I stalk to the bathroom. I handle the condom and walk back into the room to find her under the covers, curled in a ball, facing away from me.
“Did you just dismiss me?”
“This isn’t a thing.” She sighs deep as if it was pulled from her bones. “Don’t make it one, okay?”
“Let me get this straight. I can either be the man who says ‘fuck it’ to your feelings and overstays my welcome, or I’m the man who fucks you and walks out the door. So, I’m either pathetic or disgusting? That’s a fine position you’ve put me in, Brighton. Either way, I’m the asshole and, either way, you commit nothing.”
“Yep.”
“Fuck you, Bright.” I hold back the rest of my thoughts, grab my jeans, and stalk from her bedroom. I give Luna a quick pet before opening and slamming the front door.
With me on the inside.
FOUR
BRUTAL IN THEIR FINALITY
BRIGHTON
Idon’t bother to listen or look for his car to leave. I roll out of bed slowly to take another shower. And for the millionth time today, I bawl at the state of my fucking life.
My mom is gone. I’m a total fuck-up. The only man I’ve ever wanted just fucked me and bounced. Or at least he didn’t argue when I kicked him out.
And I did to him what he did to me…
…dismissed me, wrote me off, made me less than.
He may not even remember. But that night will be burned on my brain forever.
* * *
This almost isn’tworth the time. That is, the hour I spend flat ironing my unruly hair. It’s brown and thick, but now is straight and shiny, almost hitting my waist.
It’s a pain, and I hate it.
But he’s so worth it…
Elias Finchley is worth it.
I smoke my eyes out with silver shadow and add mascara to make them pop. There’s nothing I can do about them being brown. It’s hard to do much with brown. But with this shadow and charcoal liner and several coats of mascara, there’s an almost sultry, old-world feel to them. I keep my lips neutral, their natural pink shining through gloss.
When I slip on the red dress—a dress I spent hours scouring the internet for—I gasp in the mirror. I look stunning. And I don’t say that lightly. Ever the tomboy, practically one of the guys, I want to remind him I’m a girl.
Correction—he needs to know I’m a woman.
The dress is sleeveless on one side with a three-quarter sleeve on the other and fits like second skin. A gather on one side of my waist draws the eyes to my tiny frame. At eighteen years old, I have a flat stomach, slim hips, lean arms, and toned legs.
Those legs go on and on, or so they appear, since the dress stops well above the knee and has a not-so-subtle slit on one side up the front of my thigh. It’s a hint of promise, revealing nothing but teases at what’s beneath.
Nothing about the dress alludes to the bra and panties below that are the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever put on my body. Basically, the texture might as well be tree bark, but they are sexy as hell, even to me. The lace, push-up bra is strapless and dips low at the cleavage, and the panties are barely there, and what is there bunches in the wrong places.
They’re meant for taking off, not for wearing.
It doesn’t matter, though, since I know that no straight man will be able to look away. And I have no doubt that Elias is straight. I’ve seen him with plenty of women. It crushes my heart, since he should be mine.
Tonight—finally—he will be.
I know his type. He goes for tall blondes with curvy hips and red lips… basically my polar opposite.