Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(54)

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.