flags down the server.
“The usual?” the bartender asks, already filling up a pitcher of beer from the tap.
“The usual.” Dylan notices me, and since our gaze catches, he has to acknowledge me. “Camilla,” he says with that awkward sort of grin that ex-lovers share.
Could we be called lovers? “Shaggers” seems a more appropriate term to describe the quick, sordid romps we had in the back room, neither of us ever taking off more clothing than necessary, each of us rushing to orgasm like it was a race.
It’s silly for him to be uncomfortable around me. We were never awkward between encounters before. Does he feel guilty for falling in love with a woman half his age and getting married, putting an end to our trysts? He shouldn’t. Good for him. I hadn’t expected he and I were going to turn into anything. That was the whole reason I shagged him on more than one occasion.
“You sound good tonight,” I say, hoping that will ease whatever tension he’s feeling.
“That’s a relief. I barely can think straight with the lack of sleep.”
Well, that was your fault for having twins, I want to say. But I’m polite, and so all I say is, “I’ll bet.”
Despite the casual air of the interaction, I’m still well aware of Hendrix and his invitations and his declarations of better options.
I’m definitely aware when he’s suddenly closer, his voice low. “Are you together? Are you the cause of his lack of sleep?”
“What? No.” I’m so taken aback that I’m honest without thinking. “No. Definitely not.”
“But you have fucked him.”
I twist my head to pin him with a scowl. “That’s none of your—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “I’m jealous.”
I have to take a deep breath to settle the racing of my heart. To let the little lift it gives subside. To swallow the smile that very nearly surfaces, unbidden, at the thought that Hendrix is thinking about sex and me right now. What does he want from me? Am I capable of giving it? Do I want it too?
Dylan and I had a good arrangement, both of us understanding it was just sex. Could it be possible to have that with Hendrix? The bathrooms here are singles with doors that shut. We could sneak in and be out before the band started their next set. Get it out of our system, whatever this is. Would that be enough to get him to forget me and take off in search of wildflowers?
Before I can make a decision about how to respond, there’s another body between us, tugging at Hendrix in a way that has spikes shooting from my skin.
“We need you, Hendrix,” she says. “I have no chance at getting the history trivia without you.”
She picks up the extra negroni, the one that I was sure had been ordered for me, and takes a sip. “You’re right! It is good.”
It’s only then that she really looks at me. “Oh, it’s you! I didn’t realize. Of course you’d be here, since you’re the one who recommended it. Still, always strange to see your teacher out in the real world.”
“Just as strange to see your students,” I say, though strange is a mild way of characterizing my current emotions. “Kaila, was it?”
She nods.
I only remember because of the unusual spelling of her name. She’d made sure everyone knew in her introduction. “Kaila with an i,” an odd bit of trivia to share, in my opinion, since if I hadn’t seen it on the enrollment form, I’m pretty sure I would have wondered where exactly the i was supposed to go.
It’s a fitting name, I have to admit. Creative and bubbly like she is. Based on her looks, her actions, and her resume, she’s the youngest in the class. She’s already working in the business, but I’m guessing she went straight from high school to an internship. She climbed the ranks quickly at the international fashion blog she works for, and I can’t help being petty and wondering if she’s really got talent or if she had nepotism behind her.
Hypocritical, since I only have my cushy job because of my brother. Takes one to know one, I suppose. I might not even hate her if she wasn’t so obnoxiously pawing at Hendrix.
Or maybe I hate her because he ordered the negroni for her.
Or maybe I hate him for it.
Or maybe the only one I hate is me.
She takes another swallow of the bloody drink—I swear she’s bragging about it—then fans herself with a