I’m blinking rapidly into the stage lights when I see him. He’s standing at the bar, and he’s brought a friend. Although, by the way she rests her hand on his ass, I’m guessing ‘friend’ isn’t the word I should use. He doesn’t seem to mind her groping. His smile is slow and easy as he hands her a beer and leans in to hear whatever it is she needs to whisper in his ear. He laughs a little, the broad expanse of his shoulders shaking.
I should look away. But as usual, my neck doesn’t want to obey. No, I just sit and watch as they chat and her hand becomes more familiar with his ass. It barely registers that Cameron is still playing with the edge of my shirt collar, the tips of his fingers gliding along my skin, or that he’s talking about his favorite bands.
I need to make an effort to drag my attention back to my date. It would suck if Drew saw me staring. I’m almost in the clear when Drew turns, his gaze scanning the crowd in a lazy fashion, and his eyes lock on to me.
Caught, I can only stare back. He’s more than twenty feet away. The air is hazy and dim. Heads bob and weave between us as people walk past the bar. And yet it’s as if he’s right in front of me.
Did he like the book?
Just as Drew had, I’d bought it long ago. But, unlike Drew, I was too chicken to give it to him. Until he’d given me my gift. I ought to have sucked it up and handed it to him in person, but I didn’t have the guts to face him.
The ache in my chest digs in, and my palms tingle. I can’t move, locked in his gaze as I am. I want to go to him so badly that my thighs tense, as if I might rise. But then the connection is broken.
He turns his attention to Cameron. Or rather, to Cameron’s hand. Even from this far away, I know that’s what he’s looking at: Cameron touching me.
Drew’s eyes narrow. His expression isn’t pretty, and it’s so intent that I wonder if it’s what a linebacker sees just before he throws a touchdown pass right over their heads.
Suddenly, I’m angry. He has no right to scowl like that when he’s got some groupie taking hand measurements of his ass. And that lovely thought draws me right into queasiness. Especially when I see Miss Cop-A-Feel wrap her arm about his waist. Now she’s stroking his stomach. My spot.
“Excuse me,” I say to Cameron. “I’ll be back.”
Luckily Cameron doesn’t ask why I need to get away. I don’t look in Drew’s direction as I make my way to the bathroom.
Inside, I run cool water over my wrists. Always go for cooling down the wrists. Splash water on your face, and it’s a given that someone will enter the bathroom. And they’ll know you’re upset. Best, they’ll look at you with pity. Worse, they’ll ask you if you’re okay while looking at you with pity.
The wrists, however? You can easily pretend you’re just washing your hands.
I stand there until my fingers grow numb. I don’t look into the mirror. I don’t know if I’ll like what I see. A few drops of water hit my belly and I flinch, breaking out of my fog. My black t-shirt is riding up, exposing a strip of skin over my jeans. The damn shirt is too tight. This is Iris’s brilliant addition to tonight’s wardrobe choice. Because, in her words, “if you have boobs like yours, you got to display them properly.” Low cut tops, Iris insists, are cheap and uninspired.
“But remain fully covered in something that hugs your assets and guys can’t help but want to see what’s underneath. It’s like the ultimate tease.” Ladies and Gentlemen, the world according to Iris.
Right now, I’d be satisfied with a floppy tee and pajama pants. I want to go home.
Drying my hands, I tug one last time at the bottom of my shirt and then exit the bathroom. Only to walk directly into Drew’s path.