Page 25 of Off the Grid

Isn’t it just like me to find the only man who made my body feverish . . . yet I was the butt of his jerkish, testosterone-laced joke?

Screw him.

I think the words while shrugging away the sting with the intent of exiting the bathroom, making an excuse to my friends that I don’t feel well, and heading back to the hotel.

But the minute I step back into the bar, his table’s laughter hits my ears and eggs me on, my sensible plans now forgotten.

Rather, they’ve been replaced by the desire to embarrass him in front of his friends. To take a bit of my dignity back. To let him know that I know.

So many times I walk away from situations and think of what I should have said. Not tonight. Not this time. I’m going to say it now.

With the card in hand, I stalk over to where the jerk is busy basking in his victory.

“Excuse me,” I say as I step up to the table. My voice has the five of them whipping their heads up and their voices falling silent. My smile is smarmy at best when I angle it at the nameless jerk. “I think you forgot something.”

I slap the card down on the center of the table, the atmosphere turning icily silent as they realize I know their juvenile game.

“Look, love—”

“Save it.” I hold up my hand to stop him from speaking. “No need to explain to me why grown men think shit like this is funny, just like there’s no need for me to tell all your friends that your game is pitifully weak and your kissing skills are subpar.” Shock flashes through his eyes. “But hey, we all can’t be good at everything, right?” I say with a shrug and a fuck you smile. “Lose my number.”

There’s a round of nervous chuckles as if they’re not sure if they can react or if they should.

“I’d tell you to enjoy the rest of your night, but I’d be lying. Cheers.” I turn on my heel and don’t make it ten feet from the table before I hear his voice.

“Hey. Wait.”

I feel his hand on my bicep.

It takes everything I have not to yank my arm out of his grasp. Instead, I grit my teeth and calmly turn around with my eyebrows raised and a glance down to where he’s touching me.

“Nah. I’m good. You can kindly take your hand off me. Pity fucks aren’t my thing.”

“Hey, come on now,” he says as he glances over his shoulder at his friends and then back to me—almost as if he’s afraid of them hearing him. “The card was . . . real—at first—but then I ran into you and—”

“And saw a woman least likely to be hit on. Way to boost your ego while hurting mine. Class fucking act.”

“It was a bloody game.”

“I know. And that says so much more about you than it ever could say about me.” I look at him. The shame turning to astonishment. The hurt morphing into anger. “I don’t want your apologies. They’re not accepted.” I take a step back. “I’d say it was nice knowing you . . . but it wasn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have kissed you a second time if the card were true,” he blurts out.

“I wouldn’t have kissed you at all if I knew about the card.” I retreat another step. “Feel better now? Your guilt absolved? You can go back to feeling like the good guy you aren’t.”

“Look. I said I was sorry.”

“Was that on a dare card too? To apologize to some unsuspecting woman who—”

“I don’t even know your name,” he says as if I’d tell him.

“Lucky for me.” I glance over his shoulder to where his friends are trying to pretend they aren’t paying attention. “The rest of your asshole pack are waiting for you. Best not keep them waiting.”

This time when I walk away, I don’t look back. And if he starts to follow me, I’m none the worse for wear for not knowing.

Good to know what I told my friends earlier was on point. Men aren’t fucking worth it.

They’re just not.