laugh.
“Evade,” She tilts her head. “Act like everything’s a joke when things get too serious.”
“Who said it was getting serious?” I shrug dismissively with a grin that feels more like a shield, but I won’t admit that she’s right. Not a chance. She’s definitely not amused by my response.
“You know, if I knew you any better—”
“You don’t.” I flatly say, and I know it’s too harsh when she takes a step back from me. The pain written across her face makes me internally cringe, like I’ve been stabbed in the stomach and I need to double down. After a second, her mouth presses into a slight frown, and she nods.
“Guess I’m not too far off base, then.” She spins on her heel to head back down the hallway, and I can’t let her. I don’t want her to leave. I almost had her, was planning to fuck her long and hard. Pound out every thought of her until we were both so satisfied we wouldn’t need to ever think of one another sexually again.
“Stop.” I grab her wrist, not willing to just let her leave.
“Let me go.” She whips her hand out of mine. “You think because you’re hot, I’ll fuck you. But I don’t fuck men who don’t feel. Because you know what will happen when I do? They’ll leave.”
I swallow hard. That was my intention; I thought it was hers too. But now, I can tell by the tears in her eyes that I mean more to her than maybe she’s willing to admit to herself and especially to me.
“I don’t date—”
“And I don’t fuck around. So, I guess we’re both screwed.”
I blink in bewilderment at her sharp words, cutting through me worse than they should.
“Lydia.”
She grimaces when I say her name like it's a slap to the face that I didn’t intend it to be. She shakes her head like she’s about to say something, but instead, she turns around and storms away from me. This time I let her because I don’t think I’m ready for that type of emotion. Those nuisances getting in the way of us just fucking and being friends afterward. Because, despite her hurt, I do want to be her friend. Had I known about her hang-up, I would have said that sooner.
Yeah, she’s fucking stubborn and irritating, but she’s also badass, funny, engaging, intelligent… she’s a lot of good things, okay? And I wouldn’t ever want to compromise that by hurting her beyond repair. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to fuck her. Just means I might have to go about it differently. Shit.
I ball my fists up and hit the wood-paneled wall. I grit my teeth and hit it again with my other fist. It’s not productive, but I do it anyway. Because that’s usually what happens when I actively choose not to feel. The anger comes, and it won’t go until I work it out somehow.
After a couple more rounds of hitting, a maid comes around the corner to check the commotion. I see her from the corner of my eye, stop what I’m doing, nod, and walk right past her shocked frame. My chest is like a fully stretched rubber band, and I think it’s about to snap, so I do a couple of laps around the house.
I think I end up walking for an hour, aimlessly wandering the halls until I recognize what direction my room is in and head that way. The tightness in my chest doesn’t subside, and when I’m back in my room, I need to shower it off with as much heat as I can. Until my skin is burning, and my eyes are bleary, and I tell myself it's because of the heat.
Quickly, I march to the bathroom door, swing it open without thinking, and nearly fall over. Lydia is washing her face in the sink, only in a very thin black lacy bra and thong. I’m about to back up before she sees me, but my swinging of the door was far too aggressive. She turns her head, eyes wide, as I’m backing up— not trying to hide the fact that I’m looking at her flawless body.
She jumps up and runs over to the hand towel hanging by her side of the sink and attempts to cover her body with it. I raise a brow in disbelief that she thinks this was a good idea. That it would actually cover her.
“Uh--” is all I say, now frozen in place, feet glued to the ground though I try to lift them. She doesn’t say anything. She could just tell me to get out.
“I need to shower.” I turn my head towards it, but my eyes don’t follow.
“Okay,” she says just above a whisper, and I cock my head in response.
“Are you gonna get out?” I prod, and she looks down at my pants and then back to my eyes. I don’t even want to look because I’m sure my hardening cock is obvious.
“You— uhm--I’m sorry.” She sniffs, and I can see the red patches under her eyes now. Have I really made her cry this much? That twisting feeling reawakens in my gut, and I sigh.
“Right.” She flatly says. I shrug, and she shakes her head.
“What?” I feel a smile rising over my lips, and I hate that I’m letting her off this easily. Hate that there’s a tug on my body, drawing me into her instead of away. It would be much easier if I just stopped wanting to be near her or thinking of her every time I see something beautiful. I’m making steady steps to her, and she’s still, only the rise and fall of her chest forcing her to move.