Page 72 of The Winslow Brothers

The bed dips beside me, and it’s apparently just enough to break me from my almost-slumber, and my eyes flutter open. Jude stands beside the bed, hunting and pecking through our tangled mess of clothes on the floor and pulling out his apparel one item at a time.

His boxer briefs are already back in place, and his deliciously ruffled hair hangs down in front of his eyes.

The searing pain of rejection hits me square in the chest, and I have to clench my eyes tight to stop the sting of tears in my nose from developing further.

I can’t believe he’s sneaking out again.Everything inside me vibrates with betrayal and a heady feeling of triviality, and the only two options left are to tuck my tail between my legs and suffer silently, or to give him the shit he deserves.

“You’re leaving again?” I ask harshly, my brain having clearly chosen the latter.

He jerks his gaze up, startled that I’m awake, I think, but it’s only a moment before his trademark easy smile slides into place. “Yeah, babe. I have to get home.”

I shake my head at myself, backtracking my sliding scale in the direction of flight rather than fight, but as he continues to get dressed, a fire burns inside me that I just can’t seem to extinguish. If I don’t speak up now, I never will. The chances of running into him again in a city this large are statistically nil, and while last night I would have characterized that as a bad thing, now, I should let it work in my favor. The worst that could happen is that he leaves—which is obviously already happening. Fuck being meek. This is my life and my bed and my intimacy, and I shouldn’t be afraid to ask.

“What is this?” I implore, shoving up in the bed with a hand until I’m sitting. I take the sheet with me, covering my exposed breasts.

Jude brushes his hair out of his eyes and smiles. “What’s what?”

I don’t appreciate the seemingly intentional inanity. I want answers, dammit. Not only that, I deserve them. It’s one thing to have a one-night stand that leads nowhere, but there’s got to be some kind of rule after the second night that at least entitles you to a succinct conversation. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe he’s comfortable with no boundaries at all, but I need the border of what zone we’re in to be at least faintly defined.

“What’s happening here? Withus. This,” I finally emphasize, dropping the sheet to wave both hands wildly between us.

Jude shrugs, a shameless smile lighting his undeniably gorgeous face, and flicks his gaze from my eyes to my bare breasts and back. “It’s fun.”

Fun, he says. It’sfun. That’s great and all, but what in the hell is that supposed tomean?

My mind races neurotically, and he slides his feet into his shoes.

I watch silently as he grabs the pen and notepad I keep on my night table and scribbles down a series of numbers across the top. It’s the chicken scratch of a typical man, but it’s definitely legible—whether or not I want it to be is another question entirely.

“Use this to call me when you want to have some more.” Everything inside me stops as he leans forward and places a gentle kiss to the apple of my cheek and tucks the paper into my palm.

He shuffles out of the room then, still settling his pants into place on his hips and then buttoning the open shirt on his shoulders. It takes all the effort I can manage to keep myselffrom jumping from the bed and chasing him down the hall just to read him the riot act again.

I feel volatile and completely unstable and, quite frankly, insane.How in the fucking world can someone spend the night doing the things we just did, in the positions we did, and not feel some small ounce of…connection?

How on earth can he walk away so easily?

Manic, I push out of the bed and start to stalk in the direction of the hallway, but I stop myself when it hits me. Months of forced self-reflection courtesy of Dr. Winters have apparently honed my skills.

I’m angry and emotional and undeniably confused, yes, but…well, he hasn’tactuallydone anything wrong. He’s been upfront and honest, and I’m completely responsible for the consequences of doing this again after watching him walk out the first time. I knew. I knew that this was a man who’d walked out before and was just as likely to do it again, and still, I chose to subject myself to it again.

And what do you even expect him to do instead of leaving your apartment after two hot sex marathons? Wake you up with flowers and breakfast in bed?

Besides the intense orgasms only he seems to be able to give me, I don’t necessarily know what I’m even wanting from him at this point. Bottom line, I signed on for this, willingly, whether I want to admit it or not. I practically stalked the man to make it happen, for goodness’ sake.

I glance down at the paper in my hand as the front door to my apartment clicks shut, and I study the numbers with stark precision.

The ball is in my court, and the future is in my hands. Jude Winslow is the good-time guy, and he’s ready and willing to keep having them with me. But it’s never going to check all the boxes on my list, and it’s not going to end with the two of us tucked away behind a symbolic white picket fence.

I have to decide ifjust funis something I can handle or not.

And right now…the truth is, I don’t know.

Tuesday, March 13th

Jude

Two kids race past me on scooters, yelling riotously, and I lean deeper into the brick column at my back to avoid getting skimmed by their lanky limbs.

---