Touché. The girl knows her music.
I turn my chair toward her and lean in for the kill. “All right. Finish this sentence, Mouse. Metallica is…?”
“Easy.” She rests her elbow on the table, bending forward so that her delicate vanilla scent penetrates my senses. “James Hetfield.”
Blinking, I clear my head and then fall back into my chair, rubbing my eyes. “No, you’re so wrong. Lars Ulrich’s drumming is the fuckin’ glue that holds that band together.”
She shakes her head, making her hair dance around her shoulders. “You’re insane if you think Hetfield isn’t the heart and soul of Metallica. You wouldn’t even have And Justice for All if it weren’t for him, and you know it.”
“The hell I do.” The grin on my face makes my cheeks ache. When was the last time I’ve been this open?
The light sound of her laughter envelops me. This chick is crazy. Fun, but crazy.
“Here ya go, Layla,” Mac says as she puts a clear drink on the table. “You sure you’re cool, Blake?”
“Yeah, babe.”
I’m still stuck in the fuzzy bubble Layla and I created through our mutual love of Metallica, so I don’t notice the change in her expression until I look for it. Her eyes are shadowed and cold. She’s not smiling anymore, and her jaw is firm, her chin raised.
What the hell? I look around then back at her. What’d I miss?
She takes a sip of her drink, and as she wraps her lips around the cocktail straw, I notice that her upper lip is plumper than her lower one. I wonder if her mouth tastes as sweet as she smells. If her lips are as soft as they look.
“Stop it.” Her deep dark eyes meet mine. “I don’t like it when you do that.”
I’m still recovering from the whiplash of her mood swing. “Do what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to add me to your list of available vaginas.”
I check over my left shoulder, then my right. “You’re talking to me, right?” I point to my chest and decide I’m not at all happy with her accusation.
“Of course I’m—”
“Just wanted to make sure you were talking to me. Because now that I know you were talking to me,” I point to my chest, “I can tell you that you’re fucking crazy.”
Her mouth drops open then slams shut. “Oh puleaze. I caught you staring at my boobs.”
“You think a man stares at your boobs, it means he wants to fuck you? You’re wrong.”
And to think I actually considered it. This is exactly why I don’t date chicks with issues. It’s like walking a minefield. You take one step out of line, and all their baggage comes flying out in a flurry of shit talk. Fuck this.
“Right. Just like dear sweet Mac over there.” She tilts her head toward Mac at the bar. “I’m sure she thought you were charming and good looking. Now she’s nothing more than a goopy condom in your trashcan. You good-looking guys are all the same. Burning through women, caring about nothing except who to stick your dick in next.”
“Shit, Mouse.” I motion to her drink. “You drunk?”
“You wish.”
“What makes you think I slept with Mac?”
“Are you seriously going to try to tell me you didn’t?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I didn’t.”
“Bull. Shit.” Fire flares behind her eyes as they burn into mine.
I don’t need to justify myself to anyone. I made the decision a long time ago never to let another person define me again. This life is mine. Sometimes it’s shitty and messed up, but it’s still mine. And what if I had boned Mac? Hell, what if I nailed every girl in this bar? Why does she care?
I’m not wasting a single second on a girl that is exactly the type I’ve resolved to avoid.
I push back from the table and stand. “Whoever he is, the one that fucked you up?”
Her expression goes slack and her face pales. No comeback for that one, eh Mouse?
“Good for him for getting the fuck away from you.”
She jerks at my words. Her body looks smaller as she sinks into her seat, eyes shining with moisture, as if I knocked down her confident disguise to reveal the broken woman beneath. It’s a look I’ve seen in my mom’s expression more times than I’d like to remember.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the destruction I’ve caused. A feeling of heaviness crushes my chest. At what point did I become him?
I turn and walk away before I can throw myself at her feet, begging for her forgiveness. I don’t know why I got so pissed. Usually I can blow someone off with some off-color remark. But I had no control. Fuck, I sounded just like my dad.