chapter eighteen
TREVOR BALKS AT the mere suggestion, his laugh echoing into the cold night air in a plume of vapor. “I was just kidding about the breakfast metaphor.”
“No. You make a good point.” I retrieve my towel with the renewed energy of a bad bitch on a mission. “I don’t switch it up enough. I’ve never had a one-night stand before. I’ve never even touched the penis of a dude whose middle name I don’t know. But I hear it’s liberating.”
He follows me out of the hot tub. “It is . . . But you don’t like new things. You said yourself you hate the idea of casual sex.”
“I mean, I’ve never actually tried it. How can I proclaim to dislike something I’ve never tried?”
“But what about your exes? You still have Daniel. What if he’s the One?”
“Daniel is a long-term play. I’m still trying to find a way to track him down,” I say with a dismissive eye roll. As of yet, Daniel is entirely unsearchable online (not even a deceased grandparent’s obituary to be found). I’ve actually contemplated draining my meager savings to hire a private investigator. “I need something more immediate.”
“I guess—”
“We’re going on the prowl tonight. You’re my wingman.” The badass, empowering beginning of “WAP” plays in my mind as I toss my towel over my shoulders like a cape.
He groans, shivering as he pats himself dry with his own towel. “As in going out? Why don’t you just use a hookup app like a normal human?”
“Because. I tried it and it wasn’t for me.”
“Do I even get a say in this?” Trevor asks.
“No,” I call over my shoulder as I head inside. “But it’ll be worth your while. I’ll do all the cleaning for the next two weeks.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he groans.
Turns out, plotting your wardrobe and makeup choices is ten times harder when you plan to end the night getting hot and heavy with a stranger instead of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. The half hour spent in the shower carefully shaving and exfoliating better be worth it.
By the time I finally emerge from my room, club-ready, Trevor is still lying on the couch where I left him, his eyes closed like he’s dreading impending doom but is willing to give in. At the creak of the floor under my footsteps, he cracks a lid.
Mouth agape, he gives me a judgy once-over, taking in my trusty little black dress—the only college-era dress that still looks remotely flattering. It’s short, many fingers above the knees, with a daringly low scoop back that prevents me from wearing a real bra. His eyes linger over my bare legs, to which I generously applied a vanilla shimmer cream.
“You look . . . uh, nice,” he says, his tone obligatory as he fights to summon the words, like someone complimenting their granny’s new living room lamp. This only serves to underscore the importance of this mission: to stop having errant sexual thoughts about Trevor. And, of course, sexual liberation and all that jazz.
“Thanks,” I say dryly, chucking my duffel bag onto the floor. I get on hands and knees to search the bowels of the front closet for my black heels. Of course they’re hiding in the very bottom.
“What’s with the duffel bag?”
I stand, trusty heels in hand. “It’s an overnight bag. Brought some makeup and a change of clothes.”
“Why would you bring a change of clothes to the club?”
“Just in case. What if my hookup wants to hang out tomorrow?”
He runs both hands down his stubble in exasperation. “Tara, this is a bad idea. You do not, under any circumstances, hang out the next day. That defeats the entire purpose of a one-night stand.”
I scrunch my face in silent protest.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. Completely sure,” I say with more conviction than I actually have.
“Then put the overnight bag away.”
• • •
THE ZOO CLUB reeks of eau de teenage boy after a hard gym class under the sweltering sun. The burning smell of the fog machine certainly doesn’t help. I haven’t been here since college, but I’m well acquainted with the glittery black rubber dance floor, having once face-planted while trying impress a dude wearing a beanie with a dance move I saw in a music video.
Tonight, the floor is barely visible with the sea of people bumping and grinding to the beat of an electronic Justin Bieber remix. Every square inch of this club is packed with desperadoes searching for someone to keep them warm on this frigid winter night. As I watch from the sidelines, I come to the startling realization that I am a desperado.
For me, dancing with strangers for free drinks in college was easy. I’d make casual small talk about the most random of topics before slinking away to my circle of girlfriends, long before the guy asked to take me home. But searching for a potential man to sleep with is a whole different ball game. The looming reality of swapping bodily fluids with a sweaty rando with shifty eyes and a bad haircut fills my gut with impending doom.
I’m inundated with flashbacks to middle school health class warnings of possible death via sexually transmitted infections. Even my gag reflex is triggered, although it may be the scent of hundreds of patrons’ body odors combined. It’s hard to say at this point.
Paranoia of STIs aside, I need this. My body needs this.
