Maybe Not (Maybe #1.5)(8)

This is gonna be fun.

After I back the car out, I keep half of my focus on the road and half of it on her legs. She has one propped up on the dash and she keeps running her hand up and down her thigh. I can’t tell if she’s doing it in a seductive way or because she likes the sound of her fingernails scraping over her pantyhose.

I have to adjust in my seat and swallow the lump in my throat, because we’ve never actually been this close before for this long. The tension is thick, and I can’t tell if it’s all mine or if it’s a shared tension. I clear my throat and do what I can to not make this the most awkward ten miles I’ve ever had to drive.

“So,” I say, attempting to think of something to break the ice. “Do you like your job?”

Bridgette laughs under her breath. “Yes, Warren. I love it. I love when disgusting old men grab my ass night after night, and I especially love it when drunk guys think my boobs are an accessory and not an extension of my body.”

I shake my head. I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to speak to her. I exhale and don’t bother asking her any more questions. She’s impossible to talk to.

Silence engulfs the car for another two miles. I hear her sigh heavily and I turn and glance at her, but she’s staring out the window. “The tips are good,” she says quietly.

I smile and look back at the road. I smile, because I know that’s as close to an apology as Bridgette is capable of giving. “That’s good,” I say to her, my way of telling her I accept her apology.

We’re quiet until we reach her work. I stop out front and she gets out of the car and then leans down and looks at me. “I need you to pick me up at eleven tonight.”

She slams the door shut without saying please or thank you or goodbye. And even though she’s the most inconsiderate person I’ve ever met in real life, I can’t stop smiling.

I think we may have just bonded.

? ? ?

After I make it home, the first thing I do is set timers on every single porn on pay-per-view. I spend the next few hours fast-forwarding through most of them, pausing it any time it lands on a girl that even remotely resembles her. I take into account that she may have been wearing a wig, so I can’t rule women out simply based on their hair color.

Ridge takes a seat next to me on the couch and I consider putting the TV on caption for him, but I don’t. Let’s be honest, pornos aren’t known for their riveting story lines.

Ridge elbows me to get my attention. “What’s with this new fascination?” he asks, referring to the fact that I’ve done nothing today other than watch porn after porn.

I don’t want to be honest, so I just shrug. “I like porn.”

He nods his head slowly and then stands up. “I’m not gonna lie,” he signs. “It’s really awkward. I’ll be out on my balcony if you need me.”

I pause the TV. “You worked out any new songs yet?”

Ridge looks frustrated when I ask him this. He shakes his head. “Not yet.” He walks away and I feel bad for asking. I don’t know what’s changed over the last few months, but he’s not the same. He seems more stressed out than usual, and it makes me wonder if he and Maggie have been fighting. He says they’re fine, but he’s never had a problem writing music for the band before, and everyone knows the number one source for musical inspiration comes from relationships.

Ridge and Brennan are both musically inclined and I’ve always been a little bit jealous in that regard. Granted, I’m jealous of Ridge in a lot of ways. He just seems to have been born with a certain level of maturity, and I’ve always envied that about him. He’s not impulsive like I am and he also seems to take people’s feelings into consideration more than I do. I know Brennan has always looked up to him and I definitely do, too, so seeing him struggling with whatever is going on in that head of his is tough. He knew what he was getting into when he began dating Maggie, so I’m not sure if he’s growing unhappy in his relationship with her or if maybe he’s concerned she’s unhappy with him. Whatever it is, I’m not sure what I can do to help him.

I don’t think I can help him.

I give my focus back to the TV and fast-forward through at least three more films before I realize it’s already eleven and I’m late picking up Bridgette.

Shit. Time flies when you’re watching porn.

I spend the next several minutes in fast-forward, making it the ten miles to Hooters in record time. When I pull up, she’s standing outside with her arms folded across her chest, shooting daggers at my car. She swings the door open and climbs in. “You’re late.”

I wait until she slams the door before pressing on the gas. “You’re welcome for the ride, Bridgette.”

I can feel the anger radiating from her. I don’t know if it’s simply because I’m late picking her up or because she had a shitty night at work, but I’m not about to ask. When we pull into the complex, she jumps out of my car before I even have it in park. She stalks up the stairs and slams the front door shut.

When I reach the apartment, she’s already in her bedroom. I try to be understanding, but this is just . . . it’s fucking rude. I give her a ride to and from work and all she does is bitch at me? You don’t have to be taught manners to know how inappropriate that kind of behavior is. Hell, I’m one of the most inconsiderate people I know, and I would never treat someone like she’s treating me.