“Did you get what you need?” Deacon asks.
I guess I did.
Twisting the hair tie around my wrist, I struggle to come to terms with the realization that race matters to Dominique Price.
Whatever he thinks or however he feels about me and if I’m happily ever after material or not should make no difference to me. Not when I’ve said again and again that this is sex. Nothing more. And nothing less.
So why is this new knowledge tearing a hole in my chest, eviscerating my heart, and leaving behind a gaping wound of realization that we will never be anything more than fuck buddies.
“I’m sorry.” Sympathy weighs heavy in his voice. “I didn’t tell you this to hurt you.”
“You didn’t.” I force the brittle words past my lips and give him a self deprecating smile before taking in a deep breath and squaring my shoulders.
None of this can touch me unless I allow it to.
“Dominique will marry some respectable black woman one day and live happily ever after. The end. I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
Deacon’s expression softens, and he leans forward, tracing the line of my jaw with his calloused thumb.
“More lies.” His tone is laced with resignation. “But I get it. You don’t trust me,” he says the words casually, giving nothing of his thoughts away.
I get the feeling he wants me to deny his statement. To assure him that I do trust him. Only, I don’t. Deacon hasn’t been in my life long enough for us to develop that level of trust.
“Sorry.” My mouth twists into a grimace. “I should have believed you but I needed Monique to confirm it.” Lifting both shoulders, I shrug. What more is there to say?
Picking at a stray piece of lint on my pants, I worry my lower lip and wait to see what he says but when the room remains quiet save for the sound of our breaths, I decide to circle back to where our conversation started now that he’s made his point.
“You asked your question and I answered. But you’ve still yet to answer mine.”
“Fair enough.” Deacon drops his hand from my face. “Let’s make a deal. I show you my hand. You show me yours. Agreed?” He gives me an expectant look.
“Didn’t I already show you mine?” I ask.
He quirks a brow, the glint in his eyes mocking.
“No. Unless you’re admitting now to sleeping with Price.
Whatever.
Rolling my eyes I fold my arms over my chest and level Deacon with an exasperated glare.
My irritation bounces off of him like a taut rubber band leaving him wholly unfazed.
“Remind me what it is I get out of doing this?”
The corners of his mouth twist into a wry grin, and some of the usually carefree expression I’ve come to associate with him bleeds back into his gaze.
“I want to be your friend—“ I open my mouth to remind him we are friends, but Deacon doesn’t pause long enough for me to get a word in. “A real friend. The kind you confide in. Can rely on. The type of friend that is more family than friend. I don’t have that with anyone else, and I want it with you.”
“Platonic friends?” I ask.
We have to be on the same page here. Deacon is attractive, don’t get me wrong. And there are plenty of girls on campus who consider him the catch of a lifetime, but I’m not interested in him romantically and I won’t lead him on.
Regret flashes over his face before he’s able to mask it.
Squirming in my seat, I try and fail to ignore the spear of discomfort that worms inside me at that momentary display of emotion.
With a small smile that doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes, Deacon inclines his head and with a dejected voice says, “If that’s what you want, then yes. Strictly platonic.”
