The date finishes up in predictably boring fashion, with the caveat that Davey insists on walking me home. Since I only live a few blocks away, I accept, not wanting to be rude. But the whole way he’s shuffling around nervously, trying to put his arm around me. It’s subtle though, not groping, more like he thinks if he moves slowly enough I won’t realize.
After the fifth time I give him a look. “Do you mind?”
He smiles like it’s some sort of joke, and then leans in for a kiss. Five alarms sound in my head—red alert, red alert!
I back up. “Um, what are you doing?” I laugh.
He licks his lips, eyes glinting like he’s psyching himself up. “What does it look like, hot stuff?”
“This isn’t a joke, Dave—”
“Please, call me Davey …”
“I’ve had a nice night,” I lie. “But I think we should just be friends.”
Then, before he can try anything else, I head up to my apartment, glad that Zora and Quinny are still at the movies so they don’t question me about the date right away.
I need to blow off some steam.
Grabbing my workout gear, I go down to the apartment’s gym, which is actually pretty neat. Splitting rent three ways has its perks.
After wrapping my hands and putting on some gloves, I throw myself into a boxing workout. I try not to think about Wyatt’s ghost-white face when he OD’d, or the streak of blood across Angelo’s jaw, or Angelo’s length pressed firmly between my thighs.
Or Angelo.
I hit the bag.
Or Angelo.
My hand hurts.
Or Angelo.
I reel back, ignoring the weird glances of the only other guy in the gym at this hour, who’s looking at me like I’m deranged. I sort of wanna spin on him and scream, “You try finding your fucking brother nearly dead when you’re supposed to be taking care of him because you don’t have parents anymore!” But that doesn’t exactly convey a healthy state of mind, so I keep my eyes rooted on the punching bag instead.
When my hands can’t take any more punishment, I jump on the treadmill and run my ass off.
I’ve already mostly forgotten the date. I try to run through EMT protocols to distract me, like a meditation mantra that just so happens to revolve around ventilation metrics and how to properly assess an unconscious patient for pulmonary edema. Very Zen.
But my head is so convoluted that, instead of imagining pages in my EMT textbooks, what I’m actually picturing is myself, lying on the floor. Then Angelo leans over me and drags his rough lips along mine. I don’t open my eyes, but I moan, quiver, letting him know I’m awake and I want him to keep going.
He slides his hand up between my thighs, softly, the barest grazing of his fingers. And it’s so much tenser than if he just grabbed me right away. He knows how to play me. I moan. I’m his music. Then he slips his hand down my pants and finds the wanting nub of my clit, stroking, making me squirm beneath his fingertips. And fuck, I’m wet, so wet I could just—
No, no, no. Rule number one of the gym: no masturbating. It’s not on the posted sign of facility regulations, but I think it’s fair to assume that it’s implied.
I hop off the treadmill and shake my head at myself. As if to say: silly me, ha-ha, I’m not horny as hell for this club-owning dickhead. No siree.
But just to be safe, I tuck tail and run away from the gym before it turns into the scene of a seriously depraved sexual crime against my own common sense.
When I get back to the apartment, Zora and Quinny are home. They’re sitting on the couch, Quinny tossing Doritos into her mouth with exceptional skill, and Zora nibbling ladylike at a fruit-and-nut mix. They’re watching Real Housewives.
“I guess it’s Zora night, then,” I laugh.
Quinny nods seriously. “She proclaims to be a devout feminist, but give her a chance to ooh and ahh over a bunch of plastic surgery creations that were human once, and—well, hell, you try and stop the bitch.”
“Hey!” Zora snaps. She tosses a raisin at Quinny and Quinny opens her mouth, catching it like an orca at Sea World. She makes lip-smacking yum-yum sounds.
Zora turns back to me as I pull my workout hoodie over my head, dropping onto the spare seat with a sigh.