Page 10 of Best Man on Campus

“You win, Jazzy. I wanted you, god help me, I did. But you saved us both from a lot of hell, didn’t you?” He gives me a sad smile and reaches for the door handle, turns it, and pulls the door open. He steps on the threshold and a well of fucking despair rises up in me, forcing its way through my anger and I yell.

“Don’t you dare fucking go. Do you always give up so easy? What kind of shit-head are you?”

He turns to me, surprise on his face, then something more. What I see makes me take a step back. Compassion. Fuck.

“I’m the kind of shit-head who ought to walk away, ought to know better than to stay the night with you. Ought to look into getting a lobotomy if I do. But this night isn’t about fun anymore, is it?” Then he steps back inside and closes the door behind him. And locks it. I gulp, wondering if he’s the crazy one and I ought to be afraid. Not of anything physical, not of him doing harm to me, but of him uncovering all my demons and letting them run free to destroy us both.

I don’t answer him. The fucker can see through me so what’s the point? The point is to have him, give him something to remember me by.

“How’s your hand?” he asks.

Lifting the bandaged appendage, I look at it and my gut quickly regrets the memory it brings back in a roiling protest.

“It’s like nothing ever happened except some amateur doctor wannabe went wild with bandages to make me feel like a cripple.”

He smiles. It’s a beautiful smile, eyes sparkling, crinkling at the corners, mouth curved exactly enough to make my pussy swell. And then there are his dimples. If I were a less disillusioned girl, I’d be more impressed, even enthralled. As it is, I reflexively snort.

“You look like a she-devil not above using your bandaged hand as a weapon.”

Trying not to smile, I valiantly roll my eyes and pull myself away from his stare, those eyes that see too much, refusing to feel any small comfort from being understood.

“Have a drink.” I wave him to follow me to my tiny kitchen area. If there’s one thing Majik taught me, it’s about cooking and the power of food. Drink is a close second, but she frowns on that. Not that I’m a drinker, but I keep a bottle of good tequila as a secret rebellion. Maybe as an homage to my uncle Killian. Or my not-uncle.

Pulling open the freezer drawer to the oversize refrigerator, I yank the bottle of Patron silver from the depths and bite down on the pain in my hand. The pain in my soul is another matter as I try to banish the thought of Killian. Bad time to sink into that rabbit hole of hell.

“You have some slick appliances for a tiny kitchen in a down-market apartment complex.” He comes up behind me with his snooty comment, though he’s right.

“Down-market? That your way of saying I live in a shit-hole?”

He shrugs, undaunted by my normally daunting surliness, and I don’t know if I’m impressed, if I like it, or if he’s pissing me off. My emotions are all over the place and I don’t like that, but my pussy is all juicy over him. So why am I keeping him here? I’ve been excited before by better specimens than him.

But they weren’t unicorns.

I don’t fucking believe in unicorns. Not even Dr. Ben the hockey player with killer dimples and all-knowing eyes. Especially his eyes. And whatever it is in him that wants to reach out to me, I can feel it. He moves closer.

“No,” he says in a low, vibrating voice, right behind me, almost touching, but not. “I would just say you have some slick appliances for a tiny kitchen in a shit-hole apartment complex if that’s what I meant. But this isn’t a shit-hole. I’ve seen shit-holes. You keep it nice and this kitchen…” Moving past me, he runs a hand along the shiny stainless stove. It’s a Wolfe range, a gift from Majik. She knows I’ll cook out of guilt because she spent her hard-earned money on me. The apartment came with the refrigerator, the landlord explaining he got a deal from his brother-in-law. The dishwasher I paid for because the one it came with didn’t work and no way am I doing dishes.

It was money well spent. Money I had in an account, the meager remains from my gram’s so-called estate, her life insurance. Killian never touched it. That must prove something. That he wasn’t all bad.

“Hey, what is it, Jazzy?” He touches a hand to my shoulder, a feather-light touch of calm, but I flinch and spin around to face him, holding the bottle of tequila between us. Light touches are the most devastating kind.

“You want it straight from the bottle or should I pour a couple of shots?”

He watches me, considering his answer, but I wait him out. I don’t know what I want him to stay for, but it’s not for some psychological examination or therapy. And it’s not for his promised magical mutual multiple orgasms. I squeeze my soul shut.

“Glasses,” he says and I get busy pouring.

“You didn’t answer my question. About the kitchen.” He takes the old-fashioned glass half full of the potent tequila. I hope he swills it down and loses some of his edge. Me? The edge is permanent. No amount of tequila or life from here on will weather me down to softer, rounded sensibilities.

“Chug that down and I’ll tell you.”

He clinks my glass as we lean against the refrigerator and then we both take long gulps to empty our glasses. He’s neat and calm, no sputtering or coughing or even watery eyes. I struggle to maintain the same cool as my throat burns. I don’t drink often enough to be used to it and I wonder if he does.

“Spill it,” he says. “What’s the secret of your deluxe kitchen in an otherwise economical apartment?”

I laugh. “Economical—good one.” I stall because I know once I tell him, he’ll look at me differently. But what the hell? Do I care how he looks at me? This night is a one-off affair. Same as it always is and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Except for Majik. When she finds out she’ll be pissed.

So fucking what? Let her be pissed. Let the fucking world go to hell.