I clasp the thin yet soft fabric of Trevor’s plain white tee as he leads me through the crowd like he’s my bodyguard and I’m a celebrity VIP. Though I’m certainly not the one turning heads.
Women and men alike are eyeing him up and down like he’s a snack. No—a full six-course meal. The appetizer, soup, main course, dessert, cheese, and coffee. And they would be right. Trevor is objectively flawless. The best-looking man in this club, and the asshole isn’t even trying. He didn’t even style his hair after his shower, and yet it’s impeccable.
Despite his thirsty onlookers, he remains cool as a cucumber as I buy our drinks (beer for him, vodka cran for me). The moment we shift into an open space adjacent to the bar, a woman in a tight python-print dress makes her move, introducing herself like a confident queen bee. Trevor doesn’t seem to mind the attention, so I shove down my jealousy and give them some space, inching forward to eye up the dance floor for potential mates.
It’s challenging to accurately assess the possibilities under seizure-inducing strobe lights. Just when I spot a cute guy in a ball cap bobbing his head on the perimeter of the dance floor, Trevor pulls me back by the elbow, shuffling me into a darkened corner.
I frown. “Where’d your friend go?”
“Are you sure you’ll be able to handle it?” he asks over the music. I don’t know if he’s ignoring my question or if he simply didn’t hear me.
I level him with a stubborn stare. “Metcalfe, stop treating me like some delicate flower. I’m an independent, progressive, sexually liberated being living my truth. And if we just so happen to connect on a deep level—”
“See, that’s your problem. You can’t expect to connect on any level with a one-night stand. That’s the entire point. No cuddling. No emotional attachment.”
“I won’t get attached. Relax.”
He’s gearing up to argue with me when a heavily tattooed woman who looks like Kat Von D rocks up next to him and shoots her shot. Side by side, they just look like they belong. I picture them ripping around on their respective motorcycles. They’d spend their days doing hard-core things like tattooing each other’s bodies or rocking out to Kurt Cobain. The moment I catch him staring at the thorny rose tattoo on her ample cleavage, I can’t be bothered.
Taking it as my cue to leave, I pirouette onto the edge of the dance floor when an Ariana Grande jam comes on. Eyes closed, arms in the air, I solo dance, feeling the beat. Surely I look sexy and carefree, maybe a little mysterious. Just the type of chill woman all the guys want. The ideal type: with zero emotions and most definitely zero basic needs. Come at me, eligible bachelors.
By the time Ariana Grande abruptly transitions to a Drake song that doesn’t inspire me, not a soul in the crowd has asked me to dance.
Trevor’s warm honey eyes briefly meet mine from the side of the dance floor. He’s still in casual conversation with Kat Von D, but he’s now wearing his crooked, irresistibly sexy smile. The one he wears when he’s trying not to laugh in my face.
His amusement at my expense sparks a flame inside me. I promptly motor to the other side of the bar. Half a song goes by before Trevor finds me. His new friend hasn’t followed him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I demand, my hand on my hip.
“You were dancing like an injured daddy longlegs. Why did you take off on me?” he demands.
“You were laughing at me. And you were too distracted to be of any value as a wingman, so I’m going solo.”
He leans in close to my ear when the beat drops on another EDM hit. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m ready to wingman for you now.” He casts his hawk eyes around the club, surveying.
“What about that guy?” I point to a pleasant-looking dude standing near the bar, timidly waiting his turn to order as some drunk oaf pushes in front of him. “He looks like he has a kind heart.”
Trevor shakes his head with far too much authority. “No. He looks like a youth pastor.”
“What’s wrong with a youth pastor? I don’t want to hook up with an asshole.”
His eyes cut to me. “You’re looking for a good fuck, Tara. Not an angel. And let me tell you, that guy isn’t going to satisfy you.” His voice vibrates against my skin, sending an electric thrill rippling down my spine.
Before the buzz branches to other places, I shake it off. “Satisfy me? How would you know what would satisfy me?”
He sighs toward the ceiling, as if I’ve asked him a trick question. “I have a lot of experience.”
I go up on my tiptoes, brutally failing to match his height. “Not with me.” I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to accomplish with that statement, but his eyes blaze for the briefest of moments.
“Obviously. But that guy is wrong for you. Try someone else.”
I assess a hard-core duo near the bar. One wears a leather jacket while the other is in a literal denim vest, which accentuates his tattoos. Neither of them is remotely my type. But maybe that’s the point of tonight. Maybe I need to venture outside my comfort zone. “What about them?”
