“Why don’t you head out early?” he says. “Luke’s still here and I can handle the rest. Take your boy home and show Miss Tube Top back there that he’s taken.”
I feel irritation flare somewhere deep in my gut. I look back in his direction and see he has his phone out again, reading through a message before he puts it away again. Does Luke ever contact the women he’s with after he sees them? What’s even the point of giving his number anyway? Is it just a douchey sort of ego boost? I remember Justin’s phone going off on occasion and he’d answer it, slipping out to the garage or backyard to talk, and now I feel vulnerable and gross. Will there ever be a time when that sort of thing doesn’t set me off?
“He’s not taken,” I say.
Fred looks at me, surprised. “Funny, he sure looked taken when he was sitting up here. He follows you around like he’s a puppy and you’ve got his favorite treat in your pocket.”
I ignore him, bending to pull a couple of Coronas out of the beer cooler.
Fred gives me his I’m picking my battles sigh, and then moves to help someone else.
I keep myself busy, restocking the cooler and deciding that staying behind the bar and staying busy is an excellent idea.
At some point I get a message from Luke, Had to rescue Margot. Don’t forget to text when you’re leaving.
I pocket my phone and go back to work, watching as the bar slowly empties.
At one, Fred turns off the outside lights, and I text Luke a quick, Leaving in about ten. You still up?
I check five minutes later. No answer.
When the last glass is washed and the bar lights are turned out, there’s nothing left to do but make my way to my car. Luke still hasn’t answered, and I know that I’m stalling because if I text him again and am met with nothing but silence, I’ll think too much about what it means. I wave to Fred and wait another five minutes before typing, Headed home. Exhausted. Let’s talk tomorrow.
Chapter SIXTEEN
Luke
I WAKE WITH A start, still in last night’s jeans and with the remote resting on my stomach. The room is bright, the other side of the bed is untouched, and there’s no sign of London anywhere. The clock shows it’s almost eight and I sit up, fumbling for my phone and squinting at the screen, wondering why London isn’t here and why she didn’t text when she got off like she said she would. I do a quick scroll through my messages but don’t see the name I’m looking for, and it occurs to me that something could have happened to her, like maybe she didn’t make it out of Fred’s or even to her car.
I’ve never called someone so fast in my life.
It rings three times before London answers, the sound of wind whipping through the line.
“Are you okay?” I practically shout.
“What? Yeah, I’m fine. I’m up at Black’s.” She pauses for a moment before adding, “Are you okay?”
I fall back against my pillow and press my hand to my chest, only now realizing how fast my heart is pounding. “Yeah, I just—you said you’d text when you left and I must have fallen asleep. I woke up and . . .”
London is silent for a moment and I can hear the sound of seagulls overhead. “I did text you—twice, actually—but you didn’t answer,” she says. “You didn’t get them?”
I roll to my side and close my eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t see anything.”
“Did you actually read your messages, Luke?”
“I started to,” I say, putting her on speaker so I can take a closer look. There’s . . . well, there’s a few.
Michelle: Wanna hang out?
Dylan: Did you know that polar bears aren’t actually white?
Call me if ur bored. 619-555-3344? I have no idea who this person even is.
Tonya: Did I leave my bra at your place on Valentine’s? The one with the LED lights?
Leiah: I’m in town next weekend . . .
Scroll . . .
Scroll . . .
CALL ME. Who is Brunette With Great Rack?—And did I really put that as a contact in my phone?
“Still reading?” London asks, and I can hear the hard smile in her voice. “Must have been a busy night.”
“Quiet, you,” I tell her, but wow, she’s sort of right. I get a lot of texts on a normal day, but I don’t think I ever realized how many of them were quite so . . . suggestive. I rarely reply to any, and when I do it’s only the girls I might have somehow managed to become friendly with over time, or hook up with again . . . on occasion.
But this is . . . eye-opening.
I’m about to call it quits and give London the big I told you so, when I see her name in the middle of a few others.
Leaving in about ten. You still up? And then about twenty minutes later: Headed home. Exhausted. Let’s talk tomorrow.
“Oh.”
“I guess you found it?” she asks, voice a little tighter now.
I frown. I don’t like that London was right about this, and I don’t like the way I feel right now. I don’t feel proud or like a big swinging dick with girls texting me like this. I feel sort of sleazy.
“Yeah, I didn’t see it, I guess,” I mumble. “Sorry.”
London laughs, but still, it’s a little off. Has this always bothered her? “You’re a popular guy.”