glare at me when I slam the mugs and creamers in front of them.
How dare she? one part of my brain screams. Just because she starves herself bony and wears ten pounds of makeup to hide her acne-prone skin and make her lips seem halfway plump, she thinks she has the right to tell me no good-looking men could ever possibly show an interest in me?
And yet, at the same time, there’s another side to my internal brain-battle. There’s another voice in there whispering, Maybe she’s right . There’s a tiny part of me that’s been asking that same question all along: What could he possibly see in me, this boring overweight waitress in a run-down diner in a dying city?
The fact that some small part of me agrees with Becca makes me even angrier. It also stabs a pin straight into that bubble of happiness I’d been carrying around all day, buoying myself aloft with.
In the end, there’s no way to know yet what Gage wants, whether he’s actually going to show for our second date, whether he likes me for anything more than a quick fuck, or if he’s just using me for that, or for something else, who knows what.
The thought of never seeing him again, of not getting to explore this connection we’ve found, makes my intestines knot themselves around my stomach.
I want this to be real. But is that the problem? Do I want this so badly that I’m imagining a connection where one will never be possible?
Chapter Thirteen
Gage
A fter I dropped Sloan at her apartment this morning, I circled around the block to the nearest coffee shop, wasted an hour there downing black coffees (because to be honest, I hadn’t really gotten too much sleep last night—not that I’m complaining), and then swung by my place again to pick up the supplies I’d need.
I’m not proud of what I have to do next. I’m not happy about sitting in the driveway a few doors down from Sloan’s parking lot to watch in the rearview as she climbed into her car to leave for work.
Well, okay, I enjoy the watching her climb into the car part.
But it’s not like I want to then creep back over to her door, pick the lock, and tiptoe up the staircase past the neighbors to the entrance to Sloan’s apartment. The whole time, I try to imagine that I’m with her. That she’s leading me up these stairs by the hand, her delicious ass swaying just inches from my face, daring me to lean up and sneak a bite before we reach her doorway.
I imagine, when I pick the lock and the door swings inward, that instead she’s pushing it open eagerly, pulling me inside, where I don’t even wait for her to shut it before I grab her face in both hands and press my lips to hers, crushing her body against mine, her soft curves making my cock harden almost instantly.
I wish that instead of me softly shutting the door behind me and studying the ceiling for cracks, for fan fixtures, for easy hidden areas, I was lying her down on that long green sofa and fucking her until she screamed my name.
Instead, I drag that sofa to the center of the room and balance on it, unsteadily, as I fix one of the three small cameras I’ve brought with me into one of the blades.
I’ll need this surveillance footage after I leave her the clues I plan to drop about her brother. Hopefully she’ll either bring him over here for a serious heart-to-heart, or she’ll call him from here and I can hear at least half of the conversation.
Either way, I need more information about Frederick Casey and I need it fast. Otherwise Aaron will hang me out to dry.
When I move the couch back into place, my eyes wandering across the paintings she’s hung on her walls—simple, beautiful photographs of places I recognize, like the beach after the last hurricane that hit, and a photo of the interior of one of the casinos, shot in black-and-white film, while some sort of costume event was happening, in a way that makes the whole casino seem classy and beautiful, like a still-frame from a 1950s noir movie instead of a den
How dare she? one part of my brain screams. Just because she starves herself bony and wears ten pounds of makeup to hide her acne-prone skin and make her lips seem halfway plump, she thinks she has the right to tell me no good-looking men could ever possibly show an interest in me?
And yet, at the same time, there’s another side to my internal brain-battle. There’s another voice in there whispering, Maybe she’s right . There’s a tiny part of me that’s been asking that same question all along: What could he possibly see in me, this boring overweight waitress in a run-down diner in a dying city?
The fact that some small part of me agrees with Becca makes me even angrier. It also stabs a pin straight into that bubble of happiness I’d been carrying around all day, buoying myself aloft with.
In the end, there’s no way to know yet what Gage wants, whether he’s actually going to show for our second date, whether he likes me for anything more than a quick fuck, or if he’s just using me for that, or for something else, who knows what.
The thought of never seeing him again, of not getting to explore this connection we’ve found, makes my intestines knot themselves around my stomach.
I want this to be real. But is that the problem? Do I want this so badly that I’m imagining a connection where one will never be possible?
Chapter Thirteen
Gage
A fter I dropped Sloan at her apartment this morning, I circled around the block to the nearest coffee shop, wasted an hour there downing black coffees (because to be honest, I hadn’t really gotten too much sleep last night—not that I’m complaining), and then swung by my place again to pick up the supplies I’d need.
I’m not proud of what I have to do next. I’m not happy about sitting in the driveway a few doors down from Sloan’s parking lot to watch in the rearview as she climbed into her car to leave for work.
Well, okay, I enjoy the watching her climb into the car part.
But it’s not like I want to then creep back over to her door, pick the lock, and tiptoe up the staircase past the neighbors to the entrance to Sloan’s apartment. The whole time, I try to imagine that I’m with her. That she’s leading me up these stairs by the hand, her delicious ass swaying just inches from my face, daring me to lean up and sneak a bite before we reach her doorway.
I imagine, when I pick the lock and the door swings inward, that instead she’s pushing it open eagerly, pulling me inside, where I don’t even wait for her to shut it before I grab her face in both hands and press my lips to hers, crushing her body against mine, her soft curves making my cock harden almost instantly.
I wish that instead of me softly shutting the door behind me and studying the ceiling for cracks, for fan fixtures, for easy hidden areas, I was lying her down on that long green sofa and fucking her until she screamed my name.
Instead, I drag that sofa to the center of the room and balance on it, unsteadily, as I fix one of the three small cameras I’ve brought with me into one of the blades.
I’ll need this surveillance footage after I leave her the clues I plan to drop about her brother. Hopefully she’ll either bring him over here for a serious heart-to-heart, or she’ll call him from here and I can hear at least half of the conversation.
Either way, I need more information about Frederick Casey and I need it fast. Otherwise Aaron will hang me out to dry.
When I move the couch back into place, my eyes wandering across the paintings she’s hung on her walls—simple, beautiful photographs of places I recognize, like the beach after the last hurricane that hit, and a photo of the interior of one of the casinos, shot in black-and-white film, while some sort of costume event was happening, in a way that makes the whole casino seem classy and beautiful, like a still-frame from a 1950s noir movie instead of a den
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