His Plaything (9 page)

Chapter 14

Avery

At a feather-light kiss on my forehead, I shifted under the covers and rubbed my eyes. “You're leaving?” I murmured, squinting at Nixon's silhouette. The pale dawn light made it hard to tell, but he seemed already dressed and ready to go.

He patted my hair. “Sorry, babe. Didn't mean to wake you.”

“Mm … no, it's okay.” I sat up to stretch and, after a moment of confusion, remembered that we had ended up in Nixon's room last night. “Just let me put my pajamas back on and I'll walk you out.”

His teeth flashed in a mischievous smirk. “You don't have to get dressed. They'll call me when the car's out front, so it's not like anybody's waiting in the hall to see your cute little ass.”

“Horn dog.” Still, I had to laugh. “Normally I'd argue with you … but I don't want to make you late. So don't get used to the naked goodbyes, okay?”

Feeling his eyes on me the whole way, I walked him to the front door. He picked up his suitcase and we shared one last, lingering goodbye kiss; its bittersweet warmth made me brave enough to say, “I miss you already.” I knew his work was secretive and he had no freedom in scheduling his duties, but that wasn't much comfort.

He touched his forehead to mine. “Me, too. But I'll be back tomorrow around eight-thirty, okay? It's just one night.”

After the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, I locked the door behind him. Then I went to pick up my pajamas off his bedroom floor and start getting ready for class. Not wanting to sit around an empty apartment, even with the TV or my laptop for company, I decided to leave early and grab breakfast at Starbucks instead of eating my usual bowl of cereal here. The friendly hustle and bustle of strangers would help keep me from feeling too lonely.

In the lobby, a familiar-looking blonde was standing at the mailbox wall, picking through a fanned sheaf of envelopes and brochures. I slowed my brisk walk, squinting as I tried to remember where I had seen her before—then stopped when I suddenly figured it out.

It was the woman who Nixon had been fucking on the dining-room table when I'd first moved in. I almost didn't recognize Pam with all her clothes on. Not that they left much to the imagination; she wore a low-cut, monochrome-striped blouse and a black spandex miniskirt with “Pete's Sports Bar” written in blocky white letters across the extremely tight rear.
Wow. That uniform sure is … interesting. Good thing I don't have to work there.

As she turned around, she saw me and gave an airy laugh. “Oh, it's you!”

“I, uh … didn't know we lived in the same complex,” I said, smiling sheepishly. Meeting my boyfriend's old fuck buddy was beyond awkward, but it helped that I was still walking on air about the whole “boyfriend” part. Less than an hour since I'd kissed Nixon goodbye, I already couldn't stop thinking about seeing him again tomorrow night.

“I live right next door, actually. Unit six-oh-six.” She held out her hand, displaying an impressive blood-red manicure. “Hi, I'm Pam.”

That part I'd already known, but whatever—no need to tell her that Nixon had put a name to the face.
Or the massive boobs, as the case may be.
Feeling a little more relaxed by now, I shook her hand. “I'm Avery, Nixon's … new stepsister,” I said, narrowly avoiding the word
girlfriend
. That wasn't easy when I was still swooning over our shiny new relationship.

“Yeah, I remember you.” She chuckled. “From a few weeks ago.”

The nervousness that had started to fade came rushing back. “Heheh. So, uh…” Searching for a non-nudity-related topic, I said the first thing that came to mind. “Do you have an early shift today?” I hadn't heard of Pete's, but if a place made its waitresses dress like that, I wouldn't have thought they'd be open before lunch.

“A late one, actually. I just clocked out.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, wow. That sounds rough.”

“Yeah, last night was a real bitch,” she sighed. “But at least I had something to look forward to. I'm flying out in a couple hours to meet Nixon.”

“W-what?”
I couldn't have heard that right … could I?

Pam gave an impish smile, the tip of her tongue poked between her teeth. “I know, right! We're spending the whole weekend together in Las Vegas. Isn't that romantic?”

