Page 45 of Tomorrow Belongs to Us
“Right?” I shake my head. “Why are men so disgusting?”
“Because they think with their dicks,” replies Arla, wisely.
Preston is the last man I want to see. “You have fun. I want to hear all about it later.” I see myself out. But I no longer contemplate going home because Lance Turner is in my head again.
Maybe Arla has a point. Maybe I should use him the way he used me that night when I was at school?
Arla doesn't know what happened that night when I went to his place and offered myself to him on a plate. I don't blame Lance for what he did. I led him on. I didn't know much about how hard it is for men to hold back. Over the years I've told myself that he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
Maybe it's time I got some sort of closure with the man who's been living in my head rent free these last few weeks.
Chapter 18
LANCE
Lesley wanted me to attend the department drinks evening but I can't stand having to answer the same questions again and again. Months have passed and people still want to know about the shooting. It irritates me. I'm over it. It's in my past; something I would rather forget.
I just want to slouch around, drink a couple of beers, and watch TV. I flick the TV channels on the remote, looking for something that might catch my attention, but after flitting around for a while I still haven't found anything. I'm still channel surfing when I hear a knock on the door.
I groan loudly.
It's Vivian. She did this a few days ago and turned up unannounced with Cassie. Ever since she smelled a hint of perfume on me, she's been acting suspicious. Goodness knows the amount of times I've smelled men's cologne on her. She turned up last week, just like that, for no reason, and blamed it on Cassie claiming that she wanted to see me.
My stomach muscles tighten as I go to answer the door. I pray it’s not her. But to my utter shock and joy, Megan stares back at me, looking sexy as hell in her work clothes. Her face wears an impatient, slightly hardened expression that I've come to know so well. It's not the softness of the teenager I once knew, but the hardness of a woman who is mad at me.
“Hey,” I say, bracing myself for whatever it is I’ve done this time to offend her, because her expression tells me this isn't a social visit. “Come in—” I start to say, when she marches straight past me, forcing me to catch a hint of her perfume again.
Damn, she smells good.
My body warms in an instant.
I'm happy to see her. My twitching cock is even happier. She glides past me and I catch a whiff of alcohol on her. This can’t be good. “What have I done now?” I close the door and fold my arms as I face her.
A tiny muscle flexes along her jawline, confirmation of her irritable mood. “It’s not you.” The words are forced, as if she has trouble getting them out.
I’m relieved to hear that. “Have you been drinking?” I ask. It's not the ideal starting point for a conversation, but I’m at a loss as to what to say. I'm confused as to why she's here.
“I had a couple of drinks with Arla, you remember her?”
“Arla?” The name rings a bell. I place a hand on the doorhandle, expecting a second knock. “Where is she?” A thought flies through my brain, that this might be a reunion. Maybe Megan wants to introduce Arla to me.
“She's out with her man.”
“She's not coming?” Relief floods through me.
“Coming here?” Megan scoffs. “She’s out with Scott, her spin instructor. He has butt cheeks that are as hard as steel, apparently.”
“Butt cheeks that hard, eh?” I grin, but Megan doesn’t. Her cheeks are flushed.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I try my hardest not to let my eyes slide down the length of her body, but I fail miserably. She looks so goddam sexy in her work clothes. A smart skirt, silky blouse, and a fitted jacket. Heels, too. The synapses in my brain start to fire. My skin begins to tingle. Blood rushes to the surface of my skin.
“Nothing. I had nothing to do on a Friday evening.” She starts to pace around the room.
She has nothing to do on a Friday night and she's come to me? My heart starts to sing.
“I didn't get the job.”
“You didn’t get it? I’m sorry.”