His expression screams Have you lost your marbles? “They look like hit men.”
This is the status quo for the next twenty minutes. Trevor is a bottomless pit of contradictory critique.
He looks like a douchebag.
He’s wearing a velour tracksuit. Next.
Look at his shirt. Do you want to sleep with a man who pops his collar?
His head is weirdly shaped.
Way too short, even for you.
Definitely a murderer.
I groan when he rejects the last half-decent-looking guy in this joint. At this rate, finding a suitable hookup is about as likely as Seth suddenly turning into a good person. Or me giving up potato chips. “Look, I appreciate your help, but I think I should carry on alone. You’re killing my vibe here. Besides, let’s be real. I’m a dowdy, flat-chested nerd who still gets carded at the liquor store. Not some supermodel. Time is ticking. I can’t afford to be picky.”
He blinks, aggrieved. “I thought you said you were going to be picky because you have standards.”
“Yes, but your standards are impossible to meet.”
He tosses his hands in the air. “I’m not just gonna leave you here.”
“Yes, you are. This isn’t a Dateline episode. You’re treating me like a child. I don’t need your help. Go back to that woman with the tattoos. Or better yet, give Kyla a call.” Truthfully, the pin prickles return at the thought of him bringing home someone else. But I can’t dwell on it. I have to push the green monster back inside. We aren’t going to be anything more than roommates, as he made very clear. This is Trevor Metcalfe, after all. Him hooking up with someone new is just a fact, as sure as the sun rising tomorrow.
His jaw is tense. “Okay. Fine. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.”
“I want you to leave.” It’s the right call. If he stays, this entire night will be a wash, which is why I remain stone-faced when he lingers for a few moments before finally disappearing into the crowd.
His departure is like the chill of heavy clouds when you’re desperate for sun at the beach. I’ve never been in a club alone before without my friends. It feels . . . vulnerable. Before I start panicking, the youth-pastor guy at the bar catches my eyes, inviting me over with a simple smile.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says with a slight Southern drawl as I advance. Innocent and neighborhood pastor–ish as he may look, he’s definitely not ugly. Semi-square jaw. Soft hazel eyes. Slender build. Plaid flannel shirt. “What are you drinking tonight?”
“Vodka cran, you?” I yell over the music.
He holds up his glass and clinks it against mine. “Me too. Are we the same person?”
“Let’s find out,” I say, bravely closing the distance between us.
• • •
IT TAKES MITCH half an hour to ask if I want to “get out of here.”
I can barely suppress my delight at the prospect of getting straight to business, especially after listening to him drone on about his master’s degree in economics.
In the yellow hallway light of the apartment, Mitch isn’t as angelic as I’d originally thought. In fact, he’s not my type at all. I try to remind myself it doesn’t matter, so long as he’s going to rock my world. However, I begin to doubt his ability to do so when he drunkenly leans all his weight on me as I unlock the door.
Even though Trevor left the stove light on in the kitchen, I still manage to stub my toe on the overnight bag he forced me to leave behind. Mitch attempts to steady me but ends up nearly toppling over himself.
Trevor’s bedroom door is closed, and his light is off. I expected to hear the ecstasy-filled cries of Kat Von D, but it’s dead silent. There are no women’s shoes at the door. He hasn’t brought anyone home. While I know he doesn’t have to work tomorrow, I feel a tinge of guilt for potentially ruining his sleep.
Mitch hangs out in the living room for a few minutes, checking out my succulents (Louisa is my newest addition) while I dart into the bathroom to swish some last-minute mouthwash and ensure my armpits are stubble-free. On my way out, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My makeup is flirting dangerously close to raccoon chic. I resemble that meme of D.W. from Arthur, ominous purple circles shadowing her tired-AF eyes.
Mitch’s lips greet me the moment I exit the bathroom. He’s like a rabid dumpster dweller, pouncing out of nowhere. His kiss is so hard and fast, his front tooth stabs against my top lip.
I try to ignore the sting as he slides his sopping-wet tongue into my mouth. All I can taste is the bitterness of the vodka cran as he backs me into the wall. I’ve always wanted to be backed into a wall like in all the hottest sex scenes. But what those scenes leave out is the impact of your shoulders and tailbone hitting the drywall.
“Sorry.” He stifles a laugh as his tongue comes in for the kill.
I dart left, narrowly dodging it. “Everything good?”
“More than good. You?” His eyes are kind, concerned.
I nod away the doubt clouding my mind, kissing him back as we stumble into the darkness of my room.
