“I wouldn’t mind you doing a little camera work on me, if you want a memento of tonight.”
He hid his cringe. This was worse than an off-the-shelf porn script. It didn’t matter. When they got back to her place, he’d bury his face between her legs, making her scream in pleasure, then fuck her until he was spent. It was that simple. She was attractive, she knew what she was getting herself into, and he needed to get laid, so he could start thinking like a reasonable human being again.
She gave directions while she continued to tease him through his jeans, and moments later, he pulled the car into the driveway she indicated. He didn’t shut off the engine.
She gave him an exaggerated sultry look. “You’re coming inside, aren’t you?”
Of course he was. Turn off the ignition. Pocket the keys. Follow that round, bouncy ass through the front door… “Not tonight.”
“Do I need to beg? Is that what gets you off?” She scooted as close as the bucket seats allowed.
He nudged her back to her side. “No. Turns out I’m not in the mood after all.”
She searched his face, half-smile fading into a scowl. “Limp-dicked asshole.” She climbed from the vehicle and slammed the door behind her.
Yeah. That sounded about right. He couldn’t pick out a clear thought beyond which direction to drive, as he headed back to the hotel. Now that he was awake, the past hammered in to collide with the present, mocking him with memories of his guilt from the fire, the brief time he and Mercy dated, and the sweet girl up in his room. Sleeping, if she was lucky.
He made his way into the hotel’s twenty-four-hour restaurant, took a seat at the bar, and slipped the guy a Benjamin Franklin to leave the bottle of tequila after he poured Andrew a shot. Fuck local liquor laws. Fuck the past. Fuck six years of sobriety. And fuck whatever pathetic imitation of a sense of morals was trying to grow inside.
He stared at the golden liquid and the scarred bar-top underneath. There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but he wasn’t interested in looking for it. When he managed to shove Susan out of his head, ghosts of heat and pain seared back to torment him. If he pushed the disaster in Belgium aside, Mercy’s voice from seven years ago mocked him. Is it really that hard for you to imagine monogamy? Are you that fucked up, you can’t picture yourself with only one other person for more than half an hour at a time?
That cycled back to Susan.
“Hey, pal. My shift is up. Can I get you anything else?” The bartender interrupted his stare-down.
Andrew turned a bleary-eyed gaze to his phone. It was almost six-thirty. Shit. He had to meet Kandace and Lucas in a couple of hours. At least he hadn’t touched the tequila. So much for sleep. His focus was in too many other places, for him to worry about how he was going to tell Lucas about his real parentage—that was one thing to be grateful for. “I’m good. Thanks, man.”
He couldn’t face Susan, and he could think of one solid way to make sure it wasn’t an issue. He sent Mercy a text message. Hope the honeymoon was lots of naked fun. I know it’s early, but Susan is asleep in my hotel room. She probably needs a ride.
He didn’t expect a response this time of day—Mercy and Ian didn’t get in until last night—so he was surprised when her reply buzzed through a couple minutes later. Explain.
Put the pieces together yourself, he typed.
I asked you for one favor. One.
Guilt wormed its way in, to join the chaos already assaulting his cluttered mind. That was the last thing he needed—another list item to feel bad about. I’m not that good a guy, he wrote.
He pocketed the phone, ignoring any other notes from Mercy, and headed back to his car. Kandace would forgive him if he showed up a little early. It was better than staying here.