Page 25 of Left In The Dark

It’s what I deserve, I guess. An unfulfilled, lonely‑ass life where being ogled and adored for five minutes is no longer enough. Sure, Hayden won’t stop coming onto me and asking me for more, but he also . . . I don’t know . . . wants me too much. Always coming on too strong and overselling it. He’s also a very selfish lover, and I don’t care to be constantly left unsatisfied with another person when I can achieve that all by myself.

Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to Logan. Something tells me I wouldn’t be left without when it comes to him. It’s all in the way he makes me feel without having to touch me. How his words leave me in a chokehold whenever he sets me at a distance and makes me work for it. I want to prove myself to him so badly, but I also want to sit back and wait to see what being patient will bring me. What he’ll bring me.

What the fuck. Why is my head such a mess with this guy? No one leaves me this flustered and confused. No one but him. Has he been this way this whole time? Or is this the result of growing up? Damn did he get sexy, too. Taller, with more muscles, and that dark hair is doing him so many favors. The scruff on his face too. It was hard not to lean forward and rub my face over it, and I can’t stop wondering what it would feel like rubbing over the inside of my thighs.

My gut twists in double knots when I think about how he dismissed me at the gas station and grocery store. That’s another thing. My charms and flirty advances don’t work on him, leaving him this huge mystery I want to figure out. No one has ever not wanted me before. No one has ever told me no. I fucking hate it. But I also can’t stop going back for more. It’s crazy, but I’ve enjoyed those moments where he’s put energy into making me feel like nothing and forced me to earn his “hi.” Someone he wants, waiting to be used. These are all reserved for me and me alone. No one else gets this treatment, and in some twisted way it makes me feel more special than I have in a long time.

In high school I looked down on him because it was what I was supposed to do. What others expected of me and what I thought I needed to do to remain relevant. But when I came home I realized none of that shit mattered. Look where Hayden and all the others ended up. Dead-end jobs and living in their parents’ spare rooms or basements. I’m following right behind them too, with prospects I’m not sure I can fully rely on.

Logan came back because his help was needed, not the other way around. What he’s doing with his life is admirable, when I just feel like I’m going in circles with all this decision making growing heavy on me. I’ve been figuring out shit on my own for a long time but doing it as an adult is different.

“You leaving or just gonna stand there?”

“Yeah . . . was uh trying to decide where to go first.”

“Can’t you decide that outside? Your loud thinking is distracting,” she teases.

I laugh, grabbing my keys off the hook by the door. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, that sounds like a big night. Don’t do what I wouldn’t do . . . or something along those lines.” She straightens her glasses, pressing her lips into a smirk.

“Yeah, except if I went by that, I’d be going to the damn library with you.”

“Yeah, you’re right, that would be really weird and make me worry you’d been abducted by aliens. Have fun and do all the Blake things, but pace yourself.”

Tossing my head back, I laugh and exit the house. The dark night falls over me as my gaze wanders up and down the street. Everyone else’s porch lights are off, and I can see more stars than usual. I look up at the sky and I almost feel like I’m floating up there with them. Or maybe that’s more of a wishful thought. At least I’d feel like I had a purpose. Like I was doing something others found useful such as lighting up the world at night.

I’d also be far away from my dad’s cruel words and disappointed looks. Being the main joke at the dinner table is getting tiring. As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t have shit figured out like I pretend I do. Modeling is so competitive, and it turns out that being good looking enough to be in over twenty year‑book pictures in my senior year didn’t mean jack shit when it came to my career.

I get into my car and away from the cold, turning on the heat before reversing out of the driveway. The first place I go to is a dead end, but I stay an hour to make sure, watching the front door as I turn at least three different guys away who struggle to hold my interest for long. They’re all the same with similar lines, just telling me what I want to hear. Growing bored with my current conversation, with the redhead who insisted on buying me a drink before I left, I chug the remaining liquid and walk toward the exit without saying another word.

Leaving the only bar I know of, I drive to a pub that’s a little further away, and have zero luck there too. But as I’m about to call it a night, there are mentions of a party happening not far from my house. I pretend to be busy on my phone and wait until they leave before following suit.

I drive slowly behind them, taking a back road when I feel worried they might think I’m a stalker. I worry too much about shit like that. What people think of me. Always treading carefully everywhere I go, caring too much. It’s another heavy weight on my shoulders. Trying too hard and putting on an act, along with making sure I’m never vulnerable or showing any weaknesses.

It’s exhausting. I’m struggling to keep up with who I’m supposed to be and what I should be doing. The next street I turn onto has a line of cars on both sides. Crowds of people are walking toward the same house. Balloons are streaming all over the mailbox and porch. So much pink everywhere. There’s not a single person I recognize, which is weird for such a small town. They must not all be from here but have come in from the city. Happens from time to time, and for once I’m not in the mood to entertain newcomers.

Why am I here again? It’s not too late to go back. I stop my car in the middle of the street, taking in a deep breath as I look for somewhere to turn around. That’s when I see him. Standing tall against a red car and laughing. He looks so carefree and happy. Nothing like when he’s been with me. Something had held him back.

A loud honk behind me has me driving forward, and I find an empty spot to park in, sitting in the car for what feels like forever. I watch him some more—how he acts with his friends—and when I spot that bitch from the grocery store, I grit my teeth. Is he into her? Why do I care?

I slam my hands against the wheel, closing my eyes. I only want to have my way with him. That’s all. He’s some conquest for me like the others, and once I prove I can get whatever I want no matter how long it takes, I’ll lose interest. A nudge in my gut says otherwise, though. Almost painful. He’ll fuck me and prove he’s no different than anyone else. Yes, and then I’ll be free of all this confusion and weird obsession.

He was right when he said I thought of him as being beneath me—a loser who’d be lucky to have someone like me so much as look his way. Yet here I am following him, stepping out of my car and walking closer to where he is, pleading on the inside.

Say hi to me. Just fucking say hi to me.

His eyes meet mine, and when I stand in front him, forcing a smile, he spits on the sidewalk beside me before brushing past to walk with his friends into the house.

Shoulders slumping, I look down at the ground, unable to describe the dull ache inside. What the fuck is happening to me? How embarrassing. He keeps making me look and feel like a fool. It would all stop if I could just leave him alone, but my mind is more set on getting to the point where he gives me permission to touch him.

Once I get there, I’ll have control. Yeah, that’s what this is. I like having it . . . At least, I’m used to having it with men like him and in situations like this, even though I’m the follow‑the‑leader type at other times.

Or do I want to follow all the time? My pulse pounds in my ears. Can’t be. That’s not it. But what if it is? My hand slaps at my head, but the thoughts refuse to subside and all the what ifs remain.

I want to prove to myself that no one is unattainable, and nothing more. “Nothing more,” I accidentally say out loud, gaining me looks from people passing me by. They laugh, approaching the house, and my gaze follows them to the door before I finally move my feet in that direction.

Music is booming in every direction, and Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club” is playing, as people crowd around me with drinks in their hands, dancing and laughing with friends. Walking further through the living room, I get shoved by a girl not paying attention and beer splashes onto me. Ignoring the apologies and a voice asking me if I’m okay, I search out those dark brown eyes that silently ordered me to go home not long ago.