We fall on the bed together in a strange mess of limbs. Instead of holding his weight up, he quite literally belly flops, knocking the wind out of me with his deadweight. I gasp for air like an awkward teenager losing my virginity all over again in my twin-size bed, my Beanie Baby collection bearing witness to the sweaty proceedings. Even an apologetic teenaged Cody Venner was ten times smoother than this guy.
“Do you have a condom?” Mitch whispers, tickling my neck with his moist breath.
My eyes snap open. As someone who doesn’t typically sleep with guys who aren’t my long-term boyfriend, I haven’t purchased condoms in years. “Oh. Damn. No, I don’t.”
“Shit. Me either,” he mutters, leaning back onto his knees. What guy doesn’t have a ten-year-old expired condom folded in his wallet? Really, Mitch?
Clearly he’s not exactly a pro at this random hookup thing, either. And that’s when I remember. I know someone who is. I leap out of bed like a trapeze artist. “Hold on. My roommate will have one.” I jog across the hall and knock.
Through the door, there’s a heavy sigh, followed by footsteps. When Trevor pulls the door open, he’s shirtless, his hair disheveled. “You okay?”
“Superb. Never better. Actually, I just need a condom,” I tell him with the casual air of a frat bro who freeloads condoms on the regular.
His face hardens, evidently irked I woke him up for this.
I cross my arms, refusing to let him guilt me after the three times his sex-capades woke me out of my peaceful slumber. “Would you prefer I have unprotected sex with a stranger and contract an STI?”
He sighs and stomps to his side table to grab two condoms. “Here.” He thrusts them into my hand. Then, without another word, he slams the door in my face.
I peer at the condoms and work down the lump in my throat. I’m doing this. I’m going to have sex with Mitch.
This is fine. No. This is great. Marvelous. Perfectly splendid.
Or is it?
My current stance (palms to knees, hyperventilating) tells me otherwise.
I remind myself why I’m so hell-bent on a one-night stand to begin with. I’m sexually frustrated. And more than that, I want to lose all inhibition and have casual sex, like everyone else my age seems to do without a care in the world. There’s nothing wrong with it morally. And yet, I can’t ignore the overwhelming urge to slam the brakes. Stat. Will sleeping with sloppy Mitch be any better than taking care of business all by myself? At this rate, probably not.
“Did you get them?” Mitch asks from the end of the bed.
“Yeah.” I hold them up like a sad carnival prize from the doorway, keeping my distance. “Mitch? I’m really sorry, but . . . I don’t think I can do this.”
His brows dip. “Oh, okay. Did I do anything to make you feel uncomfortable?”
“No. Definitely not. You’ve been great. I just don’t know if I’m cut out for one-night stands.”
He scratches the side of his head like he’s in deep thought. “I’m kind of thinking the same thing, if I’m being honest. I mean, you’re beautiful. I just . . .”
“It’s just not right.” My shoulders ease in relief.
We nod in mutual understanding, and I see him out. When I close the door and turn around, Trevor is sitting in the chair in the living room, one of my thriller books in hand.
I muffle a scream, clasping my palm to my chest. “Holy shit, Metcalfe. Why are you sitting out here in the cloak of darkness like a weirdo?”
He sets my book on his lap. “Couldn’t sleep after you woke me up. Figured I’d try finishing my book.”
“Oh.” My hand is still pressed to my chest, feeling the thrum of my heart beating wildly from the events of this strange night.
He’s looking at me, his expression unreadable. I don’t know if he’s going to chew me out for waking him up or say I told you so. He doesn’t do either. He stands and comes toward me, making a come here motion. “You okay?” he asks, pulling me into a hug.
I sigh into the warmth of his bare, solid chest, which is more reassuring than I’ll ever admit. My heart rate settles immediately at his touch. I wish I could close my eyes and stay here until the sun comes up and goes back down again. “I’m not cut out for that life. I don’t know how you do it. I’m exhausted, and I didn’t even get it in.”
“Please don’t say get it in.”
“Do you prefer going to bone town?”
“No.”
“Bumping uglies?”
“No.”
“Boinking? Bruising the beef curtains?”
He closes his eyes, pained. “Never say any of those again.”
“No promises.”
The rumble of his low chuckle gives me an overwhelming sense of comfort. “You are just . . .”
I peek up at him. “I’m just what?”
A brief smile plays across his lips. “Nothing. Wanna go get a greasy twenty-four-hour-diner breakfast?”
“Yes, please.”