wiping the corners of her mouth, I realize that the events that just transpired are absolute proof that everything Lexie said is true. I’m all about “me, me, me.” After all, receiving sexual favors from a woman while thinking about another, calling the other woman’s name as you climax even though you can’t remember the name of the one actually doing all the work, are near the definition of the word selfish.
She runs her hand over my bicep, but I don’t want this woman touching me. I don’t want her anywhere near me, so I shake her hand off. I don’t need to see the hurt in her face to know that I just reached stratosphere level of ass-holishness. I rub my hands across my face, trying to dissipate some of the frustration I’m feeling, but it doesn’t do shit.
“Wasn’t it good?” she asks.
The question breaks me. Despite her daddy issues and apparent lack of self-respect, there’s no question that she deserves better than me.
I give her the first honest smile of the night and run a hand across her cheek, trying my best to be gentle and less of a douchebag. “It was great. Thank you for that.”
Her smile widens, and that’s a bad sign. I bet she heard me calling Lexie’s name, but even if she doesn’t mind that, I do. I have no idea why, but I do. Stupid motherfucking shit!
“Listen, baby,” I start in a soothing voice, hoping to lessen the blow of my new surge of bastardness. “I had a lot of fun, but I think we better call it a night. I can drive you home if you don’t have a car here, but I’m just really tired.”
Even in the dim light of the car, I can see her face turning red, and her grin turning into a small, forced smile. “That’s okay, I’ve got a car.” She looks outside the window, takes a deep breath, and then looks back at me. “Well, thank you for the drinks and the company. I had fun.”
I smile at her. “It was my pleasure.”
She giggles and the sound, like her previous smile, is forced. “I was gonna ask if you’d like my number, but I think the answer to that is pretty clear, right?”
There’s no air in the car. Actually, I don’t think there’s enough air in the entire planet to fill my lungs. How is it possible that a waitress and a bar slut could both make me eat shit and feel like it in the span of one night? I have no idea what bizarre world this is, but I want out.
I know she wants me to say that she’s wrong, that I’m just tired and I do, in fact, want her number. However, about thirty seconds ago, I decided to try and stop being a douchebag. For good. Living like one is fun when you’re not aware of your condition. Once you are . . . not so much. I decide to do the right thing, which in this case means going back to being an ass.
I take a deep breath and say, “I’m sorry, but yeah. We both know I’m not going to call you.” Her expression hardens, but her eyes reveal another emotion: hurt. And I hate every second of it. So I add, “Even though you’re great. It’s not you . . .” I never get to finish that, because she flips me off, opens the door, steps out and slams it shut.
My eyes follow her as she walks to an old, beat up Honda. She kicks the wheels, turns towards Greta, flips me off again and gets inside the car. The sound of her screeching tires as she drives away echoes in my mind until I can no longer see the taillights of her car.
Lexie’s voice returns to my head, filling my mind with those infernal words. I try to shut her up at all costs, but the more I try, the louder she gets. To make matters worse, the radio guy announces a song called “I See You” by a dude named Luke Bryan. As soon as it starts playing, I realize that it’s the perfect recap of my night. Therefore, I hate it. Angry at the radio—again—and at myself—again—and at Lexie—again—I punch the steering wheel, and turn stereo off. “Get out of my head!”
For some reason—probably whiskey related— she finally shuts up, leaving me alone
She runs her hand over my bicep, but I don’t want this woman touching me. I don’t want her anywhere near me, so I shake her hand off. I don’t need to see the hurt in her face to know that I just reached stratosphere level of ass-holishness. I rub my hands across my face, trying to dissipate some of the frustration I’m feeling, but it doesn’t do shit.
“Wasn’t it good?” she asks.
The question breaks me. Despite her daddy issues and apparent lack of self-respect, there’s no question that she deserves better than me.
I give her the first honest smile of the night and run a hand across her cheek, trying my best to be gentle and less of a douchebag. “It was great. Thank you for that.”
Her smile widens, and that’s a bad sign. I bet she heard me calling Lexie’s name, but even if she doesn’t mind that, I do. I have no idea why, but I do. Stupid motherfucking shit!
“Listen, baby,” I start in a soothing voice, hoping to lessen the blow of my new surge of bastardness. “I had a lot of fun, but I think we better call it a night. I can drive you home if you don’t have a car here, but I’m just really tired.”
Even in the dim light of the car, I can see her face turning red, and her grin turning into a small, forced smile. “That’s okay, I’ve got a car.” She looks outside the window, takes a deep breath, and then looks back at me. “Well, thank you for the drinks and the company. I had fun.”
I smile at her. “It was my pleasure.”
She giggles and the sound, like her previous smile, is forced. “I was gonna ask if you’d like my number, but I think the answer to that is pretty clear, right?”
There’s no air in the car. Actually, I don’t think there’s enough air in the entire planet to fill my lungs. How is it possible that a waitress and a bar slut could both make me eat shit and feel like it in the span of one night? I have no idea what bizarre world this is, but I want out.
I know she wants me to say that she’s wrong, that I’m just tired and I do, in fact, want her number. However, about thirty seconds ago, I decided to try and stop being a douchebag. For good. Living like one is fun when you’re not aware of your condition. Once you are . . . not so much. I decide to do the right thing, which in this case means going back to being an ass.
I take a deep breath and say, “I’m sorry, but yeah. We both know I’m not going to call you.” Her expression hardens, but her eyes reveal another emotion: hurt. And I hate every second of it. So I add, “Even though you’re great. It’s not you . . .” I never get to finish that, because she flips me off, opens the door, steps out and slams it shut.
My eyes follow her as she walks to an old, beat up Honda. She kicks the wheels, turns towards Greta, flips me off again and gets inside the car. The sound of her screeching tires as she drives away echoes in my mind until I can no longer see the taillights of her car.
Lexie’s voice returns to my head, filling my mind with those infernal words. I try to shut her up at all costs, but the more I try, the louder she gets. To make matters worse, the radio guy announces a song called “I See You” by a dude named Luke Bryan. As soon as it starts playing, I realize that it’s the perfect recap of my night. Therefore, I hate it. Angry at the radio—again—and at myself—again—and at Lexie—again—I punch the steering wheel, and turn stereo off. “Get out of my head!”
For some reason—probably whiskey related— she finally shuts up, leaving me alone