Page 55 of Love Sick

I side-eye her. “Let me guess. You’re a Taylor Swift fan?”

Her lips purse. “Her voice is angelic, Julian.”

“A savage woman who favors devil-red lipstick. Why am I not surprised?”

She mutters something under her breath and turns the volume up so we can’t talk anymore. The devil in my head takes control of my thumb and it strays at once to the volume button on the steering wheel.

Don’t do it, Julian. Let her win.

And yet—

Her eyes snap in my direction when the music volume descends to a normal level. Her indignation permeates the cab, and I laugh silently. A swelling sense of success grapples with my arguments that I don’t really like her.

She’s fun to rile. That’s it.

It’s fun because she gets all flustered and hot.

She hates me, right?

If she hated you, she’d be able to take her eyes off you.

I don’t look, but her stare has fingers, grazing seductively down my face and throat. I’m half-hard wondering what she’s thinking.

This is going to be a huge problem.

I call Alesha as soon as I step into my apartment, shaking off the Essence of Rose.

“What the fuck is a cat emergency?” I demand when she answers.

“Simba was acting funny. Then he started hacking everywhere.”

I fall onto my couch. “You left me alone with her, Alesha.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I can’t anymore with you two. She’s not a plague on this earth, Juju. Don’t try to play like you don’t like her.” A loud meow punctuates her tirade.

“I tolerate her for the sake of world peace.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose.

“Oh hell. Now she’s calling me.” Something clangs in the background. “If you’ve hurt her feelings with your weird hate-flirting thing you do, I’ll punch you in the dick. You my boy, but she’s my girl. Get your shit together.”

Hate-flirting?

That’s not what I’m doing.

…Is it?

She hangs up. I groan-sigh at the ceiling, then glance at the two texts waiting on my phone. The first is from Tori. Apparently, Mom is complaining I haven’t called her in seven whole days. I ignore that one. The second is from Maxwell.

Maxwell:You working Saturday?

Me:Yeah, but only during the day.

Maxwell:BrOB-GYN meetup at Asher’s

Me:I’ll be there

We’ve switched from beer to whiskey at Asher’s, and he’s passing around his weed, which is a refreshing diversion. As I relax by the firepit and contemplate how much residency has driven me to escape reality with mind-altering substances, Maxwell plops beside me.

“I think I’m going to sign the contract.”

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