Ignoring him, I tipped my head at the sky.
Shut up, dude. Even the moon is jealous of the stars. And you, Starless Sky, have no stars. I bet that makes you jealous of everyone.
When I lowered my head, Nash still studied me, so I watched him back, daring him to break the silence. Secretly thrilled at the feeling of his eyes on me.
I had no intention of kissing Nash tonight, but if I had to explain it, I’d chalk it up to the look in his eyes when he told me about the starless night in Singapore.
Nash reminded me of a favorite song. One you play so often you think you can't stand anymore. But in the silence, when the world is quiet and your brain is pliant, the chords repeat in your mind, and you remember it’s your favorite melody.
I broke first, dipping my eyes until he followed suit, much slower than I had. We stood a foot apart, neither of us talking as we stared at our phones. He was probably playing Candy Crush, but I opened the Eastridge United app to check if Ben was on. I squashed a smile at the sight of the green dot.
Durga: How was your night?
Benkinersophobia: Satisfying. Until it wasn’t. Yours?
Durga: Satisfying. Until it wasn’t.
Flicking a glance at Nash, I angled my screen away from him. I didn’t need the headache of him catching me on his app and accusing me of whatever shitty things he thought I’d done. Cryptic comments my pride didn’t allow me to ask about.
Durga: Tell me something ugly.
Benkinersophobia: My heart.
Durga: That’s not true.
Durga: If your heart is ugly, what is mine? What am I?
Ben didn’t reply for a minute. I slanted a glance at Nash. Brows furrowed, he typed something fast. My head fell again before he could catch me staring.
Benkinersophobia: You are a fantasy, a goddess, a heroine, a dream. Those have happy endings.
Durga: And what are you?
Benkinersophobia: I am Sisyphus, a treacherous sea that will drown you.
A car honked twice. Dragging my attention from the screen, I caught the telltale Uber sticker before approaching. Nash opened the back door for me, which I ignored. I slid into the passenger side.
Gifting me a scowl, Nash tapped the window, indicating I lower it. I didn’t, but the driver listened. The frosty air bit my skin as the car’s heater seeped outside. Nash made a show of pulling out his phone, taking a picture of the driver, then photographing his license.
“Derrick Atterberry, of 8143 Adair Lane, I have your face, your driver’s license, your name, your address, and your license plate number.” Nash’s forearms rested on the open window frame, his hands dangerously close to touching me. “Nod your head if you’re following me.”
Derrick’s throat bobbed. He nodded his head like the Usain Bolt bobblehead on his dash.
Nash held up his phone. “I also have the numbers of every important politician along this coast, including the president; an ability to lie my way into and out of any situation; an ethical code that sits somewhere between Jordan Belfort snorting cocaine off his mistress’ asscheeks and using toddlers as test subjects for torture à la MK-Ultra; and a strong repertoire for vengeance, including but not limited to one-starring your ass on Uber.” He paused. “Did I tell you to stop nodding your head?”
Derrick cleared his throat and swiped the sweat off his forehead. “No.”
“Are you not following?”
“No. I mean, yes.” His fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I mean, I’m following.”
“Then nod your fucking head.”
Derrick nodded his head. He didn’t stop, even when Nash continued.
“Get her home safe, wait until her fucking front door closes, and I’ll spare you the receiving end of a wrath you’ve never known and are unequipped to survive.” He reached into my wallet and tossed three hundreds at the driver. “Do whatever she says,” he slid three more hundreds into the inner pocket of his suit jacket I wore, brushing against my hard nipple, “and she’ll give you the rest.”
My heart still hiccupped as we left Nash behind, skipping a beat every few seconds. The side mirrors showed him watching the car until we left his line of sight. I should have assured the poor driver Nash hadn’t meant any of that, but A—I think he did and B—I remembered what Nash once said about not kissing.
I brought my fingers to my lips, grazing them. I couldn't get my mind off his lips on mine. Worse—not knowing why he’d done it would drive me crazy.
“Can you mark the ride as finished on the app, then take me back to the hotel?” I asked when the driver arrived at the random house address I’d chosen.
“Uhh…”
Furrowed brows hovered over his eyes. They peeped at the three hundred-dollar bills littered across the center console. He hadn’t picked them up. His hands had shaken too much on the drive here. They still plastered to the steering wheel. Positioned ten and two like a Boy Scout, even with the brakes on.
I reached into my jean pockets for the money. My hand brushed against the note Nash had given me at the soup kitchen before I remembered he’d placed the money inside the jacket pocket. I pulled out the note and retrieved the hundreds from the inner pocket.
Waving the bills, I offered the most innocent expression I could muster. “I’ll give you these regardless, but he did say to do whatever I tell you. Please?”
On the drive back, I pressed the car light on and read the note, hunching my shoulders to cradle it with my body.
If you think about it, the concept of a photograph is fucking mind-blowing. A moment in time. Captured. Preserved. Forever. I shouldn’t have torn your Polaroid of Reed.
Nash
Nash’s version of an apology.
I shut the light off, folded the note as carefully as I could, and peered out the window at the sky.
Not bad, Starless Night. Not bad.
I existed in a state of permanent irritation any asshole with a brain could diagnose as blue balls, because I couldn’t fuck the two people I wanted to fuck. One was a faceless username, and the other drove me so crazy, I didn’t fully understand why I wanted her.
I just knew I did.
Admitting it felt like holding my arm up to a dog and asking it to bite me. (An actual dog, like a Belgian Malinois or a Rottweiler, not a Rosco. Rosco’s teeth would probably fall off if he tried to bite me, and then he’d be hairless and toothless.)
Unlike the dumb-fucks that enjoyed teeth play, my masochistic tendencies didn’t include physical pain.
And it fucking pained me to admit I’d kiss Emery again.
Repeatedly.
For days.
Jesus, are those teeth I’m feeling?
Delilah lapped up the sight of construction workers from her desk. They left the kitchen a goddamn pigsty. Loud drills reverberated to my side of the penthouse. Randell carried in a section of the countertop with ease, whereas his son Bud knocked the cabinet door cradled in his arms into everything.
Delilah: You should have hired Chip and Joanna Gaines.