Page 35 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

My emotional response tothatis a total mixed bag. It’s somewhere between a little touched and a lotreally, August?How out-of-touch and sheltered is this guy anyway? Nevertheless, he’s obviously concerned, and it’s clear how disturbed he wasandis by the whole spiked-drink-thing, so I don’t want to give himtoomuch shit about it.

I press my palms together at the level of my chest as I parse through my words. “Listen, August. That wasn’t your fault. It had nothing to do with my outfit. Clothes don’t have anything to do with causing a person to do something like that. You know how I know?”

His features are practically drooping, and he looks like a total sad puppy as he shakes his head.

I draw in a breath to brace myself because Ireallydon’t like talking about this. I don’t talk about this withanyone. I especially don’t want to talk about it with August because we aren’t exactlyclose, but I hate the idea of him feeling guilty about what happened for no reason. “The one time I wasactuallyraped, I was wearing jeans and a Saints sweatshirt. And sneakers. And no make-up. I didn’t look cute or sexy or anything.Clothesare not why people rape people.”

August’s face immediately flushes to about two shades paler, and his eyes widen. “OhGod.Scarlett, I—”

“Okay, don’t…” I wave my hands wildly between our faces. “Don’t dothat. I’m not a fragile flower because of that. I don’t need pity or worry, and I don’t need you looking at me through some kind of damaged damsel filter because I told you that.”

He says nothing and drops his chin low to stare at our feet.

I huff quietly. “Yes, that happened to me, butno, it is not, norhas iteverbeen what defines me. I was victimized by someone once, but I am notavictim. I don’t dwell on it, I try not to eventhinkabout it, and the only reason I’m telling you right now is because you don’t need to feel like you somehow caused that whole almost-rapey thing by making me wear a wanna-be stripper costume.” I give him a light, playful shoulder shove. “Okay?”

With his face still downturned, August rubs his hand over his mouth. When he finally lifts his head, the rims of his eyes are red, andfuuuuck. His obvious compassion and concern are a recipe fordisasterbecause all of my complex-as-fuck feelings about it are suddenly dredged to the surface.

I can feel the sting of impending tears and the maddening precursor to my chin trembling, and I groan. “Stop. Oh myGod. Can wenot?”

His throat pulses with a swallow. “I’m sorry, Scarlett.”

“Doo-oon’t,” I whine even though I know he’s mostly apologizing for the show of emotions he probably can’t control. But I also know part of thatI’m sorryis a genuine and heartfeltI’m sorry that happened to you,and all of this is way out-of-character for our heretofore snarky, spitfire, pissy relationship, and I don’t like it. “Don’t…just don’t…”

“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I’m not doing anything but standing here with you.”

My chin does the full-on tremble, and tears trip out of my eyes, and a sardonic laugh bursts out of me. Desperate for something to rescue myself from this madness with humor, I point at him inanely with both of my index fingers. “I should give you another hand-job so we can get distracted by fighting with each other again.”

One side of his mouth quirks. “I’ll pass.” He opens his arms to me. “But I’ll take a hug if it’ll help you feel better.”

“I feel fine,” I lie, and I remain in place, stifling the tiniest sob. “I wasn’t trying to talk about this. I just didn’t want you to feel like anything was your fault.”

His arms are still open. “I appreciate that. And I’m glad you told me. I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me something like that.”

He’s being sokindright now that I don’t know how to deal with it. And sometimes kindness likethatactuallyhurtsbecause it’s enough to shatter fortified walls that you’ve built around tender, painful things and expose you to the elements. It stings like antiseptic on a cut. It hurts, but you can’t deny that it’s helping.

August and I don’t have this kind of relationship, but he’s still standing there with his arms open. And between the stress of today, the exciting stress of my single releasing tomorrow, and the constant stress of Maw-Maw getting worse all the time, I actually could use a hug. So I walk into his arms, and let him wrap me up tight.

My face is mashed against his chest, and his scent is like a trigger, and maybe I was wrong.

Maybe weareclose.

We’re just close in a really weird, catty, combative kind of way. But right now, all we’ve got between us is kindness, and it does hurt in that strange, foreign way, so I quietly let the tears come. I’m going to need a touch-up after, but that’s okay. This antiseptic stings, but I know it’s helping.

Nevertheless, I can’t stop myself from blurting out against his shirt, “Just because you got me all worked up, it doesn’t mean I’m fragile.”

“If you’re fragile at all…” August rests his chin on my head. “... you’re not fragile like a flower. You’re fragile like a bomb. You’re a force to be reckoned with. After today, the whole world is going to know that. And after tomorrow, the whole world is going to know your name.” He removes his arms from around me to hold my shoulders and force me to look at him. “So make sure whatever you decide to wear shows them exactly who you are, because once they meet you, they’ll never be able to forget you.”

His words are a whole other level of kindness, and for once, I don’t have a snappy, irreverent retort, and we just stand there for a second. A look passes between us that reminds me of that moment during the first night we met, when the rapid haste of fervent sex slowed way,waydown, and we stared at each other. This look is far more wholesome, but it’s similar enough to cause an ache deep in my tummy. I know August barely remembers that night, but right now, I’m wondering if he remembers that moment, because he gives my shoulders a small tug toward him and lowers his face to press his lips to my cheek in a soft kiss.

He lingers there long enough that I have a sudden, aching desire to turn my head and meet his lips with mine. But between his unprecedented kindness, his scent that has triggered me to this even more vulnerable state, the strange realization that we’re actuallyclosein that weird, catty way, that aching desire feels like it’s carving its way deeper inside me than just an undeniable, physicalwantto kiss him or even fuck him again.

This desire is seeping into my veins and needling its way to what feels like my heart and soul, andthatis even more weird.

It feels like Ilike him.

You know…like that.

I can’t likeAugustlike that.

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