Page 78 of Bad at Love
I steal a glance at him.
He’s so unbelievably beautiful right now. His hair blackas sin, shiny and thick. The dark sparkle in his eyes, the way he keeps chewing on that full bottom lip of his, lips I’d die to kiss again. Maybe it’s the lights of the city, the humidity in the air, but he has this glow about him, like he’s finally realizing his dreams are coming true. Because they are. They’re exploding into confetti right in front of us.
I’ve watched him all night long, my heart bursting with pride as he finally held his book in his hands, the book that holds his heart and soul. Now that same book is in my hands, though I’m afraid to read it.
“What?” he asks me as we round the corner, Jane farther down the street now with Naomi, talking to a bouncer.
“I was wondering if you’ll sign my book later,” I tell him. “I’m your number one fan.”
“I thought you said you don’t read my poetry much.”
Oops. I forgot I told him that once.
Here’s a confession: I haven’t read many of his poems.
I have read some, here and there if I happen to catch it on Instagram. He has talent and I’m obviously impressed by how he’s able to convey life in such a way. But there’s something so intensely intimate about his poetry that makes me feel flushed and anxious, like I’m looking at something I shouldn’t. Which is really fucking weird since he literally has a million Instagram followers that read his every word. It can’t be that intimate if he’s baring all to so many.
Which has me wondering, if he has no problems putting his thoughts and feelings down for the world to see, why does he keep so much of himself hidden, even from me?
I smile. “I’myournumber one fan. Not Lazarus Scott, Insta Poet. I’m a fan ofyou.”
He stops and studies me for a moment. “You know there’s a difference.”
“Of course I do.”
“Hey!” Jane yells. “Get your asses over here or we won’t be able to get in!” She starts waving frantically. Naomi is having a cigarette and smoking it like it’s second nature. Who knows when she started smoking or where it came from. She might have a New York persona.
I don’t blame her. I think I have a New York persona too.
And it only has one thing on her mind.
Sex.
I glance at Laz and almost ask him if he wants to come back to my room instead of going into the bar.
He looks like he wants to say something too.
“Laz!” Jane yells again.
He swallows, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from me and nods at Jane. “We’re coming.”
He gives me a smile that borders on apologetic and then starts pulling me toward the bar.
The place is called Tanner Smiths and is one of those trendy bars with a prohibition theme. It’s packed and dark and there’s a small dancefloor by the door so that when you walk in, you’re sucked into a group of people grooving all up in your space. Beyonce blares from the female DJ in the corner and everyone is drunk and happy.
“I approve of the vibe,” I say to Laz.
“What?” he yells back mockingly over the noise, cupping his ear. Then he leans in, close. Very close. “What you havin’ to drink, sweet girl?”
His breath is hot on my ear and I momentarily close my eyes, letting the feeling sink along my skin, down my back, all the way to my toes. “Anything,” I manage to say.
I open my eyes and his face is still at my neck, lips at my ear. “I had no idea you were so easy to please,” he murmursand I swear his lips are grazing my skin. Goosebumps spread and I’m hot and cold all at once.
My throat feels thick as I speak. “Only when it comes to drinks. Anything else, you might have to work at it.”
“Is that so?” he says, pulling back enough to look me in the eye.
There’s fire inside him. God, how I want to burn.
