by the end of the shift I feel like I’m going to tear my hair out. Because all I think is: Wyatt, Wyatt. Over and over, like a curse, it won’t stop. There are other calls—traffic collisions, a heart attack, a broken wrist—but they hardly seem real to me.
As we pull into our parking space, Ricky nods shortly at me. “You’re not going soft on me, are you, Dani?” he jokes, checking to see if I’m solid.
“Of course not,” I laugh. “It’s just—it’s getting so bad.”
“Yeah,” Ricky says grimly, “it is.”
I go to the staff room and check my phone. Angelo has texted me just one more time: I need to see you.
That same thrill moves through me, because being sexy and desired is about a million times better than thinking about my brother OD’ing on some kitchen floor. So I go into the bathroom, lock the door, and pull my shirt over my head. I don’t take off my bra, though, and I keep my face out of the shot. I send it to him hurriedly before I can talk myself out of it.
He doesn’t text back until I get home. I’m just pulling up outside the apartment complex when I feel my phone vibrate. When I check it, I see that he’s just sent me a winking emoji. I call him up right away.
“You do know that the winking emoji is the most frustrating one in the universe, right?”
He chuckles. “Is that so? Wait a second.” A pause, and then my phone vibrates again. I check it and see that he’s sent me about one hundred winking emojis. “Rule one of combat, Dani. Never reveal your weakness.”
“Oh, we’re at war now, are we?” I say. “So was the photo up to your standards or not?”
He makes a growling noise. “Let’s just say I’m hard, and my cock is in my hands, I’m staring at your picture right now.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am in no way joking. Do you want to help me, Dani? Do you want to moan for me?” His voice gets deeper. I can so easily see him, probably lying on some plush sheets, his pants pulled down to his knees, his shirt rolled to reveal the muscular V of his abs as he strokes himself. “Moan like you did last night. Moan like I’m fucking you.”
“I’m sort of in my car,” I murmur.
“I said moan. Now.”
Oh God. When his voice gets deep and commanding like that I can hardly take it. There’s nothing clingy about it, like it might be with other men. Nothing like: Oh, come on, babe, just do this for me. Like a transaction. With Angelo, it’s more of a primal need. It’s like he’s a man dying of thirst in the desert and I’m his only drink.
So I moan, quietly, into the phone. I’m not much of an actress but I must do a pretty good job, because soon he’s snarling down the phone, his voice so loud in my ears I’m sure I can feel his breath.
“Are you close, playboy?” I moan, for real now, no acting required. His breathing is driving me crazy. “Tell me how close you are.”
He roars, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out with him.
Then I look around the car, making sure nobody was eavesdropping. “If you’re lucky,” I say, “you might get one without the bra next time. But I’ve gotta go. Catch you later.”
Maybe it’s a bit of a power play, the way I hang up, letting him know that even if he called me and I did that for him, I’m not his personal plaything. Even if part of me likes being his personal plaything. So I guess that’s just a giant contradiction.
I head upstairs to the apartment, thinking that maybe Wyatt and I will have some dinner together. It’s six o’clock, so I hope he hasn’t eaten yet.
But when I walk in, Wyatt isn’t there. He’s not in the bedroom or the living room or the bathroom. I knock on Zora’s door. I can hear Avril Lavigne playing, so I know she’s working. She likes to blast old-school pop rock while she sketches sometimes. I knock harder.
“Yeah?” she calls.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
I open the door and she swivels around in her chair. I look around her room, over the unmade bed and the sketches and notes scattered everywhere, as if Wyatt might be lurking in the shadows.
“Have you seen Wyatt?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Oh, wait a sec.