Love Song(28)

GIGI

Well, now it’s your be-a-nice-human summer where you get to show some compassion for the girl whose heart got broken.



Trust me, she’s doing fine.



More than fine, in fact. My shoulders go rigid when I notice Blake chatting with the bartender. She leans against the counter to hear him better over the music. He’s leaning toward her too.

There’s an unsettling amount of leaning happening right now.

Are they flirting? And does he have a mullet?

Who has a mullet this day and age?

Absentmindedly, I type a text while monitoring the situation unfolding across the room. The guy is young, early twenties, but something about the way he’s leering at Blake gives him a creepy old man vibe.

Thoughts on mullets?



GIGI

Your subject changing skills never fail to amaze me.



I don’t like them.



Exactly. Nobody fucking likes them.

At the bar, Blake laughs at something the Mullet says, then touches his arm. It’s light, casual. But intentional. I know that move. I do it all the time. Laugh, lean in, touch the arm.

My hand curls around my empty beer bottle, my grip so tight I’m surprised the glass doesn’t shatter in my palm. I have to remind myself that only twenty minutes ago, I had decided to let her have fun. If she wants to flirt with a guy whose barber should be executed, then fine, I won’t get in her way.

I shift on the stool and force myself to focus on the music. A live trio is playing on the small stage, blasting out an old grunge song. It’s not half bad.

But all I can hear is Blake’s melodic laughter rising over the crashing cymbals.

My gaze unwittingly returns to the bar. The Mullet is even closer now, practically draped over the damn counter. He has way too much confidence for someone wearing that many bracelets. Like, they’re taking up half his arm. One bracelet, cool. That’s punk rock. Some rings, okay. This is extreme. And sad.

When my jaw tightens to the point of pain, I have to forcibly unclench it. Christ. I don’t know why this bothers me so much. This girl is off-limits. I won’t fucking touch her.

But here I am, sitting at a sticky high-top table contemplating murder while Blake smiles at some asshole who doesn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as her.

Not that I do either. She’s too damn good for me. She’s clever and funny and fearless, and she deserves someone who can make her feel…safe. Cherished.

That’s not me. I break women without trying. Without meaning to. They always fall for me, no matter how clear I make it at the beginning that it won’t lead to forever. I’m not built for forever. I can’t commit to one girl, and I certainly can’t be tied down, not when all I desire from this life is to be on the road, touring and making music.

But women always think they’ll be the exception, the ones to make me fall—and they always get hurt. I don’t want to hurt Blake.

And maybe…maybe I’m also resisting opening that door because she looks at me sometimes in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Like she sees straight through the chaos inside me.

Her laughter travels in my direction again. I hate the gleam in the Mullet’s eyes every time Blake laughs. I’m a man, so I know what he’s thinking: What are my odds of going home with her?

Zero, pal.

Maybe I should just fuck her.

I let the idea percolate. Sex always has a way of squashing a crush. For me at least. I know from experience that all it takes is one night for me to get my endorphin rush and be on my way.

Who knows? The sex might not even be that good, right? Maybe these past few years of lusting from afar have built this up into something that can never live up to my jerk-off fantasies. Hell, and it’s presumptuous to think she’d even let me in her pants. She’s got better taste than that.

At the bar, the Mullet makes her giggle by tugging on a strand of her hair.

He’s touching her goddamn hair now?

Oh hell no.

This isn’t jealousy, I assure myself. It’s responsibility. She’s fresh out of a relationship and she’s vulnerable. She doesn’t know what she wants right now. But I guarantee it’s not the douchebag with the mullet.

I cross the bar in three long strides, sliding in beside her.

Blake turns in surprise. “Hey.”

“It’s late,” I say coldly. “We’re leaving.”

The Mullet interjects. “We’re in the middle of a conversation.”

I spare him a look. “She’s done talking.”

Frowning, the guy glances at Blake. “Is this your boyfriend or your bodyguard?”

She huffs out a laugh. “Neither.”

“Let’s go,” I tell her.

Our gazes lock, and whatever she sees on my face has her capitulating.

“Sorry,” she tells the Mullet. “I guess we’re leaving.”

Without another word, she grabs her purse off the stool and follows me out of the bar. It isn’t until we’re halfway across the parking lot that she stops in her tracks.

“What happened back there, Wyatt?”

I continue walking toward the Jeep. “Nothing. I wanted to go.”

“Were you jealous?”

The accusation stings my back. I stop, waiting for her to catch up to me. “I don’t get jealous.”