Page 5 of Strictly Pretend

“Probably not,” she concedes.

I give her a half smile. “Why did you throw them in anyway?”

“Because I saw my boyfriend’s white ass thrusting into Mia’s cousin.”

“You should have thrownhisshoes,” I say.

“Yes! I really should have.” She gives me another careful look. “His car is here. I could do something to that instead.”

“Like what?” I’m getting alarmed now. Did I encourage this? Am I going to be an accessory to a crime? And why am I kind of hoping the crime takes place?

“Like key his stupid new paint job. Or bust his tires.”

“Or you could go to bed and worry about it in the morning,” I suggest.

“I can’t go to bed. He’ll be there.”

I don’t point out that he could also not be there. Because I’m not sure what would be worse for her right now.

“So what are you going to do?” I ask.

“Sleep here, I suppose,” she says, sighing as she looks at the moonlit grass. “Then get up at the first light of morning and catch a bus.”

“There aren’t any buses out here.” I don’t know that for sure. But this is Westchester. I don’t think I’ve seen any kind of public transport anywhere near here.

“There are always buses somewhere,” she says, like she has experience in finding them. “You just have to look hard enough.”

She tries to stand up, but her foot gets caught in the hem of her dress, and she falls forward. I catch her before she lands face first in the dirt.

And it’s stupid, because if anybody doesn’t believe in fucking tingles, it’s me. But holding her in my arms does something weird to me. Like I’m holding a firefly. She makes me feel lit up.

“You know the worst thing?” she whispers, like we’re still mid-conversation and she hadn’t just fell into my arms.

“Tell me,” I say, deadpan.

“He’s terrible in bed. Why is it always the bad ones that sleep around?”

“I don’t know.” I brush a lock of hair out of her face. “People are assholes.”

“Are you an asshole?”

“Depends who you’re asking.” And we’ll leave it at that, because there isn’t enough space here for both of us to be angsty.

“Are you good in bed?”

Damn, that whiskey is working fast. I smile at her. “Again, probably depends who you’re asking.”

“Your girlfriend.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Your last girlfriend, then,” she says.

Ouch.

“Not good enough I guess,” I tell her. “Which is why she’s not my current girlfriend.”

“That’s silly,” she whispers, those pretty green eyes capturing mine. “Girls don’t break up with guys over bad sex.”

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