I’m not. I want to find someone else, but every time I try… I just can’t. A camera flashes, and I look up to see a random cell phone videoing me. “A man needs a little downtime before he starts his next project.”
“Plan on taking Bliss with you to New York City?”
I grunt. “No.” Although to be honest, the thought had occurred to me.
Cameron nods. “Good plan.”
“Sarcasm isn’t your strong point, Hurley.”
“While thinking things through isn’t yours,” he points out.
I lift another shot glass. “Touché.”
“Ready to leave?”
“Why—the debasement of woman by objectifying them getting to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because we’ve been friends for years, despite your dad’s interference, and I’d rather you not screw up another long-term relationship. So I came here to talk, and make sure you stayed out of trouble.”
Yeah, my dad hates that my best friend is the son of a preacher. He has a huge grudge against preachers, the church, and religion in general. “Aw, Dad, didn’t know you cared.” I salute him and throw the drink back.
“What are your plans?” Cameron leans forward in his seat. “You can’t leave her alone indefinitely. It’s cruel, Jackson.”
“How about this: I’ll go say goodbye, and then you can hang out with her. Keep her company.” Oh, shit. I did not just say that. Damn my drunk ass.
Cameron’s brown eyes glitter. “I accept.” He stands and leaves a tip on the table. “Let’s get you home.”
“You’re no fun when you’re being a feminist,” I say, but stand anyway.
“I’m not being a feminist by demanding people be treated decently.”
We make our way to the entrance, grabbing our coats from the clerk along the way. “What are you being then?”
“A follower of Christ.”
Followers of Christ go to strip clubs? I roll my eyes. “I thought professors didn’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo.”
He flashes me a smile. More than a few of the ladies notice and try to get his attention. “Assistant professors are allowed to have radical thoughts.”
***
It’s almost two in the morning when I stumble inside my house, dripping wet from the storm raging outside.
There’s a light on upstairs, and my heart speeds up a little.
As I arrive on the second landing, I realize it’s the one over the kitchen sink, and not Bliss waiting up for me. Then again, why would she be waiting up on me?
I breathe deeply, the house smells lived in, homey, and not the sterile scent of a dwelling that’s periodically occupied.
It’s… nice.
Thunder rumbles and I get a front row view of lightning streaks in the sky, the benefit of having a wall of windows facing the ocean. It’s rough tonight, the first of two Nor’easters coming in, back to back. I was lucky Cameron managed to get me home without wrecking my car. At least his trip back to his apartment would be in the opposite direction of the storm.
Sheets of rain pound the roof and, not for the first time, I wonder if the rickety bridge that serves as my only access to the mainland will make it through yet another storm.
When I had this house renovated, the construction crew used barges to bring the supplies here, because that bridge couldn’t bear the weight. The engineer who oversaw the redesign of the house had recommended I replace the bridge, one built in the 1920s by the original owners, but I refused. I didn’t want to get rid of it just because it was old, just like I didn’t want to bulldoze the house.
Besides, the bridge and the house had weathered countless hurricanes and storms before, so why mess with what worked?
Crashing on the couch, I take another breath and the scent of Bliss fills my lungs. I close my eyes, trying to fall asleep, but being surrounded by her only serves to make me hard and my heart pound.
I still want her.
She’s still here, in my bedroom, and sleeping in my bed, but I can’t go to her smelling like a womanizing drunk. So I keep my eyes closed and wait for sleep to take me.
***
I wake up with a start and sit up, automatically checking the windows. Sunlight filters weakly through the heavy storm clouds, but the deck is still intact, even with a few chairs blown over.
Bliss appears on the deck, her hair in a ponytail, wearing a loose pair of sweats and one of my shirts. She opens one of the French doors and walks inside, our gazes colliding. Her glasses slip down her nose.
With a sigh, she pushes them back up and just looks at me, not saying a word.
“Good morning,” I say, getting to my feet. I stretch, cracking my neck and back. I’m ready for her righteous anger over me being gone for so long.