My mouth opened and closed like a fish's. Yanked out of water, gutted alive, unable to see the hook inside the worm until it was too late.

Clearly Nixon's past wasn't really all in his past. He'd tricked me. Used me. We must have fucked half a dozen times over the past few days, ever since I'd been stupid enough to believe his little “just the two of us” spiel.
Fool me once, shame on you … I should have known better
.

My stomach roiled and an aching knot built in my throat. With sudden horror, I realized that I was on the verge of crying in front of Pam. The woman—no, one of the many women—who Nixon had chosen over me.

“I … I have to go,” I choked out, my voice cracking, and fled back upstairs without even waiting for the elevator.

Six flights later, I was sobbing with more than exertion. No way could I handle going to class today; I was too wrung out to leave the apartment again. But at the same time, it was too painful to stay. Every square inch of this place reminded me of Nixon. The kitchen where he'd cooked for me, the couch where we'd cuddled and made out on sleepy afternoons. The shower where he'd banished the last of my fears. The beds where he'd made me scream in ecstasy—even my own room was tainted. His scent in the air and the constant press of memories left me with a hollow nausea. And because we were technically related, I couldn't even call my friends and commiserate properly. Had Nixon been counting on that fact to keep my mouth shut?

Trying not to waste the entire day, I opened my Market Analysis textbook, but the words and figures swam on the page. Not even TV could distract me. I felt too drained to focus and too riled up to sit still. For hours I slumped restlessly around the apartment, my stomach twisted around my heart, until a loud knock startled me. I hurried to wipe away my tears and went to the door, hoping I didn't look as horrible as I felt.

“Hey!” Fox said as soon as I opened up. “How’s it going, babe?”

From where he stood behind Fox, Logan nodded a hello. He was holding what looked like three large Domino's boxes.

I stared at them blankly. “What are you guys doing here?”

If Fox thought I was being rude, he didn't show it. “Nixon texted us to come over and keep you company while he's gone.”

“We didn't know what you liked, so we got one extra cheese, one pepperoni, and one veggie supreme,” Logan added.

My stomach growled at the delicious smell, and I realized I'd never gotten around to eating anything. Had I been moping and sniveling all day? I really wasn't feeling up for social interaction, but on the other hand, I'd need dinner no matter what. And I probably couldn't shoo these guys away without going into details I'd rather not talk about. Finally I stepped back and opened the door, trying not to sound too bleak as I said, “Come on in.”

Fox set the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and opened the liquor cabinet. “What's your poison, Avery? Rum and coke? That'd go good with pizza.”

“Sure, whatever.” Getting shitfaced sounded like an excellent way to take my mind off Nixon, the douchebag; I didn't really care how I did it. But some sad, masochistic part of me was still hungry for the sound of his name. While Fox mixed drinks and Logan transferred slices of pizza onto plates, I asked as casually as possible, “So … what's Nixon up to, anyway?”

The two guys paused to share a brief look. Logan fidgeted with the pizza cutter. Fox shrugged and went back to pouring soda, saying, “We probably know about as much as you do.”

I glared at the back of Fox's head.
Yeah, I fucking bet. You'd be surprised what I know.
But what had I expected? Of course his best friends would keep his dirty little secrets for him—it was probably rule number one of the Guy Code. Or maybe even they didn't know what Nixon was up to. Either way, all my suspicions were confirmed. The awful dark weight that had been crushing me all day pressed down again. But by now, my feelings of betrayal had matured from helpless grief into anger.

We sat down with our pizza and drinks on the couch, and after a brief debate, the guys chose some mindless action movie. Within five minutes, Fox had started cracking jokes over it. Soon I joined the peanut gallery, too, bitterly criticizing every male character in place of who I
really
wanted to complain about. How dare Nixon treat me like this? Sure, a leopard couldn't change its spots, but that didn't make him innocent or his victims guilty. None of this was my fault. Any woman would have been blinded by his bullshit. With every gulp of alcohol, I felt a little bolder and talked a little louder.

