Page 16 of Watch Me

For all that he can be a fucking single-minded idiot, David is the least judgmental person on the planet—I have to give him that.

“Not tonight,” I say, giving him a crooked smile.

His eyes slide away, and I look over my shoulder to see what he’s looking at. The man in the mask and the pale-skinned girl are standing with another man in a towel, who’s waving David over.

“Ooh, I have to go.” He grins, practically rubbing his hands together.

“Go. Have fun.”

“But you’re not leaving, are you?” he asks, stepping backward towards the trio of naked people waiting for him, unable to stop the momentum pulling him towards the pale-skinned girl.

“Gonna go home. Ruminate more on my situation.”

“No!” Now he’s ten paces back. People turn to look as he raises his voice. “Fuck someone before you leave!” He lifts both hands in the air like a preacher giving a sermon. “You must fuck when you come to the Ball & Chain, am I right?”

Around him, scattered laughter, a few claps, and a whoop in agreement.

“Next time.” I wave.

There’s not a body, a scene, or a person on Earth who could get my mind off of Zoë right now. My intention is to go home, hole myself up in my room, and hope to have a clearer head in the morning.

But underneath that, skirting the edge of my subconscious, is a thought, inappropriate and shameful. It’s knowing that she might be home, too. That I might run into her. It’s knowing that when I’m at home now, I’m close to Zoë.

ZOË

I CAN ONLY assume that the Universe has put me in this position as punishment for my sins.

I’m against cheating for moral reasons. I believe in love, and love is founded on trust.

Besides, even if I weren’t against it, I could never get away with it. I’m that person who never gets away with anything.

Case in point: the one time I cross a boundary at work, it ends up being with my boyfriend’s dad.

Suddenly, the idea that I need to come clean to Tate about the lap dances—and the time I went too far—seems way more loaded than before. How can I ever tell Tate that I’ve already met his father? And more than that—that we’ve been intimate?

There’s no doubt in my mind that Nick recognized me immediately, based on the stricken look on his face, and it felt like we made a tacit promise when we pretended not to know each other. He clearly doesn’t want Tate to know, and neither do I, and our deception binds us.

The number of secrets Tate and I have are adding up. I’ve never told him what I caught him doing the other night, and a sneaky search of his browser history revealed a busy nightly schedule of watching porn and visiting cam sites.

Basically, he prefers to masturbate over having sex with me, and instead of being devastated, I’m just numb. Tate and I keep failing to connect on so many levels—not just sex, but our ambitions, dreams, and goals—and I’m left with the sinking feeling that I’ve tied myself to a guy I may actually not have much of a future with.

The fucked-up thing is that Nick has become the symbol of my malcontent. The chemistry I feel with him has made me realize that same chemistry is missing with Tate. That essential, beautiful, amazing chemistry that happens between two people who are really and truly drawn to each other.

It’s absent with my boyfriend. I have it with my boyfriend’s dad instead.

The whole situation is so fucked, I truly don’t know what to do about it. The best solution I can come up with is to maintain the status quo and stay focused on my audition. I really can’t afford any more distractions, and right now, my whole life is nothing but distractions.

* * *

Staying focused is exactly what I’m trying to do a few days later, when I’m jumping up and down in front of the toaster, practicing a rapid pas de chat. I’m just back from my class, where my jumps were the subject of scrutiny, and I’m running through the moves again and again and again while I wait for my toast. Full flexion in my feet, engaging my calves, tightening my core—my teacher’s harsh criticisms are playing so loudly in my head, I don’t even notice that Mr. Distraction himself has walked into the room until I hear him clear his throat.

I land quickly and spin around, warmth blooming on my cheeks at the sight of Nick Rivera, looking unbearably laid-back and sexy in a grey t-shirt and worn-out jeans, an amused expression on his angular face.

“Oh, hey,” I say, trying to still my heaving breath, the surprise of seeing him only increasing my heart rate.

“Well, hello,” he replies, dark eyes flashing with mirth, “Miss Mexican jumping bean.”

I breathe a laugh, flushed warmth spreading up my neck. Why do I suddenly feel like a tongue-tied teenager? I can’t think of anything cool to say, not one thing, and my response comes out on a rush of air. “Ha ha, yeah.”