Ladies Man, Page 3

  Or

  Lax game tonight. I need some luck lady.

  Or

  Lax game. Kicking ass tonight, you’ll enjoy it.

  And I always make up some lame excuse.

  * * *

  I got home ready for bed, but didn’t rest one bit. A night of no sleep really helps with the soul searching. By the time I wake up, I’m determined to call Wynn and ask her for Trent’s number.

  When Paul broke up with me, I never thought it possible to miss another human being like I missed him. I don’t ever want to feel like that again. But I’m ready to move on. I want to give myself another chance.

  Rachel and I, we always said we were the smart girls, the girls who know what guys really want from you. It’s hard to stick to this belief when both of my friends have found true love. It’s hard not to consider that maybeeee…just maybe…I can find it too.

  I leave Wynn a message and head to work. I’ve felt…discontent ever since I came back from Rachel’s wedding. Restless.

  I’m questioning everything, what needs to stay and what I want to change in my life. And the more I question, the more I realize that what I want to change is—me.

  So I try to soften; softer eyes, softer blush. I work on my face for the first half hour of my shift, since usually store hours are slower in the morning.

  I brush a shimmery light pink Bobbi Brown shadow on my lids, a pale blush across my cheeks and a soft gloss on my lips. I finish, happy and curious to see my new look, but the girl who stares back at me has too big brown eyes, too soft pale skin, and looks too vulnerable, too young, and too innocent, like a girl fresh out of college. Which I guess I am….

  Why did I end up at a cosmetics counter?

  Because of Paul.

  Because I couldn’t get over being broken up with while at my worst, with a toothbrush in my mouth. It’s the reason I never leave home without makeup. It comes on the second after I brush my teeth.

  My makeup is definitely my mask, the mask that makes me strong, pretty, whatever I want to be. I like helping other women put on masks too.

  I never want any woman in this world to be half-dressed and wearing no makeup, with a toothbrush in her mouth, when she’s broken up with.

  Because you never let him see you at your worst. Especially when he’s discarding you like something old and worn.

  Feeling vulnerable with my new look, I spend another half hour changing my face back to my heavy smoky eyes and red lips. And by the time Wynn calls back to give me Trent’s number, I feel strong. I feel capable. I feel ready to see where it goes.

  DATE NIGHT

  Emmett said Trent wanted my number, but I called him instead. I’m giving myself a chance after encouragements from Wynn to “just see.”

  So I sit at a nice little round table at a well-known little restaurant, but I don’t see Trent.

  He’s late.

  I rub my palms over my black jeans. I’m nervous. You’d think I’ve never gone on a date before. And really I haven’t. I’ve had one boyfriend and yeah, that went well.

  “Anything to drink while you wait?”

  I look up. Even the waitress is looking at me with pity. I’m having one of those crazy klutzy hair days, where my curly hair is reacting to the rain outside. I tried my best to flat-iron it into submission but I can feel the edges starting to curl already. Please, Universe. Let me have a decent first date since Paul.

  “Do you have cabernet by the glass?”

  “We absolutely do.”

  “Great. I’ll have one. And if he’s not here in five minutes, bring me the tab.”

  I try to distract myself. Across the table from mine, a man is twiddling his feet. Someone is eating a cinnamon-laced dessert and the scent teases my nostrils.

  “See, you don’t listen to me anymore. But if a man talks, you listen,” a woman is complaining, three tables away to her partner. Behind me, another woman is saying she had to buy her shirts extra big so she didn’t pop a button. The man she’s with is assuring her she doesn’t need to diet.

  I feel a pang for her. Isn’t that the way it always is? Spending our lives trying to improve, never quite happy with who we are?

  “Sorry I’m late,” Trent, in tan slacks and a pastel yellow shirt, says as he plops down. He waves a waiter over. “Bring us the house specialty, make them doubles, and keep those drinks coming.” He looks around the restaurant then, narrowing his eyes. “Who’s here, anyway? A couple girls were looking through the window.”

