Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(6)
One month later
ACCORDING TO GRANDMA Flo, the first moment you open your eyes sets the tone for the rest of the day. I liken it to an ill-advised opening scene of a novel, or a rom-com where the main character wakes up in full makeup; unstained, crisp pajamas; and perfectly intact barrel locks.
Though in reality, I routinely wake up looking like a cadaver from a grisly crime scene. Sickly, pale, and disheveled.
A blue, pre-sunrise glow peeks through the blinds, which tells me it’s one hour too early for consciousness and definitely far too late for the rhythmic squeak of the mattress and the steady drum of the headboard slamming against the wall across the hall.
It’s been one month since I moved in, and this is the third woman Trevor has brought home (not including the redhead from move-in day). One look at Trevor and it’s easy to understand his success with the ladies. Not only is he a heroic firefighter, but I’ve deduced he resembles a mildly less tortured, darker-haired version of the lead Sons of Anarchy outlaw biker, ready to whisk you away for a life of crime on his Harley-Davidson. In reality, Trevor doesn’t actually own a motorcycle. He owns a plum-colored used Toyota Corolla with like-new, spotless interior. But he does have the foreboding, tattooed-badass look going for him.
I certainly don’t resent Trevor for having a healthy sex life. In fact, after over a year of celibacy, I’m seething with jealousy. But cobwebs on my downstairs aside, sleep is a precious commodity as a shift worker. After back-to-back night shifts, I was looking forward to sleeping in today before transitioning to day shifts.
I fold my pillow over my head in a sad attempt to muffle the cries of pleasure. But somehow, they just grow louder. There’s only so much Yes, Oh God, and Fuck I can withstand before morbid curiosity sets in.
Is Trevor Metcalfe really that good in bed? Or is this woman faking it for the sake of his fragile male ego?
Must be faking it, I decide.
Without notice, my traitorous imagination gifts me a visual to accompany the audio. Trevor’s tattooed, sinewy forearms cage me in as his lustful gaze sweeps over the contours of my body. His thumb makes languished strokes on the underside of my wrist as he pins my hands above my head. The weight of his solid, muscled body puts pressure exactly where I want it. He presses the softest bite into my neck, sending a trill of electricity to the forgotten corners of my body before he—
I snap my eyes open, loosening my death grip around my blanket I didn’t know I was clutching. Where the hell did that come from? Am I that hard done by?
I refuse to be remotely turned on by the sounds of my roommate and a random woman going at it. Not today, Satan.
Despite being objectively hot, tattooed bad boys like Trevor are not normally my type. It’s the white-collar sort with front-pleated chinos, cross-country runner bods, and boy-next-door-turned-respectable-plant-daddy energy that usually make me feel some type of way. And while Trevor is an exception to this, I have no intention of crossing that line with him. After the year I’ve had, platonic, drama-free cohabitation is just what I need. Besides, given the gorgeous women he brings home, he’s certainly categorized me as nothing more than an obnoxious, sexless human.
Bleary-eyed and frustrated with the uninvited tension between my thighs, I throw on my favorite cable-knit sweaterdress from the floor and snap a cute bow over yesterday’s French braid. I even apply an extra layer of mascara, full foundation, and bronzer in preparation for my Live video session this morning with Grandma Flo.
By the time I drift into the kitchen for my morning Pop-Tart, the screaming coming from Trevor’s bedroom has thankfully dissipated, replaced by a relative calm. As I toss the singed pastry onto my plate, I catch Trevor’s hookup tiptoeing toward the front door. Aside from the wildly matted hair and general fatigue from physical exertion, her professional-grade winged eyeliner is smudge-free. The beam of light from the tiny kitchen window above the sink gives her tanned skin a luminous, postorgasmic glow.
When our eyes meet, she stops in her tracks. “Morning,” she whispers, promptly averting her gaze to her bare feet, as if bracing for judgment.
Because I’m an emotional beacon with far too many feelings, I won’t touch a man’s penis if I don’t know his middle name. But I don’t judge others for partaking in casual sex. In fact, I envy their ability to take what they need while avoiding emotional damage.
“Hi. I’m Trevor’s roommate.” I’m about to wish her well and continue on about my day, but for reasons beyond me, I thrust my plate in her direction. “Want a Pop-Tart? It’s raspberry.”
She eyes it like it’s a rare delicacy. “You are doing the lord’s work. I’m starving.” She plucks the Pop-Tart from the plate, basking in the underrated glory of that first sugary bite.
The familiar creak of the pipes and sputtering water down the hall tells me Trevor’s taking a shower, so I don’t bother using a hushed voice. “Not surprised, from what I heard. You need to replenish your calories.”
She half chokes on her bite. “Sorry.” She pauses. “I’m Gabby, by the way.”
I don’t bother to hide my eager smile. “Tara.”
Two Pop-Tarts later, Gabby and I are besties. Turns out, she’s a badass. At the ripe age of twenty-four, she already runs an Etsy business selling handmade jewelry (I’ve ordered a dainty gold necklace). She’s also a member at the same fancy gym as Crystal. And despite my initial protest against physical activity, she’s convinced me to join her for an aerial yoga class later this week.