“I loathe that term, Brynne,” he bites out.
“Loathe it all you want. It’s the truth,” I say, holding on to my courage as tightly as I can. “I’m just telling you . . . I’m telling you that I really enjoy being with you. And that you have the power to flip me all around. When I went to Vegas, it was to make a fresh break from my life before, to get a new baseline, and have some fun. Easy peasy. But you’re so easy to be around that it makes it completely not easy.”
I pause, feeling my way through this. The feeling of vulnerability makes my stomach weak, a feeling I dislike more than many others. But I am vulnerable to him, and if this has any potential of going anywhere, he needs to at least realize that and decide if he wants that responsibility.
“I don’t know how to process you ensuring I see Grant at your restaurant, Fent. How am I supposed to read that? You tell me you can’t see me and then you go off and make it so I don’t see anyone else without you there. That’s not fair.”
“Brynne, there was a reason for that.”
“Then tell me!”
“I will. See me.”
Lying back on my bed, I take a deep breath and hold it before letting it trickle out of my lungs a wisp at a time.
“I know what you’re saying,” he voices. “I realize how confused you might be.”
“Might be?”
“Brynne . . .” he sighs. “I want to give you answers. But I don’t want to do it over the phone.”
“I’m sure you don’t. You can pick me up and take me somewhere and use that damn cashmere voice and sexy smirk and have my pants off in two seconds flat. Not happening.”
He pauses. “If I have my way, it won’t take two seconds.”
“Fenton . . .”
“What if I promise you I won’t?”
“You won’t what?”
“I won’t fuck you . . . first.”
I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles in my throat. “Fuck me first? Like it’s a guarantee?”
“Let’s be real. If we’re together, we’re gonna fuck. You made me promise that, remember?” he teases.
I could argue with him and pretend to be Superwoman and have some sort of feminine resistance to his charms, but it’d be a lie and we both know it.
“Just let me pick you up. We’ll talk and you can ask whatever you want,” he says in a tone I haven’t heard from him before. It’s a touch shaky, a little nervous. “And then we’ll fuck.”
“You promise to answer everything?”
After a brief delay, he says, “Yes.”
“You promise to make me come on your face?”
“Oh, rudo, I promise to make you come any way you’d like.”
I catch my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are pink, a wide smile on my face. This is what Presley was talking about and she’s right—there’s no sense in not being happy if I can be. Being miserable isn’t going to help anything.
Pulling my towel completely off my shoulders, my hair doesn’t look too bad for not brushing it out right after my shower. “I can be ready in an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
“See you soon.”
I hold up a yellow blouse and look into the mirror. I’m all over the place, unable to make a simple choice about what to wear.
My phone sits in front of me on the dresser, right where I left it after talking to my mother. She sounded eerily calm, sort of sleepy. She said they were suing Mandla and that my father had lost his passport so he couldn’t go to Africa until he got it replaced and he was pissed about it. I’m not sure how much of that is true and how much is the result of her medication.
A part of me feels guilty for looking forward to seeing Fenton and not being with my parents. But what good would it really do? And my mother’s sister came into town and is staying with them, so that helps ease my burden.
“Screw it.” I start to pull the hem of my red silk camisole over my head when the door to my room swings open and slams shut, rattling the picture on the wall. Spinning in a circle, I see Presley standing with her back pressed against the door. My typically unshakable best friend has eyes the size of saucers.
“My God, Brynnie,” she breathes, her hand slapping against her chest in an over-the-top fashion. “He. Is. Fucking. Gorgeous.”
“I know. Did you get close enough to smell him?”
“Lord no! If I’d gotten that close, I’m afraid I would’ve just started licking him like a popsicle. I know he’s yours and I’m not that kind of girl,” she flashes me her heart tattoo that matches mine, “But you’d have to have forgiven me because—have you fucking seen him?”