Page 102 of Resist

I’ll always be the asshole, and you’ll always be the whore, and that’s all you’ll ever see.

I dial her cell again, and it goes straight to voice mail.

Goddammit, Vaughn.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Vaughn

I look like a prostitute.

At least I feel like what I think one would look like.

I’m still in last night’s clothes after doing a half-assed job of trying to remove my makeup with hand soap and water, my teeth brushed with my finger and toothpaste, and my eyes puffy and bloodshot from all of the crying last night. The late-morning commuters rushing in and out of Starbucks tell me my assumption is right by their sideways glances and the raised eyebrows they give each other. A few teenagers, late for class, snicker. A couple of mothers pull their children closer or move them to the opposite side as we wait in line.

But I don’t care.

Sure, I got to wake up with Lucy and get her off to school, but that doesn’t erase the devastation of last night. Of not being there for her and of reeling from whatever it is that happened with Ryker.

Because what it is that happened, I’m still not sure.

I know I’m a hypocrite for justifying taking from women who are paid to have sex, then freaking out when a man tries to pay me for it.

And I know I need a bit of distance from Ryker to clear my head. This all happened too quick and under abnormal circumstances, and I just need to take a step back from it all.

I need to focus on Lucy.

I need to focus on growing my business.

I need to forget about Ryker for a while to make the first two happen.

That’s a lot of needs for a woman who usually doesn’t need anything.

As subtly as possible, I shove away the tears that leak out as I stand there feeling lost in the middle of Starbucks, coffee in hand, and wondering what I’m supposed to do now.

I’ve never felt this way before when it comes to a man, and I sure as hell hate every second of it.

When I look up, I’m surprised to see my bartender from Apropos, Ahmed, rising from his seat in the corner, motioning for me to come sit with him. “Vaughn? You okay?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I mutter, wanting to be alone, knowing he sees the uniform and is making assumptions, but my feet move his way without consent.

“Come sit with me for a second.” I meet his eyes for the first time and bristle at the overwhelming amount of compassion in them. He waits until I’ve sat down and had a sip before continuing. “Late night?”

“Something like that.” I lift my eyebrows at him. “Early morning? Didn’t you close last night?”

His smile is soft. “Maybe I never went to bed.”

“Ah. She was that good, huh?”

“Mmm. She was.”

His cheeks flush unexpectedly, his eyes avert down to the cup in his hand, and as much as small talk is low on my list of priorities right now, I’ll suffer through so long as the conversation stays on him.

“She from the bar? A customer?”

He smiles and shakes his head subtly. “Contrary to public opinion, the barflies only occupy a portion of my time. The rest of the time it’s Sarah Kay and Kate Tempest and Aja Monet.” My wide eyes give him a clue that I have no idea who these women are. “Slam poets, Vaughn. There was a huge reading last night in Harlem, and I’m . . .” He shrugs and just leans back, smile widening.

The slam-poet thing takes me by surprise—he’s the last person I’d ever think would be into poetry—but there’s so much inspiration lighting up his features that it’s obvious this is his thing.