“You know The Bastard Three?” he asks. Very slowly, he starts to spin us in circles so lazy that it’s almost as if we’re not moving at all.
“Love them. Milo and Lulu almost make—” I stop abruptly. He doesn’t need or want to hear about the real-life inspiration behind the band’s most heartbreaking songs. But he seems to catch on, and a soft, genuine smile lights up his face.
“They almost make you believe in shit that doesn’t exist,” he finishes. It’s not exactly what I was going to say, but close.
“Like no matter how much time passes or where Lulu is, Milo will always love her.”
The smile slides off of his face. He searches my eyes for an explanation—maybe of what’s happening here. Maybe he’s trying to find a reason to pull away and leave me here with my sad little fantasies of a love story that never was and never will be.
“I don’t do this shit. Dancing with crazy women in bathrooms. I don’t hit on them when I have a girlfriend. I’m not a bad guy, no matter how tempted I am.”
He. Has. A. Girlfriend.
Asshole.
“Duly noted.” My voice is clipped. In the five minutes it’s taken for us to get here, I’ve already chosen a name for the kitten we were going to adopt together. You know, in a fantasy realm where I get to keep him. “Must be some relationship if you’re in here with me.”
“It’s pretty fucked, has been for a long time, and it’s not going to get any better. But even with all of that, she deserves better than what I want to give her.”
“So this ends here.”
“I’m not that guy,” he says firmly.
“But you are with me,” I say softly as we make another turn. I mean, he’s still holding me close and not setting up the physical boundaries he should be. If he can’t set the boundary, then I should, but I just can’t seem to pull away even though I know his admission should make me want to. Instead, I cling to him. It’s like wanting to dive headfirst into the deep end of an empty pool. It’s stupid and it’s going to be painful—and it might kill you—but the high is so worth it. One of those once-in-a-lifetime feelings, I think.
His thumb makes small circles at my waist, and I suck in a deep breath. I believe him. He’s a good guy—kind of—but he’s got a girlfriend and he’s still in here with me and we’re dancing and I have no underwear and I really want to do more. I can feel it practically burning my skin—this need to touch and be touched and to have a story to tell later. One that I’ll be proud of for a little while until I crash and I’m overwhelmingly ashamed of myself. Because indiscretions in the men’s room always hurt in the end.
Not that I’ve had any, but it doesn’t take much of a genius to guess how bad of an idea hooking up with him really is.
“I am with you,” he says as he pulls me closer. The smell of bourbon washes over me. It’s sexy, knowing he’s been drinking. That maybe he really is a good guy, but his judgment is clouded. It’s kind of like a get-out-of-jail-free card. Our bodies touch but just barely. A chill runs over me as I fight back the urge to press my pelvis into his and press him into the corner of the room. The tightness in my arms becomes too much to take. I need this. I need him. I should leave him alone and let him continue to be a good guy, but I don’t want to. My hands tighten around his neck, and I pull his face closer to mine. His eyes drop to my lips, and he reaches out with his lips for mine. He wants this. It’s not my problem if he has a girlfriend or he’s a good guy who’s about to be a bad guy. But it is my problem. I don’t want to be and won’t forgive myself if I let myself be that girl. I hate that girl.
The lyrics of the song cloud my judgment as Milo Anderson pours his soul into his performance.
You’re my torturer and my salvation
The only thing stopping my damnation
My demon temptress
You got the world’s worst timing
Lulu, you’re nothing
Nothing I made you into
Lulu, you’re something
Nothing
Anything but mine
You exist now only in my heart
“Saw you toss your panties in the trash. That for me?”
“Yes,” I lie. I’d have thrown them away even if I hadn’t ever met him, but I bet it’ll make him feel good. Spur him on, thinking it’s for him.
Jesus Christ. My mother didn’t raise a hooker—despite all evidence to the contrary.
“No,” I say quickly. He doesn’t seem to believe me, though. I guess the truth just came a little too late.