Page 82 of Worth the Fight

“The truth?” the friend says and laughs. “You’re worse than an old lady, Winters. Quit beating around the bush. What the hell happened?”

“Malone got all fired up because he overheard me talking about his roommate. Shit, I had beer goggles on when she asked me over to her place, and once I got there, I couldn’t fucking follow through. I’m all about getting laid, but even a drunk man has standards, and she . . . dude, you know me. I like ’em petite, and she’s definitely not petite, if you know what I mean.”

My cheeks grow red and heat flushes my entire body as Emerson and Desi give me the dreaded look of sympathy. Every part of me wants to crawl under the table and die from humiliation.

“That’s cruel,” the friend says.

“But it’s the truth,” Wes jokes in a boisterous voice. “So he threw a few punches to defend her honor and then probably went home and gave her a good pity fuck until someone better-looking comes along.”

I lower my eyes and stand slowly.

“Don’t listen to him.”

“He’s a prick,” they both say in unison, but I lift my eyes and meet both of theirs. “It’s okay. Please stay. I’m gonna go.”

And with that, I slink quietly out of the bar, mortification skewing my every thought and self-loathing at an all-time high.

I walk the streets of downtown Sunnyville. Each step another thought I shove away. Each street crossed another attempt to hide the heat of the tears coursing down my cheeks. Each house I pass, a way to evade the mortification that I’m slowly drowning in.

And each foot up Grady’s driveway is another stick prodding my shame to morph into anger and irrationality.

I haven’t thought of what I’m going to say to Grady, but the minute I walk in the door, I freeze. He’s sitting at the barstool bringing a spoonful of Cheerios to his mouth, and it stops mid-motion when he sees me.

“Where’ve you been?”

I know Emerson has called him by now. I know he knows what Wes said. The insults repeated for another person to know my shame.

“Is it true?” Was I just a pity fuck?

“Dylan?” He part laughs, part rejects the question with a shake of his head as he drops his spoon into the bowl.

“Yes. Or. No. That’s all I want to know, Grady.”

“What the ever-loving fuck are you talking about? Is what true?”

“Didn’t Emerson call you? Fill you in?” His blank stare tells me she didn’t, and for that, I owe her one for saving my dignity—or what little is left of it. “Your fight. Wes Winters. How he couldn’t fuck me because I wasn’t pretty enough or skinny enough or some shit like that. Ring a bell?”

Grady runs a hand over his jaw, the chafe of his stubble the only sound filling the room. “He’s an asshole.”

“And you punched him, but then when you came home, you couldn’t tell me who you hit or why you did it. Did you not want me to know? Did you not think I’d find out?”

“You weren’t exactly up front about telling me you two didn’t actually sleep together, either.”

I glare at him. His point is valid if who I did or didn’t sleep with is any of his fucking business. The hurt riots inside as I stare at Grady, so goddamn handsome, and I question myself. How did I think there was actually something between us when right now I feel like it was all started on a ruse? Because knowing I was a pity fuck isn’t exactly the best way to boost my ego.

“Would you have come home that night and slept with me without hearing what Wes said? Or did you walk in so pissed at him for being an asshole that you felt sorry for me? First Jett and then Wes . . . poor Dylan, right? So what? You knew I was self-conscious so you thought you’d step into the role—lower your standards—to help me feel a little better about myself for a week or two. Then make sure I’m gone when an attractive woman comes along to twist up your sheets.”

He stands where he is, angles his head to the side, and just stares at me, eyes pinning me motionless. There is so much conflict in his expression, but it has nothing on how I feel.

“You’re actually questioning me on this?” Anger colors his voice and disbelief weighs on his posture. “You actually think it was that bastard’s bullshit comment that made me want to sleep with you? You really think I’m that weak that I need another man to help determine who I fuck? Glad you think so highly of me, McCoy.” He rounds the counter and stands a few feet from me, his spine stiff, the muscle pulsing in his jaw as he glares at me.

“I know what I heard. I know what you did. And since you haven’t told me a fucking thing, I’ll believe what I assume.”

“Fuck you and your assumptions.”

“Considering you haven’t answered me yet, I guess I can say fuck you too.” I grit the words out as my tears burn paths down my cheeks. “Sorry you slummed it with me for a bit. I’ll make sure to be scarce so you can tune into your regularly scheduled program of beautiful women.”

“You’re wrong, Dylan. So fucking wrong.”