“Why are most men such … horrible, lying pigs?” I finally asked in the middle of a tense interrogation scene. “Why do women put up with their shit? Why do
I
keep doing this to myself? I should just give up on 'em. Go be a lesbian, or a nun, or … or something.”

“I think I speak for all non-gay men when I say we're sorry to see you go,” Fox teased. Unlike Logan, who seemed either bored or uncomfortable, he thought my slightly slurred fuming was hilarious. “But if you're gonna start playing for the other team, can I at least watch?”

Logan frowned at him. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?”

“It's a mystery for the ages. Why do you ask?”

Fox's tone had been flippant. But Logan didn't look even remotely amused. If anything, his expression darkened as he reached for the remote. “Because she's upset and you're too busy casting her in your own private porno to listen.”

“Huh?” Fox clearly hadn't expected him to be serious. “Dude, I wasn't—”

Logan paused the movie and turned to face Fox. “And even if she were fine, your dumb ass is just being fucking disrespectful.”

“Uh…”

“If I came to you with a personal problem, would you ask to see my dick?”

At some point I had stopped chewing, stunned. This was the longest speech I'd ever heard from Logan.
Wow … he actually seems pissed. Does he care that much about my feelings?

Fox blinked, looking back and forth between us. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

“Next time you have an idea, try running it past your big head first.”

“Okay, damn! I said I was sorry. Honest miscalculation.” Fox took a slug of his drink.

Logan's gaze returned to me and I finally swallowed my last bite of pizza, which by now had turned unpleasantly soggy. “It doesn't make any sense to punish yourself for how some bastard treated you,” he said. “Don't let him ruin men for you … living well is the best revenge, right? Keep looking for your own happiness. Leave him in the dust.”

What the hell? The guy who never opens his mouth turns out to secretly be Dear Abby?
Just as I thought I'd had Logan pegged, he showed an entire other side: so kind, so quick to defend me, so serious about making me feel better. It was nothing short of disarming. But of course, neither of them knew that the asshole who'd broken my heart was their best friend. Still reluctant to let my guard down, I shook my head. “There’s no point. All men are the same. I'm just … I'm done.”

“Would you give me a chance to prove you wrong?” Logan asked.

“How would you do that?”

“Let me take you out on a date. Tomorrow night.”

I stared at Logan, but I couldn't detect any hint that he was kidding. I definitely hadn't expected this development from tonight. Even Fox looked a little taken aback. “Uh … ” I began, with no idea how to end.

Logan smiled. Apparently my dumbstruck silence was flattering. “You ever been to The Pointe before?”

“N-no, but I've heard of it,” I said, and immediately felt stupid. There was no way I
couldn't
have heard of it. The Pointe was one of the most expensive restaurants in Coronado Island, right on Glorietta Bay Beach. I glanced at Fox again. “Is he for real?”

As serious as I'd ever seen him, Fox replied, “You've got nothing to worry about. Logan is one of the good guys. We've been teammates for years, and I've never seen him sleeping around. He's only had two girlfriends, both pretty serious, and he treated them like queens.”

That wasn't quite what I'd meant. But it
was
what I needed to know—and Logan didn't seem offended by us talking about him like he wasn't there. Or like he was on trial.
I guess he doesn't blame me for being a little suspicious right now.

Okay, so Logan wasn't a raging man-whore. That already put him several hundred points ahead of Nixon. But was that enough? Did Logan actually want me, or did he just feel sorry for me? And did I want him back? Would this just be some pathetic rebound fling?

Or was I thinking way too hard about this? He wasn't asking me to marry him, for God's sake. It was just one date. Why not let a cute, sweet man take me out to a classy dinner? The mere act of getting back into the romance game could be good for me. If nothing else, it would get me out of the house. One evening of lost study time was well worth the distraction and the self-esteem boost. I'd probably find some valuable perspective on all my conflicted emotions about Nixon. And maybe, just maybe, it really was possible to restore my faith in men.