  That’s when I see Tahoe.

  I see him.

  As if neon lights were flashing around him, as if every light in the restaurant were aimed at him.

  My Tyrannosaurus rex, in the flesh, in the restaurant, heading toward a booth at the end with a candle, a candle reflecting very attractive shadows on his chiseled face.

  His hair is in a state of subdued bed-head sexy. But it’s the cocksure fucking smile that suddenly curls his lovely lips as he answers the waitress that gives me a little uncomfortable pinch between my legs.

  He’s with a group of guys. They’re all wearing jeans and comfortable shirts, Tahoe in a white polo.

  His lacrosse team?

  “…well they all seem to be looking in that direction…” I hear Trent say, shifting to take a look. “Ah, thank you!” He’s distracted by the incoming alcohol and delightedly watches the server pour.

  Tahoe keeps flashing his beautiful smile, and when our eyes meet, his smile changes to a smirk as he glances meaningfully at Trent, then at me with a raised eyebrow.

  He lifts his wine glass in a toast.

  I can’t help but feel my body respond, as if something or someone flipped the on switch.

  “Alright, so…” Trent says. “Tell me about you. Gina.”

  I was going to ask him the same question. But with Tahoe in the restaurant, watching me with my awkward hair on an awkward first date, it’s like I can’t get my brain cells to cooperate.

  I realize our eyes lock every time I glance in his direction. It’s like he knows when I’m looking and catches me. He frowns every time he glances at Trent.

  I toss back my cabernet and then smile at Trent. He sits there, with his red hair and kind face, and this time, at least, he’s sober. He’s still the nice guy I met at Tahoe’s party, one of the only guys who wasn’t totally wasted—at least he could still walk without stumbling. He’s the kind of guy you could have a home and a dog with, not a threesome…like with Tahoe Roth.

  “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” I tell Trent, all the while staring at Tahoe.

  I have to pass Tahoe’s table as I head to the restroom at the end of a long hall, and I try to keep my eyes off him as I do.

  I exhale when I finally turn around the corner, three steps away from the ladies’ room, when I’m grabbed from behind.

  “Where are you going?” a low voice whispers near my ear.

  I freeze and squeeze my eyes shut in dread. My wrist feels tiny in his grip.

  Please let it not be true. I’m not standing in a liquefying state with Tahoe Roth’s body an inch from touching mine. I crack my eyes open and twist my body a little bit toward his. And it is Tahoe.

  “Meet me outside,” he says, looking at me with a smirky smile, then a puzzled frown. He walks away—and I stare at his back.

  I follow my curiosity and head after him.

  Parked seven feet away from the restaurant entrance is a vintage yellow Hummer. I can’t see past the tinted windows but the passenger door flings open and T-Rex waits for me inside, behind the wheel.

  I climb in, and then I slam the door shut and glare. “What are you doing here? Are you following me?” I narrow my eyes.

  He narrows his eyes mockingly back at me. “Why? Do you need following?”

  He looks boyish in those clothes, with a day’s scruff on his jaw, a light smile.

  But the smile doesn’t last long.

  Pretty soon he’s frowning at me again. I swear this man smiles at everyone but me
.

  “Is he one of the club?” His voice sounds full of annoyance.

  “My one-night stand club is very exclusive, so no, not yet. But he’s hard for it; that counts for something.”

  “Does it?” He still sounds annoyed.

  “It’s a requisite for being in the club.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Don’t be silly, Gina, he couldn’t get it up with a tow truck pulling it.”

  “Don’t be jealous, T-Rex, you had your chance, and you declined. Which is good though. I’d drunk too much Benadryl, allergies and stuff. And it makes me woozy,” I lie. “But we don’t really want to fool around—we’d have to look at each other when we’re done, at all of Saint and Rachel’s events. I’ve got enough awkward with my hair.”

  He looks at my hair, and I instantly drop my hand from the top of my head and become so self-aware and nervous. I’m not the type of girl to get nervous. But then he’s not the type of guy I’m used to. He’s like nothing I’m used to.

