An hour later, I'm halfway through the first bottle and in need of a bathroom break. On my way back outside, I find Impatient in the living room.
She's wearing a scowl and it's aimed at the bull's-eye that seems to be me.
I'm in no mood for her shit today. We're usually civil, not friendly necessarily, but civil. But not today. I'm anxious and pissy, and unfortunately it looks like I'm about to take that out on her. "You know what your problem is?" I snarl. "You just need to get laid." Minus the alcohol I wouldn't say that to her, but my filter is suspended at the moment.
She physically sways like I slapped her. "What?"
I'm buzzing enough that this has just reached an entertaining level and I intend to continue. "Fucked," I say it slowly, enunciating the word and pointing at her. "You. You're wound way too tight. You need to go get laid. The situation is dire, dude." And now I'm thinking about her dreaming a couple of weeks ago and exactly what she sounds like when she's getting physical.
She huffs. She's not amused, and I wouldn't expect her to be. Honestly, that's the reason I'm pushing this. "Not everything is about sex," she says.
I nod. It's been so long since I've slept with anyone, she may actually be on to something, but then I remember I've been pissed all day and I dive back into my aggression. "Only a fucking virgin would say something like that. Is that what's going on? No wonder you're so goddamn frigid." I don't know why I'm talking to her like this, but I am. And I can't stop. I hate it. After knowing her for a few months, I know she's more shy than anything else. Introversion is her coping mechanism. And after listening to that dream, I know there's no goddamn way she's a virgin.
Her face is blazing now. She's angry, like pick-up-the-lamp-and-throw-it-across-the-room angry. "Fuck you, Gustov. You don't know anything about me."
Shit. She's never cussed me out before. Now I'm looking at her bare legs and my thoughts are getting scrambled and I can't focus on anything else except the fact that we're arguing with each other about sex. My anger is morphing quickly. "Name the last time. I want to hear it." I want details too, because apparently I'm a sick bastard.
She's glaring. Those hazel eyes are boring a hole through my forehead.
I know I should just let it go, but this is the most we've talked in weeks and even though we're fighting, I don't want to stop. On some weird, irrational level, I need this. So, I push. "When?"
Her eyes drop, and so does her shield. It's only a few moments but there's regret or vulnerability, something I didn't expect. "New Year's Eve," she whispers. And then just as quickly, the shield goes back up and her eyes meet mine. She's staring and she's biting the inside of her cheek. Then her eyelids start blinking double time and they're getting glassy. The shield slips again. "He's an asshole."
"Boyfriend?" I question. My heart's beating a million miles a minute. I hate seeing anyone hurt and even though I was pushing her hard, now that she's crumbling I feel like hell. My emotions are on a fucking roller coaster, up one second, down the next. Alcohol doesn't help. I really need to stop drinking.
A single tear slips down her cheek and she quickly wipes it away with the back of her hand and fixes her angry eyes on me again. The laugh that escapes is contempt. "You're all the same, right? It is all about sex, like you said earlier. Maybe that's why you've never been in love."
That one simple sentence sets off a firestorm inside me. Bright Side's face flickers in front of me. Smiling. Light green eyes sparkling with mischief. She's been gone for months and I'm still fucking in love with her. It's my turn. I spit her own words back at her. "Fuck you. You don't know anything about me."
The attack doesn't faze her. She shakes her head. She's brushing me off again. "Oh, I know you. I watched you hook up with a different woman every night during the first half of the tour. That's not love."
I step toward her. I'm so close I can see the mossy green ring that wraps around each of her pupils. "Maybe I'm not looking for love." I eye her up and down. Damn, those long legs. They're distracting me again. And I'm suddenly ten shades of turned on.
She raises her chin defiantly and locks eyes with me. She rarely makes eye contact. "Obviously." It's sarcastic and scornful, but the emotion she's showing is real. She's let her guard down completely now. She's vulnerable, but strong at the same time. It's almost like when she's pushed, her strength rears its head.
"Obviously," I echo. My eyes have drifted to her mouth. Her lips are full and pursed into that pissy pout of hers.
She shifts her weight and the result is a determined challenge. She's not backing down from me. We're almost chest-to-chest and my fucking groin is aching. I don't know quite when this showdown transitioned from anger to lust. I suppose they're on the same spectrum—it all boils down to passion.
I glance back up to her eyes and they're zeroed in on my mouth, pupils dilated. Her breathing increases and her cheeks flush. I know this look. I've seen it a hundred times. I can feel the sexual tension radiating off of her body in waves.
Usually in this situation I'm thinking about sex, just sex; an act to satisfy a need. But looking at her right now, so open and vulnerable, all I want to do is kiss her.
I tip my head down until my forehead is resting against hers. She doesn't pull away, but tilts her face slightly to the right. She's trying to hide, even though our foreheads are still touching.
"Hey," I coax softly. My emotions have done a three-sixty from antagonistic, to sexual, to protective. It's the fucking roller coaster.
She flinches and turns her head even more making eye contact impossible.
With my forehead still resting against her left temple, I realize that I need to walk away before this gets carried away. If I kiss her I won't want to stop, and the look in her eyes a few seconds ago tells me she wouldn't stop me. "You were too good for him," I say. "And you should be looking for love, which is why I need to go back outside. You're too good for me, too." She is. She's smart and goal-oriented, she works hard, she takes care of herself, and she's beautiful. Most of all, she's fragile. I don't want to be just another ass who breaks her. I kiss her temple as tenderly as I can. It's an apology. "Sorry for everything I said earlier," I say quietly, and I turn to walk away, back to my bottle of Jack.