Sure Thing(62)

“I’m not saying a word,” Rhys mumbles before tipping his own glass to his lips. He tossed his keys to the bartender an hour ago and settled onto the stool for the long haul of watching me get drunk and listening to my rambles.

“I think she misled me.”

“With her magic pussy?”

“Yeah, exactly.” I glance around. “Do they have any food in this bar? I think we should eat.”

“Nah. We’ll have the car swing through In-N-Out Burger on the way back.”

“We don’t have the keys, Rhys. And you can’t drive a Tesla drunk. I know the damn thing drives itself, but that can’t be allowed. If that’s allowed, next thing you know people will be strapping their kids in and sending them to nursery in a car with no driver! Society has gone to hell.” I shake my head and think about waving a fist in the air like an old man. Because I’m fucking old.

“Car service will pick us up,” he replies, holding up his mobile. “When we’re ready.”

“Fuck,” I groan. “I don’t even have a phone. Lost it during the accident. My dick is dry and I’ve got no mobile.” I glance back at the bar and knock back the remainder of my drink in one gulp and stand, albeit shakily.

“Okay, I guess you’re ready now.” Rhys taps a contact on his mobile with one hand and signals the bartender with the other.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


Violet

 I drop Daisy’s suitcase in her entryway with a sigh of relief. Home, sweet home. Or home, sweet Daisy’s couch in my case. Traveling sucks. Traveling while feeling sorry for yourself sucks even more.

So that’s over.

The trip.

And Jennings.

I want to hate him, but I don’t. I want to be angry at him for showing me something wonderful and then taking it away.

Fine. I’m a little angry. I kick off my shoes and grab a diet soda from the fridge before slumping onto the couch.

It was all a big fat lie anyway.

Because I’m a liar and I got what I deserved, didn’t I? Still, I did my best to tell him the truth. As much as I could.

My feelings were real.

Daisy’s apartment is so quiet I can hear her wall clock ticking. Tick, tick, tick.

He left without so much as a goodbye. I’m sorta numb about that. Like how in the hell does that happen to a girl twice? At least with Mark I was able to call him an asshole to his face. I had to leave Jennings a note, since I couldn’t find him. I asked at the front desk if he’d checked out. They don’t normally share information like that but they knew me as the tour guide. I played it off like I was worried about him getting to the airport and wondered if he’d checked out yet.

Nope. He extended his stay. His and his nan’s.

So on my way to the airport I left a note for him at the front desk. Who even knows if he got it, but I felt good writing it.

Yet as I sit here I’m conflicted. I so badly want to make excuses for him. Understand what happened. Maybe something came up? An emergency? Maybe I misunderstood and I was supposed to meet him somewhere and I’m the one who didn’t show up?

These crazy thoughts are swiftly followed by rational ones. The ones that point out none of that is likely. That he knew which room I was staying in. That he didn’t leave a note for me at the desk. That he never picked up his phone. That he owed me nothing.

I’ve got no right to be upset.

I asked for a one-night stand and I got it. I cringe, remembering that I told him I was counting him as my one-night stand. I’m such an asshole.

I pop open the soda and wiggle the can tab back and forth until it pops off. I’m not sure why I do this. I don’t like drinking out of the can if the tab is missing. It feels weird against my lips, unfamiliar. It shouldn’t make the soda taste any different but it ruins the experience.

That’s me. I’m an experience-ruiner.

Maybe he was lying too? Maybe he doesn’t have a job either and lives on his nan’s couch? He said he had his own place but hell, I said I was a tour guide. Maybe he’s wanted by the law or has a terminal disease and didn’t want to put me through the pain of losing him slowly.

Okay, fine. That’s unlikely.

He wouldn’t have made it through customs if he was a wanted felon and no one with a terminal disease has that kind of stamina.

Was it just an escape for him this week? From the real world? That’s what he was supposed to be for me, when it started. One night where I pretended to be someone I’m not. Someone more like my sister. Outgoing and spontaneous and, well, easy.

Perhaps I was merely a convenient booty call, like Daisy was for George, and I’m an idiot for thinking it was something it’s not.