will say this, Cam told me he was one of the happiest guys he’d ever known. So maybe all Peter needed to feel good about himself was a pretty young thing stroking his ego, rather than his dick.
Chapter Nine
Trey
“You’re at my apartment?”
She sounds shocked. As if I broke into her place.
“Well, outside,” I say, half-defensively, because I’m not sure if she’s annoyed that I’m here, my ass parked on the stoop of her building, waiting for a girl who doesn’t want someone waiting for her.
“I thought you were going to the meeting?”
“I was at the meeting. And when I didn’t hear from you or see you there…” I say, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I sound like a stalker. Like I’m that pathetic stalker guy.
“Sorry I didn’t go,” she says in a small voice. A skinny hipster ambles puffing on a cigarette as he walks a pug. The dude tugs at his shirt. The night is muggy and the heat in the air clings.
“You don’t have to apologize to me.” There’s a part of me that wants to hang up on her, to get the hell out of here, and let her deal with her shit all by herself. But I guess there’s a stronger part that doesn’t want to lose her, because I came here after the meeting on a mad hunt for the girl I kissed last night. “Anyway, I had a feeling you might need someone to talk to.”
“I didn’t do anything with him, Trey,” she pleads, like she desperately wants me to know this vital fact. I don’t know if it’s because we’re friends, or because of what happened last night. But I don’t want to ask.
“Do you want me to wait for you?”
“Yes, please. I want you to wait for me,” she says, and with her words, the stronger part wins out by far. I stretch out on the stoop, like the step is a couch, my backpack forming a pillow. I draw in my sketchbook, mapping out a new design of a dragon with spikes, a long, snapping tail and breath of fire, something a regular client of mine wants.
A few minutes later a cab pulls up, and she pays the driver, then escapes. I squeeze my eyes shut when I see what she’s wearing. Then I open them.
“Hi.” She offers a meek little wave as she sinks down next to me. I close the sketchbook.
The cab races off, kicking up exhaust into the night breeze, mingling with all the other scents nearby. This is New York for you – I can smell Harley’s wild cherry lotion and I can smell garbage that needs to be picked up tomorrow, the fume from cabs, and the trailing scent of cigarettes. The ugly with the beautiful.
“You look guilty,” I say. “But you don’t have to look guilty on my behalf.”
“I feel guilty.”
“Why? Are you going back to him?” I ask in a strangled voice. The thought makes me sick.
She shrugs. “He made me an offer.”
I recoil, then stand up quickly as if I can’t even be near her when she’s like this. When she’s in this zone. “Are you going to take it?” I ask with a sneer. I don’t mask my disgust. I can’t mask my disgust.
“I don’t know,” she says, and her voice breaks, and I fucking hate that she can be like this.
Tempted.
I push both hands through my hair, grabbing hard. “You’re not a fucking whore, Harley.”
“It’s not like that,” she spits back.
“Fuck that,” I shout through clenched teeth. I pace down the block, walking away from her, far away. To the end of the block, where I stop and slam a hand against the street sign. I take a sharp, deep breath, then turn around. She’s still on the stoop, and she’s fiddling with her shirt, shakily fastening the top two buttons.
When I reach her I bend down and grip her knees. I stare hard at her, her brown eyes like pools. One lone tear streaks down her face. “You are better than that,” I tell her, never breaking her gaze. “You are so much better than that.”
“But what if I’m not?” She chokes out in the tiniest voice.
I wipe the pad of my thumb across her cheek. I want to kiss her tears away, but I
Chapter Nine
Trey
“You’re at my apartment?”
She sounds shocked. As if I broke into her place.
“Well, outside,” I say, half-defensively, because I’m not sure if she’s annoyed that I’m here, my ass parked on the stoop of her building, waiting for a girl who doesn’t want someone waiting for her.
“I thought you were going to the meeting?”
“I was at the meeting. And when I didn’t hear from you or see you there…” I say, but I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I sound like a stalker. Like I’m that pathetic stalker guy.
“Sorry I didn’t go,” she says in a small voice. A skinny hipster ambles puffing on a cigarette as he walks a pug. The dude tugs at his shirt. The night is muggy and the heat in the air clings.
“You don’t have to apologize to me.” There’s a part of me that wants to hang up on her, to get the hell out of here, and let her deal with her shit all by herself. But I guess there’s a stronger part that doesn’t want to lose her, because I came here after the meeting on a mad hunt for the girl I kissed last night. “Anyway, I had a feeling you might need someone to talk to.”
“I didn’t do anything with him, Trey,” she pleads, like she desperately wants me to know this vital fact. I don’t know if it’s because we’re friends, or because of what happened last night. But I don’t want to ask.
“Do you want me to wait for you?”
“Yes, please. I want you to wait for me,” she says, and with her words, the stronger part wins out by far. I stretch out on the stoop, like the step is a couch, my backpack forming a pillow. I draw in my sketchbook, mapping out a new design of a dragon with spikes, a long, snapping tail and breath of fire, something a regular client of mine wants.
A few minutes later a cab pulls up, and she pays the driver, then escapes. I squeeze my eyes shut when I see what she’s wearing. Then I open them.
“Hi.” She offers a meek little wave as she sinks down next to me. I close the sketchbook.
The cab races off, kicking up exhaust into the night breeze, mingling with all the other scents nearby. This is New York for you – I can smell Harley’s wild cherry lotion and I can smell garbage that needs to be picked up tomorrow, the fume from cabs, and the trailing scent of cigarettes. The ugly with the beautiful.
“You look guilty,” I say. “But you don’t have to look guilty on my behalf.”
“I feel guilty.”
“Why? Are you going back to him?” I ask in a strangled voice. The thought makes me sick.
She shrugs. “He made me an offer.”
I recoil, then stand up quickly as if I can’t even be near her when she’s like this. When she’s in this zone. “Are you going to take it?” I ask with a sneer. I don’t mask my disgust. I can’t mask my disgust.
“I don’t know,” she says, and her voice breaks, and I fucking hate that she can be like this.
Tempted.
I push both hands through my hair, grabbing hard. “You’re not a fucking whore, Harley.”
“It’s not like that,” she spits back.
“Fuck that,” I shout through clenched teeth. I pace down the block, walking away from her, far away. To the end of the block, where I stop and slam a hand against the street sign. I take a sharp, deep breath, then turn around. She’s still on the stoop, and she’s fiddling with her shirt, shakily fastening the top two buttons.
When I reach her I bend down and grip her knees. I stare hard at her, her brown eyes like pools. One lone tear streaks down her face. “You are better than that,” I tell her, never breaking her gaze. “You are so much better than that.”
“But what if I’m not?” She chokes out in the tiniest voice.
I wipe the pad of my thumb across her cheek. I want to kiss her tears away, but I
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