  I end up studying him while he studies me.

  “What’s with the scruff?” I point at the dark blond shadow on his tan jaw.

  “Letting it grow until we win.” He sighs drearily and scrapes a hand over his stubbled jaw.

  “Then I’m glad I haven’t gone there just to see you lose.”

  “Gina Gina Gina.” He releases a cocky laugh that almost shakes the car. “If you came, we wouldn’t lose.”

  “Your pride would save your losing team?”

  “No, you would.”

  I’m briefly taken aback by the comment then I make a brisk effort to dismiss it.

  “So is lacrosse like your hobby?” I ask.

  The frown is back again, his blue eyes laughingly incredulous. “Hobby? Lacrosse is my art. The fastest-growing sport in America. You’ll understand when you go.”

  “Whatever.” I kick his heel, and he kicks me back.

  “So what, are you taking him home tonight?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, maybe.” I shrug and glance out the window. “But if you keep me here, he won’t even want to come.”

  “You’re the one he won’t know how to make come.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’ll leave you all strung up and wanting it,” he says laughingly.

  “Excuse me?!”

  I kick him again, twice, and the third time he frowns and says, “Ouch,” rubbing his heel. “Play nice, Regina,” he chides.

  “Well, this has been nice, but my prince charming awaits.” I almost laugh at my own exaggeration. His voice stops me.

  “You taking him home or not?”

  I turn and stare at him.

  I don’t want to lie and say a definitive no, but I also find the idea of him thinking that other men find me attractive very appealing. “I don’t know,” I hedge again.

  He reaches out and curls his hand around my upper arm. “Then I don’t know how I’ll manage to unwrap my hand from your—”

  “Probably yes,” I cry. “Yes! Go bother your fuck-friends. Go show them your lacrosse stick.”

  “The long one or the short one?”

  I shove him, and he reaches over me, opens the door and rumples my hair. “You’re too gorgeous for him, Regina.”

  “And you’re full of it.”

  “I can tell he’s a loser.”

  “I met him at your party, so…” I leave it at that.

  He stops me again. “Hey. We’re friends. Right?”

  I force myself to meet his intense blue gaze. “Yes.”

  “We’re good?” A muscle flexes along his jaw as he waits for my reply.

  “We’re good.”

  He grins, a devastating grin. “Good. Cause I don’t want to hurt you. Alright?” His eyes are raw, clawing into me with some fierce emotion. “You need a guy who will always be there for you. One who will never let you down.”

  “I know.” But where is he? I wonder. “And you need a thousand women to make you feel good, and I’m only one.”

  He laughs. “Friends then.” He kisses my cheek. “You better come to my next game.”

  He pats the back of my head as I turn to go back inside. My heart hurting. Then I watch him head to his table. Please don’t appear in my stupid dreams tonight, I think as I take my seat.

  I think of having no one to talk to about this tonight when I go to my apartment. No one will be there. Rachel and I used to pass the Kleenex to each other whenever life threw us a curveball, when life threw me Paul and when Rachel nearly lost Saint.

  There’s no one to pass the Kleenex anymore.

  And even though my best friend’s reason for moving out was a happy one—she got married!—the feeling of loneliness is still strong. More than ever.

  Paul helped me get over my parents’ abandonment. Rachel helped me get over Paul’s. But this time, I’m all I can count on.

  I need to throw the Kleenex box in the trash, because I’m determined to be as happy as I can be.

  So I drink another glass of wine and force myself to look at my date—Trent—as if nothing else in the world exists, and as if Tahoe Roth isn’t only a few tables away, looking at me through the lowered, fierce lines of his eyebrows.

  * * *

  We are heading home from the restaurant.

  “I can’t believe he picked up the tab,” Trent keeps saying as we ride in the back of a cab. We’re supposed to drop me off first.

  “He’s loaded, trust me, he feels relieved.”

