19
Laurelyn Prescott
Wow, meet flustered Lachlan. I didn’t know he existed.
I work harder to convince him everything is all good. “We’re fine, Lachlan. Even if I weren’t on the pill, I’m not ovulating.”
“Says the woman who gets a surprise pregnancy.”
I didn’t know Lachlan could be anything but cool and collected, but he has shown me a different side of him. Let’s just say he doesn’t deal well with “oh, shit” moments.
He picks up the unused condom from the coffee table and tears the wrapper so he can inspect it for defects. “We’re not using any more out of that box, just in case it’s a defective batch.”
When he finishes inspecting it, he flops back on the couch and stares at the ceiling. He’s thinking—and worrying—although I’ve told him I’m taking my birth control pills. Is it because he thinks I sleep around with a lot of men? I admit that I haven’t given him much reason to think otherwise, but it’s the furthest thing from the truth.
“Before you, I had only been with one person and I was tested for everything under the sun after we ended things, so you don’t have to worry about catching something from me.”
He doesn’t look at me. “I’m not worried about you giving me a sexually transmitted disease. The majority of that stuff can be treated.”
I see that there won’t be any more sex until we get a new box of condoms, so I get off the couch and begin to dress after I toss him his pants and boxer briefs.
When I finish dressing, I kneel between his legs and put my chin on one of his knees. I peer up at him and he caresses the side of my face with his hand. I don’t want this night to be ruined by stress and anxiety. “Don’t. Worry. We’re good.”
His worry has taken him somewhere else, and I want him back here with me. “Want me to play something for you?”
“Yes, that would be nice.”
I get up from the floor and take my new guitar from its case. I stand in front of him and strum several times. “Any requests from the audience tonight?”
“You pick.”
I know the perfect song to take his mind off what just happened. I begin to strum a bluegrass version of “Gin and Juice,” but I can tell he isn’t catching on. Maybe Australians aren’t fans of Snoop Dogg.
“‘With so much drama in the L.B.C., it’s kinda hard bein’ Snoop D. O. Double-G … But I … I somehow, someway … keep comin’ up with funky-ass shit nearly every single day.’”
I know the second the song comes to him because he begins to laugh. Hmm. Lachlan thinks I’m funny. It’s feels so strange because Blake never thought anything I did was amusing.
He picks up and begins to sing the chorus with me. “‘Rollin’ down the street … smokin’ endo … sippin’ on gin and juice … Laid back …With my mind on my money and my money on my mind.’”
When I finish, he claps and I curtsy. “That was fantastic.”
“Bluegrass ‘Gin and Juice’ isn’t fantastic; it’s shitastic. There’s a huge difference between the two.”
“That wasn’t exactly the kind of performance I was expecting when I bought the guitar for you, but I loved it. Do something else shitastic for me.”
I don’t have to think about it. I’m going to do “Whatever You Like” by T.I. my way because the song makes me think of us and our bizarro relationship.
“‘I said you can have whatever you like … I said you can have whatever you like … Yeah … Stacks on deck … Patrón on ice … And we can pop bottles all night and baby, you could have whatever you like … I said, you could have whatever you like … Yeah … baby, I can treat you so special, so nice … Gas up a jet for you tonight and baby, you can go wherever you like … I said you can go wherever you like …Yeah.’”
He applauds for me when I finish and I curtsy again. “You’re amazing.”
He thinks that’s amazing? “You know I was just playing around, right? That’s not the kind of stuff I sing for real.”
“Okay, so tell me. What does Paige Beckett sing for real?”
“Music is what feelings sound like out loud. I sing songs that speak from my heart. They tell my story, how I feel.”
“Sing one of those. Pick one that tells me your story.”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know. Come on, tell me your story.”
