Layla: Speaking of nights, since you’re not doing anything interesting ...
Read.He was still looking at the screen. Not answering.
Grant: That’s not technically a full sentence, Layla.
Layla: You can pick me up. I’ll buy you dinner*.
Grant: *?
Layla: *A very cheap one. Payday is next week.
Grant: Do I look like a cheap date?
Layla: I’m not sure what you look like. Your features are a bit hazy in my mind. Every time we’re together I sit on your face.
Grant: Drop me your location. I’m on my way.
I turned to the mirror, pressed my forehead against it, closed my eyes, and took a steadying breath.
I’d just stood up to my monster.
And survived to tell the tale.
Chapter Four
Grant
I watched Layla jog her way to my car from across the street, cheeks flushed, hair dancing in the wind, tits so perky they made me want to kill myself, knowing I’d never again witness such flawless beauty.
She looked a lot like that actress Kat Dennings. My crush from adolescence. Curvy in all the right places, with a trim waist, pale, smooth skin, and huge blue eyes. Her hair—naturally dark brown, dyed green—was criminally soft. She was the kind of hot to convince you to get rid of her dead boyfriend’s body and then lie about it under oath. I pitied all the fathers in her class. The moms too. But mostly, I pitied myself, because our relationship was the equivalent of taking one bite of a really good dessert, knowing you’ll be denied the rest of it.
She was more or less the only person I’d sacrifice a decent parking spot in the city for, which was why I’d driven here instead of making her recite her night in front of a random Uber driver. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” She landed in my passenger seat, then slammed the door behind her and leaned to give me a peck on the cheek. Her lips were ice cold, but they still shot a zing of warmth through me.
I tilted one eyebrow up. “Grant is fine. God is just my stage name in bed.”
“Is it, now?”
I shrugged, playing it cool. “James Dean was taken.”
She snorted, fishing out something from her purse before handing it to me. “Here. I found a Frost Tropical Mango Gatorade at the convenience store while I was hiding from wandering wedding guests behind the stale-nuts aisle. Apparently, they’re rare.”
I’d been obsessed with Gatorade since my residency days. Tried almost every flavor on the market, including this one. I unscrewed the cap and took a pull. “I love it when my fans are generous.”
“Whatever. The only reason I remembered is because I file into memory everything you tell me, hoping one day it’ll be your credit card details.”
Layla and I had been casual for almost a decade. About a year before our best friends, Chase and Maddie, got married. We never took it to the next level because my work as an oncologist meant I clocked in eighty-hour weeks at the hospital, and because she was outrageously allergic to commitment.
“So, where do you wanna eat? Please say McDonald’s.” She winced. “Mybank account is about to file a restraining order against me after I gifted my parents a second honeymoon to Paris for Christmas.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t eat at a wedding.” I shook my head, flicking the signal as we headed to my place. “I thought that goes against your belief system.”
“Didn’t get to that part, remember? But the appetizers at the reception were ... not appetizing.”
“Criminal.”
“And eighty percent of the animals they were made out of still had their full faces intact.”
I shuddered. She had a way with words. She also had a way with my dick. It was depressingly fun to spend time with her, because she was laid back and funny, even in instances like this, when her life seemed to detonate in a spectacular fashion.