  Although to be honest, a part of me wonders if he did it merely to remind me that he was there, at the restaurant, watching me. I was good about not looking at him after I returned, except through the corner of my eye. Tahoe paying the bill almost felt like him staking some sort of claim over me. He doesn’t want to hurt me but it almost feels as if he’s determined to keep anyone else from hurting me as well.

  “Huh.” Trent scratches the back of his ear thoughtfully, still looking perplexed. “Something going on between the two of you?”

  “Nope. We’re friends.”

  Friends who annoy each other.

  And sometimes want to have sex with one another.

  But never do.

  I laugh inwardly at that, surprised by the sudden relief I feel.

  Whatever we almost had, it’s all in the past. We’re friends.

  And I don’t know why it matters this much.

  In the back of the cab, I remind myself I have a guy next to me. He’s not big, not overpowering, but it’s comforting that he’s not built that way, the opposite of Tahoe. So when he opens his mouth to ask me more about Tahoe—obviously still impressed—I press my lips to his.

  Then break away.

  “What was that for?” Trent is stunned and obviously thrilled.

  The cab stops in front of my building, and I swing open the door, shrugging with a smile.

  “Whoa, aren’t you forgetting something? Don’t you want to invite me up?” He sounds desperate.

  A guy desperate to go to bed with me is good.

  A refreshing change compared to Tahoe’s rejection.

  I look at him—good guy, genuinely interested, he doesn’t even feel intimidated by my sometimes brusque ways. Wynn is with Emmett, Rachel’s with Saint, and I really wanted to try to give myself another chance—even if I never again want to feel like I felt when Paul betrayed me.

  But not yet. So I say, “Some other time.”

  I turn to walk away, and he calls me back, “Gina?”

  He fishes in his pocket for money, then shoots me a look. “I don’t have much cash. For when he…drops me off at my place.”

  I stare, then hear myself admit, “I’m not sure that I…have enough…”

  I pull out money. Wads of bills, pennies, quarters, and he helps me count. “I think…yeah, I think I’ll need the nickels too. Thanks.”

  “Okay,” I say, then I start walking to the entrance to my building. “You know what?” I turn and look at him. “Yeah. Come in for coffee or something.”

 
“Wow, thanks!” he says, jogging up to me.

  The ride up to my floor is uneventful. I’m silent, wondering if I know what the hell I’m doing, and Trent is…well, he’s fishing in his pockets as if he doesn’t remember whether he has a condom or not. “I need to take this slow,” I say.

  “How slow?” He pulls out a crinkled condom packet and exhales in excitement.

  “I haven’t had the best time on the dating ride.”

  “Yeah,” he scratches his chin, “I understand.”

  “So let’s just try this and see how it goes.”

  * * *

  It doesn’t go well.

  SOS!

  Why is it that when something goes wrong, the differences we’d been having with others become trivial to the point of completely vanishing?

  All I know right now is that, whatever my issues with Tahoe are, he’s been the only thing on my mind for the past hour, the only thing helping me keep my sanity together.

  I’m at the hospital. I’ve already been discharged, but I remain sitting alone on a bench outside. I’m torn between calling him or simply calling a cab. I decide not to call his cell phone, and I tell myself I’ll simply call him at his place. If he’s there, well…

  Gathering what’s left of my courage after the ordeal I just went through, I absently watch a man get wheeled into the emergency room and I dial his home number.

  A female voice answers on the third ring, laughing as she picks up.

  “Umm. Is Tahoe available?” Nervously, I change my cell phone from one ear to the other.

  “He’s busy, tying someone to his bed. Who’s calling?”

  Giggles, and a husky male laugh in the background. My stomach roils.

  “No one important.”

  I hang up and exhale.

  My phone rings less than five seconds later. I see Tahoe Roth flash on the screen and freeze.

  One ring, two rings, three, and I still can’t make up my mind whether to answer or let him go to voicemail.

  Do I answer or not? Do I freaking answer or not? Do I want him to know or do I want the Earth to swallow me whole?