Love Song(35)

I step into the dark hallway just as he emerges onto the second-floor landing.

“Hey,” I say tentatively. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he mumbles.

And then he trips on the floor runner and catches himself against the wall, bumping into a photograph of Dumpy and Bergeron, the Graham family dogs. Luckily, the frame doesn’t fall.

I eye him in disapproval. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” he says belligerently. He takes a couple more steps and stumbles again. “Maybe a little.”

He starts to laugh, but I’m not amused. I flick on the light and stalk toward him, and we nearly collide in the middle of the hallway. He’s noticeably swaying on his feet.

“Jesus,” I say. “How much did you drink? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“How much time do you have?”

I don’t even crack a smile. “Wyatt.”

Ignoring me, he staggers forward, trying to make it to his room. He’s beyond wasted. Eyes unfocused. Hair messy as he drags one hand through it. And even still, there’s something obnoxiously magnetic about him. With his black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and those rings winking in the hall light, he’s the epitome of bad boy.

“Here’s the thing, Blake.” He drunkenly overemphasizes my name. “You show up here, and my head stops working.”

My heart stutters in my chest. “What?”

“You heard me. My head. Stops. Working. You smile and you talk and you ask questions, and suddenly I’m in my own goddamn way.”

I gape at him. “Are you blaming me for your writer’s block?”

“No.” He curses under his breath, sounding tormented. “You’re…just you. You’re there.”

“Where?” I’m so confused.

“Everywhere.”

Drawing a breath, I search his expression, needing to make sense of his nonsensical words. Now he’s raking both hands through his unruly hair, as if he wants to tear it out by the roots.

“I hurt your feelings,” he grinds out.

I blink. “What?”

“You said I hurt you.” His voice is sandpaper-rough, hazy green eyes trying to focus on my face. “I’m a prick, Blake. Don’t you get that?”

A frown wrinkles my brow. “Wyatt…” I start.

“No. You need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Always looking at me like I’m worth a damn. I’m not fucking special.” He sways on his feet again, scrubbing his palm over his jaw. “Remember that night you said you were into me? Know what I wanted to ask you? What the hell are you thinking? Because I’m not worth your time. Wasn’t worth it back then. Not worth it now.”

Alarm settles in my chest. I’ve never heard him talk like this before. Every word is dripping with disgust. And something else… Something raw and shameful. A darkness I’ve sensed in him before but haven’t glimpsed until now.

“Want to know what I’m good for?” Wyatt says roughly.

“W-what?” My dry throat is making me stammer.

“I’m good for one thing. My dick.” He laughs, a harsh, raspy sound that sends a shiver up my spine. “I have a really good dick.”

Damned if that doesn’t turn me on.

“I’m a great lay.” He licks his bottom lip, a feral glint in his eyes. “I can fuck you so good.”

Do it, I want to beg. Right here. Right now. I want him to spin me around, yank my pajama shorts off, and drive his cock inside me. I want it so badly I can scarcely breathe.

“They all love my dick,” he says, still laughing. “They fucking love it. And then they always want more.” His laughter dissolves in a sputtering expletive. “See, though, that’s the part I can’t do. There’s no such thing as more. Not with me. There’s only what I give you in the moment.”

He’s making my head spin, not only with his words but with his drunken swaying. I reach out to try to steady him, but he pushes my hand away.

“No,” he mutters. “Don’t waste your time on me. You’re better off without this fantasy you’ve built in your head.”

The last threads of my patience officially snap. “I don’t fantasize about you. Not anymore. You think I want this version of you? This drunk asshole who can’t even be bothered to apologize for hurting my feelings? Hard pass, Wyatt.”

With a bitter laugh of my own, I shake my head and stomp toward my room.

He doesn’t come after me.

I hear him stumble into the blue room, followed by a loud thump that elicits a pang of concern. Despite myself, I walk back to make sure he didn’t fall and smash his head open. I peek at the open doorway and realize the thump was Wyatt collapsing on his mattress. He’s face down and spread-eagled, one cheek pressed against the pillow.

I linger for a moment, my heart squeezing painfully.

He looks so…lost.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I quietly close his door and head back to my room.

I hate that I’m always finding compassion for him. I hate how weak it makes me, this exhausting instinct to keep showing up emotionally even when he constantly slams the door in my face. Telling me not to waste my time on him. Whether he meant romantically or as a friend, I don’t know, but I can’t fight the feeling that he’s purposely trying to push me away. Donning this fuckboy asshole mask so I don’t try to peer too close. So nobody does.