It hurts so, so much.
His jaw tics and I can’t help but hone in on that bruise again, feeling my own heart pulsing and ticking, before he replies, “No.”
At this answer, a relieved breath escapes me. “So then who were they?”
He holds his silence for a few seconds. “Just some girls.”
“So he doesn’t know them? But how’s that —”
Another sharp breath from him before he states, “I’m taking you home.”
“What?”
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“What, no. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Told you to stay away from him, didn’t I?”
“Unfortunately for you, you don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“Let’s,” he says slowly, taking a step forward, “go.”
I take a step back. “No.”
“Echo,” he warns.
My feet tremble on my next step back but I do it. “You’re taking this best friend crap a little too far, all right?”
“I’m not going to repeat myself.”
“I get that you’re his best buddy and you’re like brothers and whatever. But you don’t get to decide who speaks with him. You’re not his gatekeeper or… I don’t know, babysitter or —”
He takes another step forward. “Unfortunately for you, I am. So come on.”
Glaring, I move back. “Maybe he wants to talk to me too.”
“Very fucking unlikely.”
I ignore the pain in my chest. Because there is a chance that he might be right.
I don’t want him to remind me though.
“I told you he was looking at me, remember? At the bar,” I goad him, despite all better judgement.
“And I toldyouthat you can’t blame him.”
“I’m not —”
“Or any guy for that matter,” he goes on. “If you keep flinging your tits under their nose.”
I gasp.
I have to because he accompanies his words with a look.
A very long and lingering look at my… tits.
That are well covered by the hoodie tonight but the way he stares at them makes me feel exposed again. The way he then goes on to stare at the rest of my body, stopping in places like my jean-covered thighs and calves, makes me think that he’s imagining me in a dress right now.