I’m then carried down three flights of disgusting stairs. I can hear Nathan’s shoes peeling off the sticky floor with every step. Yuck. You’d think this apartment would come with super low rent for how disgusting this building is, but NOPE. That’s LA for you. I pay way too much to live in a building that smells like armpit.
Before we make it to the lobby, I decide if Nathan can touch my butt, I can touch his. I scrunch my nose then move my finger and thumb toward his butt cheek with the intent to pinch the daylights out of him so he’ll put me down. The first attempt, however, is unsuccessful. He only laughs and flexes his rock solid glute, making it so there’s no padding I can grab to inflict damage.
“Do less squats,” I tell him with a put-out tone and fold my arms, resigned to drape over him like a coat until he puts me down, wondering where I went so wrong in our fight tonight.
We make it to the truck and Nathan plops me into the front seat, shuts the door, and then gives me a Stay look through the window. I search my pockets and find a used gum wrapper to toss on the floorboard of his truck out of spite.
Nathan slides into the driver’s side of his blacked-out truck—the windows so dark no one ever knows who’s in here, which is lots of fun—and gives me a look that says, Alright, let me have it. So I do the opposite because I’m in a mood to make him pay for his good deeds. I raise my brows in a sassy mocking expression then pull out my phone and settle into my seat to ignore him for the entire drive.
He groans. “The silent treatment? Oh come on! Anything but that.” I don’t answer, just turn my gaze out the window like I can’t be bothered by his distraction. “Fine. Make me pay. I deserve it.” He leans over the center console and retrieves the gum wrapper. It goes in the tiny trash can he keeps in his driver’s side door.
I’ll be honest, though, it’s tough to feel justified making a man pay for being too kind. I know it was underhanded and manipulative and deceptive, but dammit it was so sweet I could cry. It’s so Nathan that the only thing he’s guilty of is having too big of a heart. I wish he would stop making me love him more. It’s annoying.
After scrolling through Twitter for a few minutes and trying to block out Nathan’s ridiculous attempts to draw me in by rapping to 90s hip hop songs about big booties, I come across a retweeted article with Nathan’s face on it. Now, I’ve been friends with him long enough to know not to read any of the tabloids about him, but this one stands out for reasons I can’t ignore.
“OH MY GOSH, I’LL MURDER HER!” I yell so loud I’m surprised Nathan’s windows don’t shatter.
“Who?!” he asks frantically while pulling his truck into the parking lot of the restaurant where we’re meeting up with the guys.
I blink down at the article. “Kelsey! Your horrible ex! She wrote an article about you…and…” I look up at him. “Have you not seen it?”
“Oh.” He’s not concerned. “I heard something about it, but I haven’t cared enough to check. I figured Tim would call me if it was that bad.”
“Okay, well I guess you don’t care that she’s deemed you the lousiest lover in LA, then?”
“What?”
That got his attention.
Nathan takes the phone from my hand, his eyes scan down the article, and then he relaxes and tosses the phone back into my lap. “Eh, not so bad. Ready to go in?”
My mouth falls open and I peer down at the article that would have me burying myself alive. “Not so bad? Nathan, she shamed you for…” I let that sentence die off because Nathan and I have NEVER talked openly about our sex lives before. We treat the topic like it’s a building on fire and give it a wide berth. Instead, I let my eyes drop to the forbidden area of his jeans and hope this conveys the words I’m too embarrassed to say. “Not being able to…well, you read it, so you know.”