She has to know that she’s the only woman who gets me that worked up. Do I watch porn? Yeah. Big fucking deal. But everything is such a plastic imitation—fake scenarios, fake words, fake caked-on makeup—that I can barely stay hard.
She doesn’t look like she believes me. “Please. You do that every time?”
“No, of course not every time. But this last time, yeah.” I rub the bridge of my nose under my glasses. “Listen to me, Evie, for fuck’s sake, I’m in love with you, not them. You.”
Her eyes widen, and she blinks like she can’t believe I just said I love her. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She shakes her head.
“So if guys sent me videos jerking off and licking their cum, telling me they wanted to fuck me and come on my tits, saying it didn’t matter if I had a boyfriend because they wouldn’t tell anyone, saying they’d meet me any time, any place, and I got off to it—that would be okay?”
Fuck, no.
“Evelyn, that’s not the same.” Instantaneous rage blasts through me at the thought of guys going after my girlfriend. Of wanting to touch my girlfriend. Goddamn it, it is the same.
Disappointment clouds her expression. And with slow, purposeful movement, she rises from my chair, looks me straight in the eye, and says, “I don’t know where this leaves us. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.”
Before I can process what this means or what to say—or even put some fucking clothes on—she picks up her purse and walks out the front door.
30
Evie
Shitty doesn’t begin to describe my Monday morning.
I finally get off the world’s longest conference call and muster the energy to return some files to Penny. As I rub the coffee stain I dribbled down my shirt a few minutes ago, she has pity on me and hands me a cookie.
“I could eat fifty of these right now,” I lament, wishing I had stayed in bed. I’m so exhausted, my temple pounds.
I hardly slept after my argument with Josh last night. He left me three messages afterward, and I texted him that I need some time to clear my head.
But now I’m doubting myself. Because who tells someone like Josh Cartwright she needs space? Idiots like me. Except for this one thing, he’s perfect. He’s sweet and thoughtful and so loving. The few times we’ve been out in public together, he’s never so much as glanced at another woman. Except for the porn. But what guy doesn’t do that?
Can I live with women inboxing him with personalized videos? I don’t know, but now that my anger has died down, now that I realize how wound up I was over last night’s horrid dinner and how I overreacted, my heart aches at his absence. I know I need to pull up my big-girl panties and talk this out with him.
The fact that this is about sex makes it all the more difficult. I mean, who wants to discuss your masturbation habits?
Ugh, I suck at adulting.
Part of me thinks as long as he doesn’t message any of those women or interact with them online, I need to accept this. It’s not like he talks to these girls or meets with them. Yeah, no. He’d be a dead man then.
But me getting worked up over my boyfriend, the porn blogger, looking at porn makes as much sense as a vegetarian who gets pissed off because his salads contain lettuce.
I’m just jealous. I can admit that. I’m not sure how to deal with these emotions. I’ve never, never felt this way about anyone, not even my ex, and I don’t want to be crushed.
Beneath my fear and mild hysteria, his words linger. I love you.
God, I love him too.
And I never even told him.
That has to be my first priority. To tell him I love him. To apologize for snooping. To tell him we’ll work through this and that I need him to have a little patience with me while I get used to this idea. And maybe I adopt a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. It’s not like we don’t screw like horny bunnies on crack. It would be different if he wasn’t an attentive lover. If we never had sex.
Except he always wants me. He always has his hands on me. His gaze always tells me he thinks I’m beautiful and desired and loved.
My heart thumps erratically because I need to talk to him. Maybe I can take an early lunch and go see him.
I glance around, wondering if I’ll be missed if I step out for a while, but the hallways are empty, which is odd for mid-morning on a Monday.
“Where is everyone?” I mumble as I finish off the rest of Penny’s cookie.
She points upstairs. “A big partner meeting. They all went running up there half an hour ago, and a few people are in court.”
I nod and head toward my office.
“Wait,” she calls out. “You’ve had several calls from your friend Kendall.”
Frowning, I turn back to Penny. “Really? Why didn’t she call my cell?”
“She said she tried but it kept going to voicemail, and she says this is urgent.” Looking around to make sure we don’t have any eavesdroppers, she whispers, “Her message was, ‘Call me right fucking now.’”
Penny laughs, but it feels like someone dropped a lead anchor in my gut. Kendall would never leave a message like that with someone other than me unless the situation was apocalyptic. I wonder if this has anything to do with seeing her ex this weekend.
I thank Penny and shuffle to my office and close the door as I pull out my phone. Shit, it’s been off since I charged it during my shower this morning.
As soon as my cell powers up, Kendall’s all-caps texts flash on the screen.
CALL ME. NOW. RIGHT NOW.
THIS IS A 911.
WHERE ARE YOU?!?!
Then she sent me a link to an article. All the words run together, but two pop out at me—blogger and Cartwright.
Ohmigod.
I scramble to click on the link. For once, it loads right up, except the words I read are my worst nightmare.
And Josh’s.
My hands tremble when I see the full headline, and I can’t scan the rest quickly enough.
Josh is going to freak the fuck out.
I don’t understand how this happened.
Who the hell leaked this?
My heart beats furiously in my throat and saliva collects in the back of my mouth.
But everything slows down—my vision blurs around the edges, making those two words at the end of the article crystal clear.
Because it’s my name.
I think I’m gonna puke.
31
Josh
The lukewarm, bitter coffee envelops my tongue, and with a gulp I drain the sludge at the bottom of my Keep Portland Weird mug. That last dose of caffeine pushes me up out of the creative zone-out I’ve been in for the last hour and a half. I could use a refill. I lean my chair away from my desk and stretch, looking around my now-populated office.
It’s Monday, and as usual, I arrived before everyone else to work in the early morning solitude. It also helped me escape the dark thoughts I’ve had since my fight with Evie. She basically told me not to call her, that she’d call me. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, and already I’m going stir-crazy.