His Plaything(37)

Okay, so I was totally pathetic. Fine. I could deal with that. I had to get back out there before Logan thought I was having some humiliating medical problem. And to do that, I had to remind myself why I'd come on this date in the first place.

Needing fire, needing to not care, needing to re-ignite my engines and burn away this poison, I reached for an image that would fill me with rage. But all I could think of—Nixon laughing with Pam about how they'd fooled me, him kissing her neck in their gaudy Vegas hotel room, squeezing her tits, so much bigger than mine, closing his eyes with a moan as he slid inside her—just made me feel like throwing up. All bile, no relief. Maybe this sickness would fade with time, but right now, it hurt so much I couldn't stand it.

They probably christened every flat surface of their tacky hotel room, I thought, and blinked back tears. I gritted my teeth and hurried back out into the restaurant, almost slamming the bathroom door open.

As I approached our table, Logan asked, “You interested in dessert? I had my eye on the baked figs with honey.”

I swallowed hard, willing my voice not to crack. “That sounds good, but … I'm not feeling so hot all of a sudden. Can we call it an early night?”

His eyebrows peaked and I braced for him to ask what was wrong. But all he said was, “Oh, sure. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Let me get the check.”

After he flagged down our waiter and paid, Logan held my elbow as we walked outside to the valet station. His gentlemanly behavior just made me hate myself even more. He didn't sign up for any of my emotional baggage. He was being so sweet to me, and I couldn't even feel happy about it, and he had no clue why. This was so unfair to everyone involved—and it was all Nixon's fault.

When we reached his forest-green Dodge truck, Logan paused, glancing at me. “You good to drive? Or you want a ride?”

“Nah, I'm fine.” That was a blatant lie, but I didn't want company right now. I had too much thinking to do. And possibly crying. I looked down at my burgundy-painted toes. “Sorry about this. I had a really nice time, I just…”

“Hey, don't worry about it. Shit happens.” Logan leaned over me slightly, as if he wanted to kiss me on the forehead, then hesitated and squeezed my hand instead. “Feel better, okay?”

“I'll try,” I said, unable to return his smile.





Chapter 17

Nixon



As ragged as the past two days had run me, my thoughts were too chaotic for any chance of sleep. I lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, my ears perking at every random noise that might have been Avery returning home. My anger at Logan had long since faded into a strange, dark sourness. Actually, I was more mad at myself than anything. I had never once thought about taking Avery out, showing her the town, wooing her like Logan was doing right now. I'd just skipped straight to the “nice shoes, wanna fuck?” stage.

In my defense, the ultra-direct approach had always worked well for me. Maybe a little too well—I'd easily scored pussy whenever I needed it, so I hadn't bothered getting much practice at dinner-and-a-movie dating. Up until a few hours ago, I'd assumed that Avery didn't mind our … unconventional courtship. But now, I wasn't so sure.

Was that why she was pissed? Did she feel unappreciated or cheated or something? Did she think I'd used her for sex without offering any romance in return? Unease had started building deep in my chest. It was that falling-yet-frozen sensation of imminent disaster: a hiss of air bubbles from my SCUBA tank's hose, a twig snapping in the shadowy trees behind me, a teammate whispering oh, fuck! right before all hell broke loose. The moment when a man had to toss aside all his obsolete plans and rise to the occasion.

I couldn't tell whether my moment with Avery had already passed or still lay ahead. If I got a chance to rescue our relationship, I couldn't afford to let it slip through my fingers. But what if I didn't see it coming? Would I even recognize it if I did? And…

Had I imagined that click? I sat up to listen. No, the front door's deadbolt was definitely sliding open. But it was only a quarter after nine. Why was Avery back so early? Evidently her date hadn't gone well. I felt something like optimism, which immediately turned to guilt for hoping that she'd had a shitty evening.

High heels clacked in the kitchen for a second, then muted to quick, quiet thumps through the living room and hallway. Before I could get up, the guestroom door slammed. Straight to bed, huh? Apparently she still wasn't interested in talking to me.

I rested my forehead against the doorframe, letting the angled wood bite between my eyebrows. I wanted to punch something until my knuckles bled. Whatever was going on with Avery, it was slowly but surely driving me nuts. I couldn't understand this strange tension that had sprung up between us, and the not-knowing was almost as bad as the distance itself. If she would just communicate for two fucking minutes, I was sure that we could bring things back to how they used to be. I could find out what had driven her to Logan and fix it. I was willing to do anything, but until I knew what to do, I was stuck in neutral.