I’m going to regret this. I know I will. I decide on “According to You” by Orianthi. I strum until I find the desired chord. “‘According to you … I’m stupid, I’m useless … I can’t do anything right … According to you … I’m difficult, hard to please, forever changing my mind … I’m a mess in a dress, can’t show up on time, even if it would save my life. According to you … According to you … But according to him … I’m beautiful, incredible. He can’t get me out of his head … According to him … I’m funny, irresistible … Everything he ever wanted …’”
And that’s as far as I make it before I’m choking on my own words. Shit, I knew I’d regret doing this. I’m mortified as I stand in front of Lachlan with my hands over my face so he doesn’t see the ugly cry.
He gets off the couch and is by my side, arms around me. A moment later, he lifts the guitar over my head and puts it in its case. “I don’t know who he is, but he’s wrong. You are beautiful. And incredible. And funny. And irresistible.”
There’s so much that’s happened in my life to make me feel unworthy of ever being beautiful, incredible, funny, or irresistible. But I don’t want to think of those things. Not now. And certainly not in front of Lachlan.
He lets go of me and takes my hand. “It’s late. Come to bed with me.”
I follow him to his bedroom and shuffle through my bag as he pulls the comforter back. “What did you bring to sleep in?”
I take out a satin lavender slip gown and hold it up for him to see. He shakes his head before reaching into his bureau and tossing one of his T-shirts in my direction. “Here. Wear this.” Yep. We are officially on coitus hiatus until we can get our hands on a different batch of condoms.
He’s seen me naked, but I still turn around to take my clothes off and slip into his shirt. I’m not sure wearing something of his is helping with the coitus hiatus effort because I can’t help but notice how good it smells. Just like Lachlan.
We go into the bathroom together to do our bedtime rituals. He’s on his side and I’m on the other. I watch him in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. It feels so domestic. He glances over and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s sneaking a peek at me or if he feels my eyes on him.
When we’re finished, we climb into bed and he pulls me close. He doesn’t ask me to tell him about the pain I’m hiding. He simply holds me until we fall asleep. It’s something I’ve never done. And it’s beautiful.
I wake the next morning and my hand reaches for a warm body that isn’t there. The early bird is out of the nest already, which makes me the sleepyhead again, except for the fact that it’s only seven in the morning. That does not qualify as sleeping late in any shape or form.
I don’t find Lachlan in the kitchen, so I walk toward the gym. I hear “Whatever You Like” blaring through the speakers before I reach the door. When I walk in, he’s running on the treadmill and the back of his T-shirt is soaking wet. He’s been in here a while.
His back is to me, but his eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“Good morning, early bird. Nice song choice.”
“I think so too, although I like your version better. You just missed Snoop Dogg.”
“Hate that. Been running long?”
“Long enough.” He stops the treadmill and reaches for a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. His cheeks are rosy and it makes him look younger, like a child playing in the hot sun.
“I probably need to call Addison to let her know how long I’m staying.”
“How long do you want to stay?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. How long am I welcome?” Listen to me. I’m like Addison now, not wanting to wear out my welcome.
He wipes his neck and chest—jeez, I’d love to be that towel. “I’m leaving to go out of town Monday morning. Will you stay with me until then?”
I don’t have to think about it, but I hesitate for a moment so he doesn’t see how elated I am to be with him for the next two days. “Sure. That’s doable.”
He tosses the towel across the treadmill as he gets off and I know what’s he’s about to do. I see the mischief in his grin. He knows I’m about to run and catches me before I can take a second step. I’m no match for a conditioned runner.
He pulls me against his hot, sweaty body. I wanted to be his towel. Now, I am. Any other sweaty man would be gross, but Lachlan’s not. It’s the ultimate turn-on, but I remember we don’t have condoms since he tossed the whole box of potentially defective ones out last night.
I pretend to be grossed out as I push away from him. “Caveman, you are in desperate need of a shower.”
He rubs his sweaty body all over me. “Now you are too.”
Has he forgotten about our lack of protection? “Do you think that’s the best idea since you threw out all the condoms last night?”
He’s wearing that naughty little grin I’ve come to love so much. “Don’t need ’em for what we’re going to do.”