Page 5 of Tips and Trysts

His campaign—of course. Everett’s first obstacle in his lifelong goal of becoming the President of the United States (but actually) is getting elected to Congress as DC’s congressional representative. After talking about it for months, he’s finally on the ticket for the primary election in June.

I couldn’t care less if I tried.

“Were you bored?” he goes on. “Do you need danger to feel something?”

“I feel everything—profoundly, I might add. For example, right now, I’m annoyed out of my dewy, flawless skin.”

He lets out a slow exhale. “Tell me what to do next time.”

“You’re welcome to ask questions, but donot—” I emphasize, “—lie in front of me. I’m not your wife, you’re not proud of my career, and you definitely wouldn’t ruin a man if he hurt me. Don’t pretend any of those things are the case.”

His jaw squares when he clenches his teeth, but he doesn’t challenge me. All I get is a stiff nod.

Over it, I take out my phone and open the app I use to cam. Before I left my condo, I got a request from one of my highest paying regulars—a whale, as we call them—for a private session. I don’t cam on Saturdays, but standing here with Everett and hissanctimonious, beautiful face while I’m annoyed and tipsy—and maybe the tiniest bit tingly from him touching me—I decide to bend the rules. I accept.

“I have a private session,” I announce before I brush past Everett on my way to the exit. I don’t say goodbye.

“I’m walking you home,” he informs me.

I saw this coming, so I don’t fight him. The gesture isn’t chivalrous; it’s inescapable. Yes, Everett Logan is many things—including a temporary dogsitter and next-door neighbor while Valeria and Lander are traveling for spring break. For the last week, the only things separating us have been eight inches of drywall and seven months of pure distaste.

Sharing a common wall with a guy who once refused to associate with me for fear of jeopardizing his shot at becoming the President of the United States of America isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever endured, but it’s up there with mono, curtain bangs, and dropping out of my PhD program three years ago. I’m sick of hearing him—of knowing he’s around.

One more week. One more week until he’s gone.

We walk. Beyond a glance, he doesn’t acknowledge me, so I don’t bother with small talk. I do watch him though, noting the ease of his posture as he strolls along the rain-wet sidewalk. Springtime in DC always brings bouts of unexpected rainfall, and we had one this afternoon. Our roads are shit, so everything is slick and uneven, but Everett’s stride is still borderline graceful.

He glances at me, catching me off guard for once, and I look away too quickly. He definitely saw me. Annoyed, I keep my gaze forward. Eventually, he looks away.

A few seconds later, he looks at me again and I pretend not to notice, but I do. I notice.

In the Halcyon, the elevator ride to the tenth floor is quiet. We post in opposite corners, and I pretend to look at my phone, but I’m watching him.

He glances at me for the third time tonight. This time, he doesn’t look away. We’re illuminated by the warm yellow lights in the car’s ceiling, and his gaze travels over me, stuttering on spots like my septum piercing, my mouth, my bare stomach—or maybe my bellybutton piercing.

“You’re welcome,” he says, breaking the silence.

Asshole.My eyes narrow of their own volition. I’m about to say I would rather lock myself in the trunk of Tyler’s creeper sedan than thank him—when the elevator comes to an abrupt stop on the eighth floor, and our faces descend into more pronounced frowns by the second.

Watching my best friend fall deeply in love with a guy whose best friend is a pompous snob? Painful.

Sharing a wall with that pompous snob for two weeks? Annoying.

But getting stuck in an elevator with him? Agony.

Two

CORA

“Fuck it,” I declare,breaking the silence.

Everett looks at me from his corner of the elevator, head tilted lazily, eyes hooded and bloodshot from however much he drank tonight. Twenty minutes have passed.

I scoot forward and prop my phone against the bronze panel underneath the buttons, positioning it to fit my body in the frame.

“What are you doing?”

“Camming.”

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