“Got it.” I’m stunned as shit. As much as I’d love to defend Marley, that lecture Monica gave me about coeds banging ancient dudes comes to mind. “What the fuck is going on?” I muse out loud as I frantically scroll the article for clues.
“It looks to me like you met up with some horny teen. You sure she’s legal? Are you going to need a lawyer? I’ve got a good one on retainer if you feel the need.”
“I don’t need a lawyer.” The last thing I need to do is lawyer-up because a coed managed to land me horizontal. Not just any coed, the one I was starting to think was mine. I pick up my phone and flip it in my hand, over and over, debating whether or not to put in a call. “And yes, she’s of age. She’s…” God, is she? I’m drawing a blank. I can’t remember her age to save my life.
“You think you were set up? You think she’s after assets?”
“No.” Although she did spend an awful lot of time lamenting her financial woes in the beginning. “You think she wants money?” I’m stumped by the idea.
“Either that or she likes what you’ve got in the bedroom.” He tweaks his neck. “But according to that article…”
Marley’s words come back to me crystal clear. “She was just using me.” I try to shrug it off. I told her she’d fall in love with me and that was her response. She was being honest, and I was too hopped up on the fact she wanted to bed me to listen. “Fuck.” I rub the shit out of my eyes trying to wake from this nightmare. “You can leave now.”
My phone buzzes. A text from Marley. We need to talk.
I hold it up to Ryder, and he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t talk without my attorney present. Tread lightly.” He offers up a one-sided fist bump as he takes off.
In a meeting. I text back before Ryder clears the doorway so technically I’m not lying. I may be a lousy fuck, but I am not a liar. I close my eyes a moment too long.
This can’t be happening.
I pick up my phone again and stare at it a good long time.
There is one woman I’m suddenly anxious to talk to. I run my finger over her name and wait for her to pick up.
Monica.
“I’m so sorry,” she says out of breath. “I’ve already contacted administrators to have it taken off the paper’s homepage, but I’m afraid there isn’t a thing I can do regarding the print addition.”
“So I guess this is when you tell me you were right.”
“I did say be careful, but I had no idea you were swimming with piranhas. Your name was printed in black and white. I think you have a case.”
“Second piece of legal advice I’ve received today, and it’s not nine in the morning.”
“You want to hit breakfast? I don’t have class, and my office hours aren’t until noon. What do you say? It’s on me.”
My phone buzzes. It’s another text from Marley.
I’m going to take a wild guess. There is no meeting. Please, Wyatt, we need to talk. I’m begging you.
“All right. Breakfast it is.” I hang up with Monica, wishing it were Marley instead.
I’m pretty sure it won’t be Marley ever again.
* * *
A week strokes by. Then two. April shows up then starts to fade. Marley tried desperately to get in contact with me, but my ego was too jacked up to face her. I’ve avoided the Black Bear like the plague—missed about six of Blake’s performances. Took a seven-day trip to New York to visit my dad, Piper, and Cade in the event I want to relocate. I went to Vale with Monica and helped close out her father’s estate. She’s kept after me, chasing me down in darkened alleyways after midnight, begging me to gift her a piece of my ancient selfish ass, but I keep refusing. Then one far too sober afternoon it occurs to me that she might be just what I need—someone equally as ancient as me.
Marley is my past. And, apparently, the only way to forget her is to fuck that girl right out of my head.
It’s after eight when I call Monica to ask if I can swing by. She meets my proposition with an enthusiastic yes, so I line my pocket with condoms and head out like I’m going to a funeral.
“Well, hey, good looking,” she sings, leaning seductively against the door, and, for a split second I want to run like hell.
Wasn’t there a very good reason that Mon and I didn’t work? I’m starting to think there’s a very good reason anyone and I really won’t work.
Marley blinks before my eyes hot as a flash fire. In my throes of achingly desperate heartbreak I’ve reasoned enough that I would gladly let her use me again. I would have, too, but she put my name in that damn paper—humiliated me in ways I didn’t even know I could feel shame. This is serious. It’s time to stop dicking around with little girls and take another hard look at grown women—women who don’t play games, like Monica.