Brutally Beautiful(31)

Without warning, he hauled me up by the waist onto the counter, gripping my skin tightly. His fingers splayed out over the bare skin of my legs, the tips of his fingers pressing against the edge of my cotton boy shorts. Holding a steady gaze, his thumb lightly brushed across the skin of my inner thigh, before gripping me tighter.

“Get your hands off me, Grayson. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me,” I whispered, our faces less than an inch away from each other. “I’m more than what I do for a living. I’m a friend, a lover, a sister. I’m ANYTHING I want to f*cking be. I pity you for defining yourself because of the four walls you box yourself into. And stop looking at me like you’re going to kiss me again, because it’s not going to happen. If I’m not good enough because I’m a waitress, don't settle for me, don't sink down to my level. You don't deserve anything I have to offer. Let that shit hurt for a hot minute, simmer in it then leave me the f*ck alone. Repeat that shit to yourself in your head when you walk out of here, rinse and repeat.”

His expression darkened, “You can still feel my lips on yours, can’t you?”

“Shut up, Kade, and get your hands off me.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he hissed.

I pushed forward, moving him away with my body, “You’re wrong.”

“Prove me wrong,” he hissed again, louder.

Jumping off the counter edge, I walked past him and scowled, “You kissed me, not the other way around. I think you need to look into therapy.”

He laughed darkly and shook his head, “I don’t want proof about the kiss; I know you still feel my lips on yours. We both knew the truth after that kiss. I wasn’t moaning all by myself in here. You kissed back just as hard. We both want to f*ck each other until we can’t walk straight. I want you to prove me wrong that you’re not like every other person on this planet.” A minute or two passed as we stared at each other. Ardent slate eyes bore into mine, waiting; wanting. He didn’t want me to prove him wrong. He wanted me to be like whatever it was that had hurt him; that was plain to see on his face. What the hell happened to him?

“You don’t want me to prove anything to you. You want me to be just like everybody else.”

Kade was silent for a few long moments, and then he slowly moved past me to the door. His eyes gave everything away, but he said the words anyway, “You’re right,” he whispered, “because then, I’d have a tangible reason to stop thinking about you.”

Clearly not thinking, I stepped in front of him, blocking his way to the door. “Kade?” This man has to be suffering from dissociative identity disorder.

He lifted his head up to meet my eyes, “Don’t, Lainey. Don’t listen to anything I’m saying. I’m drunk as hell and I liked what I saw through your window, that’s it.”

I nodded my head sharply, “Right, because I’m only good for a dance. Well, you got what you wanted, so no charge either. I guess you were right about how easy I was to label into your lap-dancing-gold-digging-uneducated-waitress-trailer-trash file,” I smiled. “Oh, wait. Hold on,” I said, pulling my aid-bag off the hook by the door and rummaging through it. When my hands felt the small-foiled package I was looking for, I grinned wider at him, flicking the condom right into his face.

Kade caught the condom with a quick flick of his hand. Yeah, great reflexes for a drunk, right? He arched his eyebrows up at me.

“It’s a condom, Kade, because if you’re going to act like a dick, you might as well dress like one,” I explained, smiling so wide my cheeks actually hurt. Then I grabbed his jacket from the hook I hung it on last night and tossed it at him. “Thanks for the pleasant visit.”