All that and I didn’t even cry that hard—I mostly fought the tears, refusing to let eighty percent of them fall. That’s the thing about being an actress—most of the time you’re in complete control of your emotions, but every once in a while, when they’re real and strong and you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine … you’re powerless against them.
Sliding on a pair of cotton shorts and a white tank top, I grab my phone and text Nick.
I need someone to make me smile, to take my mind off of what took place earlier, to remind me there are still good people in this world.
“WHO WAS THAT?” Tiffanie asks, breathless and chest rising and falling. She brushes the messy hair from her face.
“My roommate,” I say. My hands slide away from her thighs and I breathe in a lungful of her overzealous perfume. The plan was to kick things off down here and then carry her up to my room and have my way with her, but she pounced on me the second she stepped through the door.
It all happened so fast, and I’m not even hard anymore.
One look at Melrose’s tear-stained face and my little party-for-two was ruined.
Crying girls is my Kryptonite. It’s the one thing I can’t handle, the one thing that reminds me I do, indeed, have a heart and the ability to feel as much as I like to believe I’m immune to that shit.
Mom left when I was in high school and I spent the majority of my formative teenage years under the roof of an authoritarian dictator who solved all his problems with a nightly bottle of Ten High from the liquor outlet on Harvester Road and a two-liter of store-brand cherry cola.
Emotions weren’t a thing in our house.
Didn’t make the cut for the team? So what. Stop being a crybaby and find another sport.
Girlfriend dumped you? Screw her. Women are nothing but trouble anyway.
There was never sympathy, never any pats on the back or words of encouragement, and I grew up thinking that was normal, that men were wired not to feel a damn thing. Turns out when I got to my twenties and had a string of failed relationships, I realized being stone cold was not normal.
And I also learned I had no clue what the hell to do or think or say when someone else is visibly upset … but I can’t sit back and do nothing.
I can’t screw Tiffanie tonight while Melrose is upstairs crying.
“Sutter.” Tiff rakes her nails through my hair, pressing her tits against me before nuzzling her nose against my ear.
My hands rest on her hips and I release a hard breath. “I’m sorry.”
She sits up, chin angled to the side as she studies me. “You’re sorry? What are you talking about?”
I glance at her smooth, O.C. tits and feel … nothing. They might as well be non-sexual grapefruits at this point. All I keep picturing is the look on Melrose’s swollen, makeup-stained face when she walked in, and all I keep thinking about is that squeeze in my chest when I knew something was wrong.
“You should go.” I reach to my left, grabbing Tiff’s top and bra and handing them over before sliding her off of my lap.
“You serious?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I straighten my jeans and glance toward the stairs. I need to go up and check on her, but I have no idea what the hell to even say.
We’re not even friends and she’s done nothing but annoy the ever-loving shit out of me since she got here, but something compels me to go to her.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, clasping her bra.
“No.”
She tugs her top over her hair before fluffing her hair over her shoulders. “I don’t understand …”
“I’m … not in the mood anymore.” I swipe her purse off the back of an arm chair and hand it over before escorting her to the front door. “I’m sorry. Another time?”
“I cancelled a Bumble date tonight to come over here.” She steps into her heels, speaking through clenched teeth as she eyes the staircase. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. And go fuck yourself.”
With that, she yanks my door open and slams it behind her, and I head to the kitchen to grab a couple of beers.
By the looks of things, she’s going to need one, and if I’m going to be putting my assholery aside, I’m going to need one too.
A moment later, I’m standing outside Melrose’s door, two sweaty beer bottles under one arm as I knock.
“Go away, Sutter,” she calls, voice stuffy.
I knock again.
“Go. Away,” she says.
A third knock should do it. A fourth if I must. I’m not going anywhere tonight.
Seconds later, the door swings open with a hard pull and Melrose’s frown neutralizes when she sees the drinks in my hand.