Page 16 of The Promise Of You

four

Justin

Isay a thank-you prayer to a god I’m not sure I believe in. And then I hate myself for being thankful for someone’s distress. But how else was I going to hold Clover totally abandoned in my arms?

I might be cocky and say that one-night stands are the best because you can be entirely yourself, I’m kidding myself. It’s not true. The women are either self-conscious of their bodies, or they’re trying to be who they’re not, and often they’re trying too hard to please me, when really all I’m after is actually a genuine connection. Something that would feel like a relationship, if I allowed myself to have one.

I never get that. We’re playing roles. We obey the rules. It’s fun for the hours it lasts, and then it ends, and then the game starts all over again.

Clover is different. I could tell immediately she was intrigued, attracted by the concept of not pretending to be someone we’re not.

I wonder who she’s pretending to be, out there? When she’s not in my arms.

I feel more than see her eyes flutter open and snap my gaze back to her face. I trace the silver chain around her neck and follow it to her back until I find the clover pendant tucked under her blouse and slide it back to her front. “Can I call you Clover?”

“I thought we weren’t doing the getting-to-know-each-other thing.” Her voice is raspy.

“We’re past that.” We were past that the moment the elevator stopped.

The moment I broke my promise to keep her safe.

“I like it,” she whispers. “Can we stick with it? I still want to sleep with you,” she says in a begging tone that sends my dick on a murderous trail. She’s all soft curves and softer skin, long legs, and full mouth. She’s a wet dream come true. She runs her hand inside my shirt. “I want to see your tattoo,” she says.

My voice a rasp, I answer, “Later, I promise.” I’m not getting half naked in an elevator with her. Not only because of the cameras or the fact that this thing is going to spring back to life at any time. But because she deserves better than that.

“’Kay, you can call me Clover.” Then she takes a deep breath. “You’re the only person besides my sister who knows about my claustrophobia. And you’re the first one to actually see it.”

Shit. “Not even your parents?”

She shakes her head.

“Not even douchebag?”

She frowns, then chuckles as understanding hits her. “How do you know about Tucker?”

Tucker. His name is Tucker. “I thought you wanted no names.”

“That’s his name. What difference does it make to us?”

Us. The word hangs in our bubble, its weight everything I’ve always wanted. A connection, even if just for one night. She doesn’t know it, but she’s picking my heart apart already.

“I might break the nose of every Tucker I meet from here on out,” I say, and she giggles again, and I smile back at her.

“So—what happened with douchebag?”

“How d’you know about him?”

“Your earbuds are shit.”

A smile dances on her face. “They are.” Then her eyes darken. “He cheated on me.” She turns her gaze away from me and her body tenses. “I saw them. In our bed.”

My jaw tightens “Fuck.”

There’s fire in her gaze. “Never going through that again. I’m getting your point. Although I should have seen it coming. I should have known. I should have done something earlier to fix our relationship. He fixed it for himself, I suppose. Got what he needed somewhere else.”

Now I want to punch something. Someone. “Who put that shit in your brain?”

“Facts.”

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