Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)(81)

Stevie Scott’s mouth on Iris’s neck.

Stevie Scott’s hands on Iris’s body.

Stevie Scott’s eyes closed as Iris touched her, kissed her, made her— “Fuck,” Iris said as the definitely not-safe-for-work illustration came to life on her iPad.

She hadn’t meant to draw their night together, but it was the next step, the next scene in her weird, true-story project, and now Iris couldn’t stop thinking about how many times Stevie had made her come, the soft way she’d closed her body around Iris’s once they were both finally spent.

How Iris had fallen asleep like that, the possibility of asking Stevie to leave in the middle of the night never even crossing her mind.

And Iris always asked her partners to leave.

And they always did, no questions asked.

Iris shook her head and swiped out of her drawing program. She just needed a distraction. She’d spent her whole weekend in her apartment, writing romance and remembering, and fuck, she needed to do something else.

Someone else.

Her hands shook as she pulled on a pair of high-waisted jeans and a yellow crop top, as she slicked on mascara and some sparkly coral lip gloss. Low blood sugar. That’s all it was. She never remembered to eat when she was writing. In the kitchen, she dug into a box of crackers, then tapped out a text to the group chat, now named Cheers for Queers.

She tapped out Anyone up for Lush, but then hesitated before she hit send. She’d seen the way Claire had looked at her in Stella’s the other night, the assumptions all of her friends were making about Iris and Stevie, even as Stevie danced with Jenna. Honestly, she didn’t want to deal with their horror that Iris was looking for a random hookup.

She exited out of the group chat and tapped on Simon’s name.

“You know, normal people text,” he said when he answered her call.

“I’m not normal, Simon,” she said. “Surely you know that by now.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. What’s up?”

“You in Portland?”

A pause, just long enough to make Iris ask if he was still there.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m here,” he said. “And yeah, I’m in Portland. Why?”

“I need a wingman,” Iris singsonged, grabbing her keys and bag.

“You don’t,” he said. “You really don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“You honestly think I didn’t hear about how you stormed out of Stella’s after Stevie got with Jenna Dawson?”

“Oh fuck, not you too.”

“I’m just saying, Claire would stick needles under my fingernails if she knew I took you out to get laid.”

“It’s not Claire’s business.”

“Okay, fine, but it is mine, since you’re asking me to participate here, and I’m saying no.”

Iris laughed. “Be serious.”

“I am being serious, Iris,” he said, his voice annoyingly soft and gentle.

“Okay, what is going on?” she asked, but her insides were starting to clench, her throat going thick.

Simon sighed. “Look, I don’t want to tell you how to live your life.”

“Then don’t.”

“But I love you. We all love you, and I just think that if you slowed down for a second, really thought about what you wanted, you’d see that—”

“No,” Iris said, her throat full-on swollen now. “Hell no, Simon, you are not going to tell me what I want or who I do or do not want to sleep with.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. And you can fuck right off, and yes, feel free to communicate my sentiments to everyone else.”

“Iris, I—”

But she ended the call before he could get anything else out. Her hands were shaking, and tears swelled into her eyes. She knew it. She fucking knew it, all this time, that her friends thought she was screwing up her life, that to be happy, to be whole, she had to be with someone.

Well, fuck that.

“Fuck that!” she screamed to her empty apartment, her voice echoing off the walls. She swiped at her face, willing the tears to reverse their path. She pressed her palms to her kitchen counter, breathing in . . . out . . .

She was fine.

She was fucking great, and she didn’t need a wingperson to have a good time. Granted, for safety reasons, she never went to Lush or any club by herself, but she didn’t have a choice. She was not going to let her friends’ small-minded views stop her from meeting her own needs.

She flung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. She wrenched it open, ready to hurl herself into the hallway, but her path was blocked.

By Stevie Scott.

Dressed in cuffed gray jeans and a black tank top, her curly hair brushing her shoulders, the slight mullet style making her look like she was about to step out on stage with a guitar.

“Hi,” she said.

Iris stood there for a second, her chest heaving with adrenaline and anger.

Go away.

It was right there on her tongue—she needed someone else, not Stevie Scott, but fuck, even as she thought it, she felt herself reaching out, pulling Stevie inside by her waist and kissing her.

Hard.

She pressed her mouth to Stevie’s, groaning into her mouth, tongue seeking contact. She slipped her hand up the back of Stevie’s shirt, her skin so soft, so smooth. Iris squeezed her eyes closed, imagined herself as anyone, Stevie as anyone, two nameless women seeking comfort, sensation, and— “Hey, hey, hey,” Stevie said gently, pulling away and wrenching Iris out of her fantasy. “Slow down a sec.”