This was definitely different. He was different. This strange, tender man who called me every night and spoke about things other than his band or wanting me to rub his Long Dong Silver was disconcerting.
Something was changing between Cole and me and I wasn’t sure how to handle it. I wasn’t sure I was ready to accept a side of him that wasn’t cocky and arrogant. I could admit that throughout the duration of our less than conventional acquaintance, I got off on the crazy, insanity inducing tirades he incited as much as he did. There was something predictably unpredictable about wanting to rip his pit hair out and making him eat it. Even though I hated with a fiery passion finding him with other women, it’s what I expected from him.
It made it easier to not dream of more with him. Cole wasn’t boyfriend material. I couldn’t be delusional about that if he was screwing around the second I wasn’t in sight. My heart couldn’t engage and in turn be broken into a million tiny pieces.
But perhaps I was deluded. Because whether I wanted to or not, I did care about him. My stomach flipped and turned over when I saw him. I was at times reduced to a squealy teenage girl around her crush.
Because when the asshole touched me, my entire body ignited. For the last two years, Cole had been slowly ruining me for any guy that would ever come after him.
Poor, pitiful Lambert learned that lesson the hard way.
And now Cole was playing Mr. I’m-So-Sensitive-Don’t-You-Want-To-Hug-Me. The man I had always been able to count on for delicious, sometimes boundary pushing, toe-curling sex, was appealing to my emotional side.
Damn him!
So, no I wasn’t jumping at the chance to see him. He was terrifying me. He was making me question everything about the way things between us operated.
He was making keeping my distance increasingly difficult. And I was more than a little worried that once I saw him I’d launch myself at him and confess my undying love.
And that was a humiliation I was not signing up for, thank you very much.
“Well, I’m going. It’s Mitch’s birthday that weekend and I’d like to see him.” I raised my eyebrows at my friend. Gracie stared blandly back, not giving me anything.
I almost snorted. It was on the tip of my tongue to start singing “Mitch and Gracie sittin’ in a tree.” But given my friend’s carefully neutral expression, I figured that taunting her about her tip toeing the line between friends and fucking his brains out relationship with Mitch Delany would not be greeted with laughter.
I wanted to smack Gracie. I thought she was being deliberately obtuse and more than a little cruel when it came to the Rejects’ bassist. He was a nice guy. Probably one of the straight up sweetest people I had ever met.
He adored Gracie. He worshipped at the altar of her awesomeness. He’d give her a kidney if she needed one.
And she was keeping him securely in the friend zone. Even though she tossed him just enough line to make him either hopeful for an actual relationship or to strangle himself with.
I honestly didn’t understand what Gracie was thinking. Personally I suspected that there were more than friendly feelings beneath her staunch denial. I knew they had never hooked up. No kissing. No questionable touching. But I knew she thought about it. I saw the green eyed monster rearing its nasty head when girls flirted with him.
Mitch, like Cole, was no saint. He slept around like any self-respecting up and coming rock star. He sampled his way through the tang buffet.
And it pissed Gracie off, though she would never say so.
She only had herself to blame though. So it was hard to feel sorry for her when her face took on the green pallor of imminent upchuck as she watched girls slip Mitch their telephone numbers.
Then Gracie would go and screw the first guy she came in contact with.
Their pattern was about as destructive as my own.
But Mitch would still be there to call her every day. He’d send her packages from the road full of thoughtful presents just to let her know he was thinking about her.