Page 103 of Bad Blood

The elevator chimes its arrival, and I turn, finding Lyla with her hand on her hip and a scowl on her lips. A surge of disappointment crosses her face when our eyes meet. “Don’t get all sentimental on me. No strings attached,” she says, walking toward me.

I stall in the middle of the hall, second-guessing my sanity and the offer of a distraction.

She takes me by the hand and tilts her head back toward the elevator. “Promise.”

This is a bad idea.

And I’ve had more of those than my fair share.

“I’m not interested.”

“You’re bad at lying.” She tugs on my hand, and my body follows her against my will.

The prospect of benefiting from our arrangement is at the forefront of my mind the second she runs her tongue along her bottom lip and presses her chest into mine. A voice niggles at the back of my mind—something about women not solving all my problems—but I ignore it. Who am I to deny a woman what she wants?

No expectations.

No attachment.

Fun and done.

The thrill of the idea of this happening with Brighton instead of Lyla quickly outweighs any thoughts of this transpiring with anyone besides Brighton ever again.

Lyla pauses for half a second when she realizes I’ve stopped. “I’m intrigued by your lack of interest.”

“It’s not that complicated.” I pull my hand free from hers.

“It’s hot,” she says, pulling her lower lip between her teeth and giving me come-fuck-me eyes.

“See you tomorrow.”

The “therapist look” she levels on me makes me reconsider my sanity. There’s not even a possibility with Brighton, but I don’t want to chance it.

“What the hell?”

Yes, sweetheart, I’m a worthless piece of shit. You’re welcome. “Good night,” I say. Sometimes, I shock myself with the brilliant things I do.

“If you walk away, we’re done.”

I don’t owe her an explanation. I don’t doubt my decision. I don’t give her a second glance. “I couldn’t care less, to say the fucking least.”

29

Consolation Prize

Brighton

Friday, June 2 nd

11:06 p.m.

Tapping on the door behind me pulls my attention from the book in my hand, and I freeze as a chill skirts down my spine. I blink, trying to get my eyes to focus on the sentence I’ve read three times. My overly active imagination is probably playing tricks on me. The rhythmic sound comes again.

It can only be one of two people. I shudder at the idea of the first, curious about what would bring the second. If I continue to ignore it, maybe they’ll go away.

Another knock.

I glare at the door and drop the book on top of the pile I’ve finished reading, hoping the person who can’t take a hint will hear my annoyance in the thud.

---