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Anna
I’m late meeting Iris and George for lunch. Call it reluctance to face the firing squad. I’m under no illusion that they won’t figure out I’ve had sex with Baylor. I’m horrible at hiding things, and Iris is already suspicious of my sudden disappearance at the party the other night.
Part of me wants to talk about it. Not about Baylor precisely, because the idea of him discussing details with his friends makes me cringe, and I won’t be a hypocrite. But I need to process this craving that’s got a hold of me. I cannot believe I had sex with him again. And in the library of all places. Anyone might have seen. The irony that I’m afraid to be seen with him yet let him fuck me in a public space, twice now, isn’t lost on me.
Without warning, I think of him kneeling in front of me, his head buried between my legs. My cheeks burn and dark heat licks up the back of my thighs as I walk into the fifties-style diner that sits just outside of campus. Good God, I want to turn around, find Drew Baylor, and do it again.
I now know that it isn’t the thrill of possible discovery that makes having sex with him better than anything I’ve experienced. It is him, the way I react to his body, his touch, his voice. And that scares the hell out of me.
I like you. A lot.
Damn it. If only he was someone else. Something else. A regular guy. A nobody like me. But he’s not and never will be. When I think of the public scrutiny he, and by default anyone he’s with, endures, I want to hide away, run for the hills.
I take a deep breath instead and tell myself to chill. It’s over. It’s done.
Iris and George already occupy a booth. George is facing my way and spots me first. He raises a brow in reproach.
“Sorry,” I say as I slide in next to Iris. “I lost track of time.”
“We ordered you a vanilla milkshake, and fries are on the way,” says George. “But you choose the rest.”
Six feet to Iris’s five foot three, George towers over her, but they share similar features, their Mexican heritage showing in their dark eyes framed by thick lashes, honey-gold skin, and glossy raven black hair.
The waitress comes with our drinks and fries, her gaze lingering on George. “You know what you want?”
“Always,” he answers with cheeky confidence that makes the waitress beam, and Iris and I roll our eyes. Not that I can fault the waitress’s taste. George is incredibly good-looking. And while I appreciate that on an aesthetic level, I’ve never felt a glimmer of sexual attraction to him. Which is a good thing, as I’d rather have his friendship than a brief physical release.
We order our burgers and, once alone, Iris turns in her seat to study me. “So...you gonna tell us where you got that exceptionally large hickey decorating your neck?”
Shit. As if her notice has activated it, a spot where my neck curves to meet my collarbone starts to throb. Memories assault me, of Baylor’s mouth there, his tongue sliding over my skin just before he sucked hard. I don’t want to know how bad it looks.
George’s eyes glint as he leans forward. “That’s a beauty. Who’s the guy? Or is it a girl? God—” he puts a hand over his heart “—please say it’s a girl.”
I toss my napkin at his head.
“It’s Drew Baylor,” Iris says. “Isn’t it?”
I occupy my mouth by drawing a deep pull of milkshake.
“Get the fuck out,” cries George with a laugh. “Seriously, ’Ris, stop playing.”
The icy glass in my hand lands on the table with a thud. “Why is that so hilarious? Am I such a hag that the idea of me being with Drew Baylor is laughable?”
A gurgle dies in George’s throat, and he straightens. “Are you kidding me? You’re gorgeous. Baylor would be lucky to get near you.”
“Well, thanks,” I say, somewhat mollified, and at the same time completely shaken.
It’s happening already. The disbelief. The questioning. Why would Baylor pick me? Even I want to know. Which both stings my pride and makes me want to disappear.
George shifts in his seat, looking irritable at his sudden burst of sentiment. “He’s just not even near your type. And you aren’t exactly his.”
Tell me something I don’t know, George.
“Opposites attract,” sings Iris. Then she all but pounces on me. “It was Baylor, wasn’t it? Oh my God, was he as hot as I think? Do the size of the shorts match the shoes?”
George’s nose wrinkles like he scents something foul. “Can we not go there, ’Ris? I’m a guy.”
“Oh, are you?” She shrugs. “I must have forgotten.”
