“No, you asked for a ride.” He winks and mouths, “You’re welcome.”
I spin in my barstool to face the owner of all my thoughts and fantasies, and start speaking like a runaway train. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you come all the way out here so late. I didn’t realize how much I drank. I swear I’ll be fine tomorrow for our flight. I just didn’t want to risk it. I asked your brother for a cab, I didn’t know he would bug you.” I know I’m rambling, but I feel guilty. I don’t want him to think I asked for his brother to call him. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to cross any boundary.
“Woah, woah. It’s fine. You could’ve called me. Friends, remember?”
Bleh. How could I forget?
“You have Delilah, I didn’t want to ask that of you.”
“Ivy, my parents live up the road. I called my dad and he came down to sit at the house while Lilah sleeps. It wasn’t a big deal.”
My guilt eases a fraction, but not entirely. “Alright. Well, thank you. I’ll come get my car in the morning.” I slip off my barstool, and grab my purse.
“Don’t worry about it, give me your keys.”
“What? Why? You don’t have to do that. I can handle it tomorrow morning.”
“I know you can, but I’m going to.” He holds out his palm, waiting. His expression shows no room for argument, and he came all the way here, so I choose to listen.
I drop my keys in his outstretched hand, and he shoves them in the front pocket of his jeans.
“Good girl.”
The sound of those words coming out of his mouth, in his gravelly voice will live in my head forever. I feel a wave of warmth wash over me, and my toes curl in my sneakers. He casually ushers me toward the door, and waves to his brother, blissfully unaware of what he just did to me.
He says we can be friends, but I’m not sure we can. I don’t thinkIcan handle the closeness while keeping this thing platonic. He might be able to come pick me up, take my keys from me to make sure I getmy car, or call me agood girl,while still thinking of me as a friend. I however, cannot.
I made that very apparent last week when he invited me for a friendly beer on the couch, and then told him to kiss me. Similar to now, when he praises me for doing a simple instruction, I want to drop to my knees and see what else I can do to be good for him.
I’m very aware of my praise kink, thank you very much. It just hasn’t been unearthed by a real life human man in a very long time.
He guides me to his truck parked on the curb outside the bar with his hand resting gently on my lower back. I try to walk a little quicker than him to avoid as much physical contact as possible, but he notices, and turns his head down to me with an almost wounded look in his eyes. I ignore him, and the little pang in my chest from seeing it.
Friends. Friends. Friends.
I’m starting to consider pavlovian style training myself to dislike him. Maybe set up and watch a slideshow of his photo every night, then pinch myself, or maybe eat black licorice the whole time. Anyone who says they like that catastrophe of a candy is a liar.
We reach the truck and I pull the handle to open the door, when a big tattooed hand appears above my head and slams it shut. I turn my head and look at Wesley over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I ask, just wanting to get in the truck and repeat my new “friends” mantra the entire way home.
“I could ask you the same question.”
I give him a puzzled look. I’m trying to open the damn door. What does it look like I’m doing?
“Move your hand,” I demand.
“You first.” I look down and see my fingers still wrapped around the handle.
I peel my hand off as requested, wondering what the hell is going on.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
He replaces my hand with his, grabs the handle, and opens the truck door.
“Go on. Get in.”
He’s waiting, hand on the door.
