“What?”
“Jesus. I want to think you aren’t playin’ games but I know you’re f**kin’ playin’ games. Nobody’s that stupid.”
My fine and loose feeling slipped a notch mainly because, again, it felt like he’d slapped me across the face.
He watched my face change in the streetlight.
“I’m not stupid,” I whispered.
He got close and backed me against the car again. I went, my head tilted back to look at him, my feelings still smarting from his comment.
“So you’re sayin’ you don’t know that every f**kin’ guy’s dick is hard from watchin’ you move. Christ, give you a pole and put you in a g-string, you wouldn’t have been more effective.”
My mouth dropped open. Then I snapped it shut.
“I was just dancing,” I told him.
“Right.”
“I was.”
He watched me but stayed silent.
“I like to dance,” I said softly. “I was just dancing.”
He kept watching me and it seemed like he did this for a long time. Finally, his hand came to my neck with his thumb out to touch my jaw.
“Jesus, you aren’t lyin’,” he muttered.
I shook my head because no, I wasn’t lying. Instead I was freaking out about what he said.
“I’m never going to dance again,” I said, quietly to myself on a little tremble, so upset at the thought of people watching me, men watching me and having that reaction that I didn’t even care I was quoting bad eighties music. Serious yuck.
“Ava.”
My eyes had slid to the side and they came back to Luke. “Men suck,” I whispered. “They take everything. Everything.”
Before he could respond, I slid out from between him and the car and turned to the door. He didn’t say a word just bleeped the locks. I opened my door and got in. He shut it for me, got in on his side and we glided out into the street.
I watched Denver pass me as Luke took us to his loft. Neither of us spoke. I was still drunk and I wanted to be happy but I couldn’t stop the dark “all men are bastards” thoughts from flooding my head.
He parked and we took the elevator to his loft. He switched on the lamps and I went directly to the Triumph t-shirt which was sitting, folded, on the barstool where I left it two days ago. I dumped my purse on the bar, grabbed the tee and walked to the bathroom.
“I’m going to bed,” I announced and then walked into the bathroom, shut the door, took out my contacts, got ready for bed, put on my glasses and walked out. I dumped my clothes on my suitcases and headed toward the bed.
I saw that Luke was in the kitchen. I grabbed a pillow and walked to the couch. I threw the pillow down, threw myself on the couch and settled on my side. I was going to sleep there, without a blanket if I had to, I didn’t care.
On this thought, Luke’s legs came into my vision. I looked up. He was holding a glass of water out to me.
“What’s that?”
“Ibuprofen and water. Take it, you’ll need it for the morning.”
“I don’t get hangovers,” I informed him, again not lying. I had to be far more drunk than I was to get a hangover. Sissy called it my gift. She got a hangover after two beers.
“Take it,” he demanded.
I was in no mood to argue. I was in the mood to go to sleep for fifty years, wake up an old maid and live out my life in a nursing home with my only excitement being Friday Night Bingo.