That’s not the point.
DARCY
You brought it up.
ME
Focus! I need to move past this whole Waylon thing.
DARCY
I can assure you, had I known he was a whole thing you needed to move past, I wouldn’t have suggested him as your roommate.
I may have underplayed the evening with Waylon to her. I didn’t want to make it a thing when she was just getting with Ridge and I knew we’d all be hanging out more. There was no way I was going to be the one person in the group who causes problems.
To be honest, I just want to fuck him. Connection and blah blah blah—none of that concerns me. I’m not looking for forever. But Waylon looks like he knows what he’s doing. And it’s been a while since I have been in expert hands. And fuck me, what, just because I’m a woman I can’t just want what I want? Because that’s bullshit.
Let me calm down. No need to be outraged on account of my own thoughts. I’m feeling very out of sorts, which can only mean one thing. I’m about to bleed for a week straight and not even die. It sounds impressive when you say it like that, like it’s a superpower or something. But what it really means is I’llbe doubled over with the worst cramps in the world while my uterus feels like it’s about to fall out.
Don’t worry. I made the doctor check for endo-everything and PCOS and all that, but turns out, I just have really bad cramps. Yay me. I get about two weeks of normal, a week of cranky and painful cramps, then a week of bleeding like a stuck pig. And then we repeat. It’s so fun being a girl, let me tell you.
I estimate I have about twenty-four hours before the cramps start. Thankfully, tomorrow is Friday and I can curl into a ball for the following forty-eight hours until the pain lessens. Just how I wanted to spend my weekend—holding my aching uterus and wishing all men would cease to exist.
The good news is, that includes Waylon. Which means I won’t be tempted to try and fail at seducing him. Hell, he will be lucky if I talk to him without calling him an asshole every five minutes.
I checkthe clock as I pull into the driveway and see that I’m right. As predicted, it’s almost exactly twenty-four hours later, and I’m dying right here in the driver’s seat of my little black Toyota. But let’s call it what it is. A hearse. Carrying my body to its final resting place.
A groan escapes me as I rock myself out of my car. I’m hunched over when I step inside, which Tater doesn’t mind because he seems to think I’m bent over to pet him. I mean, I am petting him, so I can see why he’d thinkthat.
“Are you okay?” Waylon asks, tilting his head at me. He’s standing at the counter, pouring something into a glass.
“No, there’s a freaking dragon in my uterus.” I slump into the chair closest to me at the edge of the living room. This chair is not ideal for it, but I manage to contort into a ball and pull my knees to my chest.
“Jesus, is there anything I can do?” Waylon rushes over and kneels next to me. He seems genuinely concerned, and I would think that was sweet if I didn’t want him to shut up so bad.
“I just need to not move. Or breathe. Or exist. Just for like a couple of minutes.” My eyes flutter shut as what feels like a white-hot branding iron is being shoved into my vagina.
“Should I get you some ibuprofen?” he asks as I groan again. “Or maybe some weed?” The next groan melts into a whimper. “Maybe both.”
“Both would be good.” I’m trying my best not to be mean to him. He seems to want to help, so maybe if I let him, he won’t talk as much. “If I can make it to the bathtub, a nice hot soak will help too. I just need a minute.”
Waylon stands, looking down at me. Then he looks down the hallway.
“Uh, okay, I’ll be right back,” he says, disappearing out of my line of sight.
I press my hands flat against the lower part of my stomach. I’m convinced I’m literally holding everything in at this point.
Waylon returns next to me. “Here, put your arm around my neck.” He slides his arms under my back and behind myknees. I don’t even have the strength to argue with him. He presses my body to his as he lifts me out of the chair, one arm draped around his neck and shoulders as instructed. He’s so warm. His skin feels like he was just laying out in the sun. He also smells fantastic—a hint of warm vanilla mixed with something woodsy, smoky even.
His foot pushes open my bedroom door, and I hear the water running in the bathroom. He started my bath for me? Ugh, I could kiss him for that.
Waylon sits me down on the side of the tub. He’s added bubbles to the water and salts as well, from the looks of the open container on the counter.
“Can you turn off the overhead light?” I ask. There’s enough natural light that comes in through the small window above the tub that I hardly ever use the big light. There’s no need for it.
He steps away, flips the light off, then returns to place a steadying hand on my back. I’m having a difficult time even getting my shoes off because of the pain.
“Do you need help?” he asks.
