I was going to see her tonight.
And even as I paced and agonized, some part of me remained paralyzed on the lawn across from Lot 49. God only knows what I was doing out there in the dead of night with my rabbit. I thought I had hours to kill before Hannah called.
I had strapped on Laurence's little harness and leash, carried him down to the nearest green space, plopped him into the grass for a bit of exercise—and saw her.
She was dancing.
Through the glass front of Lot 49, she appeared and disappeared in the crowd on the dance floor. Her hands were in the air. Her unmistakable brown curls fanned across her back and a small skirt spun around her hips. Her beautiful face was tilted up, eyes closed. Was that how she looked when she came for me?
Hannah.
I couldn't make myself walk away.
I couldn't make myself look away.
I drank in the sight of her strong, full thighs, her tiny waist and round ass.
What were the odds she would end up in this bar, now, steps from my apartment?
I lost sight of her in the dim building. Hannah in her satin thong, just steps away from me. I needed to feel that garment between my fingers. I needed to touch her intimately. The thought had me shivering in the summer night.
I lapsed into a fantasy, and the next thing I knew, Hannah's kind, familiar voice was addressing me.
I didn't dare speak; she would know my voice.
I hardly dared to look at her. My eyes would scream who I was.
We were so close. Her knees bumped mine. I felt the pulse in her wrist. I saw her chest rising and falling under a loose beaded tank top.
Everything else disappeared.
The world was me and Hannah and the electricity between us. I saw when she felt it, her brow knitting in confusion. It took all of my strength not to speak her name—and not to pull her against me as she leaned in.
God, what was happening to me?
I was wound tight enough to punch a hole through the drywall. Instead, I smoked a cigarette and studied the picture of myself and Bethany in Miami Beach. I made myself stare at it. I made no excuses.
After all, I could tell myself whatever I wanted about Bethany—that she was suffocating, that she was like a second mother, that she harassed me about my writing more than ten Pams put together—and it would never make what I was going to do okay.
I had wanted Bethany once. I wanted her enough to move her into my apartment and live with her for two years. But I wanted Hannah more, and there was nothing else to say.
I showered slowly, suffering through a hellacious case of blue balls. I didn't put on any cologne. I brushed my teeth, toweled my hair semi-dry, and took my time dressing, choosing a dark pair of jeans and a black V-neck t-shirt.
At every opportunity, I met my eyes in the mirror.
You are doing this. You want her. You're taking her.
I paced to calm my nerves.
More than anything, I wanted to be that calm, confident man Hannah had met on the phone, back when this was a silly game. Yeah, back one day ago. Fuck. How did things escalate so quickly?
By the time I drove out of the parking garage, an hour and a half had passed. Hannah had called twice and texted once.
I miss you, Matt.
I couldn't find a damn song I wanted to listen to. I drove in silence, killing another half hour on Denver's familiar streets. Maybe I was giving myself time to change my mind. If I did this, I didn't want it to be a mistake.
I didn't want Hannah to be a mistake.
At half past midnight, I put Hannah's address in my GPS and drove out of the city. I was sorry to leave it behind. Denver's chill vibe might have been all that was keeping my emotions from spinning out of control.
Desire.
Anger.
Confusion.
Fear.
I found the house easily. The street was dark. From what I could make out, the house was old and sprawling, set far back on a big lawn and surrounded by trees. I killed the ignition.