Page 24 of I Love You, So What?

When we get in my car, I push play on my Good Charlotte playlist and turn it to the volume I like when I’m alone. I have a feeling that’s what she wants, especially when she curls the sleeves of her sweater into her fists and leans against the window the entire drive home. I can’t help but steal glances at her the whole way and wonder why she’s been so open about every thought she’s had until now.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LEXY

Withtwominutestospare before my shift starts, I walk into work. I had plenty of time to get ready after Troy dropped me off at home, but I stood in the damn shower for an hour, letting the water burn my skin. I severely misjudged my feelings, and I’m mad I got myself in this situation. I thought I could sleep with him, and it would just get him out of my system. It was just an attraction, a game, one I’d win like every other time I want something and get exactly what I expect.

Troy is exactly not what I expected. I mean, I knew he’d be good in bed. I could sense it. But even after Maci’s play by play a few months ago, I was not prepared for that. It’s not a secret I like sex. Regardless of the fact that it’s rare for me to orgasm any way except on my own, I enjoy it. It’s fun. I’ve slept with enough guys for some people to classify me as slutty, but that doesn’t bother me. What fucking bothers me is Troy.

How he made me orgasm three times. Three. One of those times I was still fucking wearing clothes. How does that even happen?

Also, I let him go down on me, which is something I’ve never let anyone do. Ever. It has always seemed too intimate to me, too emotional, too uncomfortable with people I refuse to get close to. Sex is not about connection for me. It never has been, but that felt connected like he could read my damn mind.

The most irritating part of all is that I had the urge to snuggle him.

I don’t even want to think about how he didn’t force me to talk about it and just played music the whole drive home. It’s like he knows me. But he doesn’t. It’s only been two days.

I turn on the lights above the bar and get to work in the place I feel most in control.

I lay the final $20 bill on my third stack of money, making exactly $300. Damn, I’m good. We used to have two bartenders on every shift, but then they realized they could get away with only paying me and run just as smoothly. Now, I work on my own during the week, and I make enough to afford an apartment in LA on my own which says a lot.

The only customers left are the three girls sitting on the edge of the stage. One of them has been crying for at least an hour, the other two consoling her, so I figured I’d let them stay until I had to lock the doors. I’m about to head over there when his voice comes from behind me.

“Hey.”

What is he doing here? What part of “just sex” was I not clear about?

“What’s up?” I say as I begrudgingly turn to face him.

“I was hoping we could talk. Considering I don’t have your number, I thought this would be my best bet.”

There’s a reason he doesn’t have it. Because then he’d text me. I’d text him back, and it would become a whole thing which is not going to happen.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Earlier.” He looks at me like he’s annoyed I’m playing dumb.

“What about it?” I sass, shoving my tips into my cash envelope.

“So, you aren’t afraid to have an opinion on everything else, but when it comes to this, you’ve got nothing?” There’s a lack of judgment in his tone, and that’s almost more annoying.

“There isn’t athis.” I wiggle my finger between the two of us. “You agreed it was just sex.”

“Hmmm, that’s not what I remember.”

I recall our conversation over ice cream earlier. Dammit. I don’t think he actually agreed. “Not the point. You knew where I stood.”

“True. So, now you should know where I stand. I told you I was interested. I thoughtmaybeit was just for sex. It’s not.”

“Thanks for the update.” Ugh, I know I’m being a bitch, so I add, “I’m sorry that’s not what I want.”

He’s looking at me like he can see right through me, and it makes me uneasy. Way too many feelings today that I prefer to avoid.

“Can you print me some receipt paper, please?” he asks, surprising me.

I walk to my register and feed a few inches through it before ripping the paper off and handing it to him along with my pen. I watch him scribble a phone number and slide it across the counter.

“In case you change your mind.” He holds my gaze until I break it after what feels like a full minute later. The way he looks at me is like he’s daring me to resist him, like he knows how hard it is for me.

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