Page 94 of The Bad Girl List

Before I can form a word, he bends down and picks it up. He stiffens when he sees the picture of Dom and Kevin.

“What’s going on, Trev?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I stalk across the room and snatch the phone out of his hand.

“Why is Dominique out with Kevin Durham?”

“How should I know? Why don’t you ask her.”

Dad’s expression sharpens. I know that look. I’m about to be subjected to Twenty Questions, Tim Moretti style. And if Dad doesn’t like the answers I give, it will be another Twenty Questions.

“I just stopped by for some dog food. I have to get back and feed Tequila.” I shove the phone into my pocket.

“Trevor–”

“I gotta go, Dad. Obviously I’m not seeing Dom anymore.” I grab the Ziploc of dog food and stalk to the back door.

“Trevor, will you just wait a minute? I want to talk to you.”

Talk about what? About Dom being with Kevin at Zeke’s, apparently having a great time? What is there to say? Am I going to have to sit through another lecture about how I need to move on? About how I need to find someone else? Or maybe Mom will call up one of her friends and get another blind date on the calendar for me.

I don’t want to talk about any of this. I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything.

I stomp out of the house and slam the door shut behind me, hoping Dad will take the hint and leave me alone.

It’s not until I’m halfway back to my house that I’m able to process what just happened. What I just saw on my phone.

Dom still has the Bad Girl List to get through. Apparently, that mission hasn’t subsided just because I was a grade-A dick to her last night and broke my promise to help her. What had I expected? For her world to stop spinning because Trevor Moretti had a panic attack and played the asshole card? All after kissing her and finger fucking her under the stars? What the fuck did I think was going to happen?

She doesn’t need me for number ten on her list. She never needed me for that, but a part of me knows she had been waiting for me, hoping I might step up.

But I’d blown it. And not just once. I’ve never almost had sex with a woman so many times without sealing the deal. It would be comical if it wasn’t so fucked up.

I pull into the carport and throw my truck into park. Still angry, I stomp back into the bungalow. Tequila whines at the sight of me, her ears and tail going flat. Even her eyebrows flatten. She takes refuge under the nearest bar stool.

“Sorry, girl,” I say, but my words come out as a growl and she cowers. Shit. I need to get myself together before I terrorize my poor dog.

I pour the food into her bowl and head back toward my bedroom. If I give her some space, she’ll come out and eat.

On my way back to my room, I pause mid-step as I pass the fireplace mantle. The picture of me and Elle on graduation night seems to blare out at me. So does our engagement picture.

I pick them up and take them into the bedroom. These pictures have been my anchors over the past two years. Anytime I felt sad or missed Elle, all I had to do was look at these photographs.

For reasons I can’t explain or understand, I don’t want to see them. I take them off the mantle and slide them into my underwear drawer. After a moment’s consideration, I take her picture off my nightstand and put that into the drawer, too.

As I close the dresser, my anger fizzles out. All I feel is hollow and confused. I flop down into my chair and rub at my forehead.

What is going on with me?

A whine draws my attention. Tequila stands in the doorway, ears flat as her eyebrows move back and forth as she takes me in.

“I’m sorry, girl,” I say. “Come here.”

She hops over to me. I scoop her up and settle her into my lap.

“Dad,” I say in my Tequila voice, “you’ve been such a sad, sorry grump since you lost Elle. And now that you’ve met Dom, you’re a sad, asshole grump. You’ve got to get your shit together.”

“You’re right, Tequila.” I rub her between her ears. “The only problem is, I don’t even know what my shit is.”

---