Follow Me(18)

“I may take you up on that, considering I don’t even know what an Allen wrench is.”

“Of course you don’t.” he said with a laugh and shook his head. “Someone’s always built your furniture for you, haven’t they?”

I shrugged. “When you’re this pretty . . .”

“Modest, too.”

“You know me.”

“I do,” he said softly, reaching out and wrapping a lock of my strawberry-blonde hair around his fingers, tugging slightly. “You’re letting your hair grow again. I like it.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” I said, surveying his athletic build, tan skin, and neat blond hair. Teasingly, I pinched the flesh on his tight midsection. “You’ve put on a little weight, but you carry it well.”

“Shut up, Audrey,” he said throatily, wrapping a strong arm around my waist, pulling me close, and lowering his lips onto my smiling mouth.

Kissing Nick was easy, comfortable. Even though our relationship had come to an end when we graduated, Nick always called when he was up in New York and we saw each other a few times a year. I once told him that being with him was like riding a bike—no matter how much time passed, I could always remember how our mouths, our bodies, fit together. He had given me a strange look, mildly perturbed at being compared to a man-powered vehicle, but hadn’t disagreed.

I snaked a hand up underneath his T-shirt, tracing his muscles and lingering on the left shoulder blade I knew was marked by a poorly conceived tattoo. I felt a little bad about that. I had been with him in the Fort Lauderdale tattoo parlor, both of us slightly buzzed on rum and sun, and I should have told him not to take the tattoo artist’s word that the Chinese characters he pointed to meant “brave.” I should have told him that getting a tattoo he couldn’t read was a terrible idea.

But Nick should have told me not to tattoo a random line of poetry on the inside of my wrist. He should have pointed out that my obsession with Edna St. Vincent Millay was new and likely fleeting, and he would have been right.

“So,” Nick said, pulling away slightly, his lips swollen. “You got a bed in here anywhere, or have you just been sleeping on a pile of boxes?”

“Let me give you the grand tour,” I said, tucking my fingers into his waistband and pulling him toward my bedroom.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN





HIM


At home, I sat on my couch, staring at Audrey’s most recent Instagram post while holding a newly acquired container of animal crackers on my lap. One by one, I pressed the misshapen beasts against the roof of my mouth before crushing them between my molars, savoring the taste, knowing that this—this bland, slightly sweet flavor—was what the inside of her mouth tasted like. I closed my eyes as I chewed, rolling my tongue through partially masticated cracker, thinking of the warm, wet interior of her mouth and her perfect rosebud lips.

The thought ignited a series of explosions beneath my skin, miniature bursts that toed the line between pain and pleasure. I focused on the glimmer of Audrey’s hair, the pale glow of her skin, and then dragged a hand up my bare arm. My overstimulated flesh crackled and burned, just the way it did when I was near her.

Her physical perfection captivated me, and her sparkling personality spoke to my very soul. Still, there was something faintly dangerous about her, a warning in her flame-streaked hair and seductive turquoise eyes. She will ruin you, a voice deep in my subconscious cautioned, but it was too late. She had ruined me already.

I wanted nothing other than her, wouldn’t, couldn’t stop until the drumbeat of her heart reverberated against my own chest for all time.

For now, I put another animal cracker in my mouth.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN





AUDREY


The first time a follower recognized me, I was half-naked in the Equinox locker room. I’d just finished an intense HIIT class, and I was so sweaty that my skin felt slick and my eyes stung. As I peeled my soaked lululemon tank from my body, a ponytailed, college-aged woman in neon-pink exercise pants bounced up to me.

“You’re Audrey Miller!” she announced, beaming.

“That’s me,” I said, offering an exhausted smile and desperately wishing I’d taken more care with my hair that morning. I’d tied it up in a sloppy topknot before class, and I could feel the weight of it tugging against the elastic, surely pulling strangely across my scalp.

Pink Pants turned to a pair of women across the locker room and called, “Danielle! Reina! Come over here! I told you it was Audrey Miller!”

Her friends in similarly bright-hued workout gear surrounded me, telling me how much they loved my blog, loved my hair, loved my stories. They pulled out bedazzled iPhones and asked to take selfies; I made them wait until I’d showered. I half expected them to have vanished before I emerged in my towel, but there they were, eagerly waiting, phones in hand. Their enthusiasm was overwhelming.

I fucking loved it.

When I’d relayed the encounter to Izzy, she’d smiled lightly and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, my best friend, the narcissist.” She’d claimed she was just joking, but I knew she wasn’t. I didn’t care, though. Being recognized like some sort of celebrity was the best high I’d ever experienced.