Page 27 of Dash

“A dick head guy who thought consent was optional and being tactile means groping.”

She looks wrecked. “Dayna. Fuck. You can’t keep putting yourself in these situations.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “Anyway, I was a little obnoxious after he saved me.”

“You like him.”

I do. And I hate that she sees that so easily. “I barely know him.” Deflect. Deny. Move on.

“You knew him enough to fuck him in a strip club, babe.”

Shame crawls over my skin. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Hey, no shame here. I don’t care who you fuck where or when. I care more why you feel you need to do it.”

Yeah, we’re not getting into that mess. “There’s not enough time for that can of issues to be opened.”

She snorts, sipping her coffee. “Fair. So, why does he hate you?”

“Because I told him he had a hero complex.” I groan, throwing my head back.

She cringes. “Oh, Dayna. You literally castrated the man without using a single blade. If that was your intention, great job.”

My stomach twists itself into a knot. There is an ugly feeling growing inside me that I don’t like. And it goes far deeper than self-hatred and loathing. It’s guilt. I hurt him, and somehow that feels worse than any punishment I’ve ever given myself.

“So I have ruined things?”

She stares at me for a beat, and I hate the way she’s peeling me open and seeing all the parts of me that I try to hide. “You do like him. I was kind of joking before, but I wasn’t wrong, was I?”

I open my mouth to deny it, but I let myself be vulnerable for just a second, just a beat. “Yeah. I like him. And that’s the problem.”

“I’m gonna need you to tell me everything that happened and then we are going to figure out a way to fix it.”

My heart soars. Even as fucked-up as I am, I have her and I have Ivy in my corner and that counts for something.

So, even though I don’t think there is a chance of putting things right, I tell her all of it.

From the way he stood between me and Mr. Grabby Hands, to how he carried me into the building and got pissy about mydoor lock. She listens, and when I’m done, she slides her mug onto the coffee table and sinks back into the cushions.

“Oh, babe, that man is in so deep he’s going to need a crane to lift him out of the hole he’s in.”

She’s crazy. “He looked at me like I was a naughty puppy. There was no deep. There was just a man at the end of his rope.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

I roll my eyes. “So how do I fix it? I don’t want him to hurt.”

Her eyes soften and that’s worse than anything she could say to me. She thinks this is cute.

“All’s not lost. This is salvageable, but you need to act quickly to keep him interested.”

I almost flinch at that word. I’ve never wanted to keep a single person in the world interested before.

But I want that with him.

And that’s scary.

“First of all,” she continues, oblivious to the way my thoughts are self-destructing. “Stop self-sabotaging. The man is lighting radioactive beacons saying he likes you. Believe him.”

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