Page 87 of Play Fake
“There’s nothing to explain, Waylon. This was a failed experiment, and we don’t need to waste any more time on it. Okay? Just go home and fuck whatever jersey chasing twins are waiting to have an orgy with you tonight. You’re way better suited to that lifestyle, anyway.” I stand as tall as I can, frustrated he’s so much bigger than me.
He stares at me through a tight-lipped smile, and I glare back at him. Then he leans forward ever so slightly, just enough the smell of his body wash and cologne are enveloping me and making memories of him invade my senses. My eyes drift down to his lips, and I hate myself for it, but I honestly think about kissing him and inviting him up. To hate fuck our way out of this argument one last time before I never see him again.
And like always, he knows exactly what I’m thinking because his mouth draws up with a hard smirk.
“Yeah. I think I will do that. And when you go fuck him because he’s convinced you to take him back with some shitty fucking love song he’s written you, I hope you both enjoy the fact it’s me you’re going to see every time you come.”
The rush of anger I feel is volcanic, and my body is torn between wanting to fuck him and slap him into oblivion. I’m still thinking it through. Two fistfuls of his shirt somehow already in my hands, when the door pops open and the porch light comes on.
“What the fuck is going on out here?” Wren’s silhouette stands behind the screen door. Her eyes flick between us both, questioning me before they settle on Waylon with a look of disdain.
I release my grip on Waylon’s shirt, wiping my palms on my pleather skirt like they’ve been sullied with his bullshit. Her presence snaps me back into reality.
“Nothing.Nothingat all. Just couldn’t find my keys. Thank you.” I pull the screen door open and slide in behind her.
I don’t look back because I know if I do, my resolve will weaken, and I’ll go running back to the biggest asshole on earth. I hear Wren say something quietly to Waylon before she shuts the door.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize before she can ask any questions. “I’m going to bed. I’ll try to be quiet. I’ll buy you coffee and donuts in the morning to make up for it.”
“They better come with a side of explanation.”
I nod and take off in a hurry up the steps because I can already feel the tears coming for the millionth time tonight.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Waylon
My eyes crackopen to the sound of a game loudly playing on the TV in the living room, and the sounds of Easton cooking something in the kitchen. A wave of cooking smells wafts under the door of my room and my stomach grumbles. I bat my hand around under my pillow for my phone and find it to reveal it’s already after 6 in the evening.
I groan as I turn over in bed to stare at the ceiling. I’d stared at it all night. Trying to figure out where the hell I went wrong. How I could fix it. Alternating between calling her and not calling her. I’d written and deleted text after text. And finally settled on “Please. Talk to me.” Which had gotten zero response.
I’d tried and failed to get up a few times earlier today, and I wasn’t sure this round was going to be any more successful.
“Hey, you awake in there?” Easton yells through the door.
“Yup,” I holler back.
“Guests?” He asks.
“Nope.”
Now he asks, now when it doesn’t matter. The door pops open and he sticks his head in.
“Shit. I thought maybe you all were in here fucking the day away. But you just slept all day? Drink too much last night?”
“No.”
“Too many women at once?”
“East, man…”
“Don’t tell me you’re having girl problems.”
I don’t respond.
“The one who was here the other day? Olivia’s friend?”
“That would be the one.”
