Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(67)
More often than not, these heroes are hyper-controlling, brooding, and possessive. They practically breathe fire if another man looks in her general direction, even though they’ve just slept with another woman an hour before.
Now, it’s known that heroines are held to a much higher standard than heroes. But why do we let our heroines fall for scum for the sake of the hero’s character arc? I’m all for a redemption story, but if I wouldn’t choose this guy to date my best friend, I just can’t root for him.
Thoughts?
COMMENTS:
Noooooo. Rakes are THE BEST. The payoff is always the most satisfying when they inevitably change their ways for THE ONE.
I like my playboys fictional. I have no time for them in real life!
? chapter twenty-three
LIKE THE EMOTIONALLY balanced millennial I am, coping with my problems by being petty on social media is my go-to. Unfortunately, one of the most beloved romance tropes got the brunt of my passive-aggressive callout.
I make the wise decision to delete the video entirely as I stomp down the stairs from the rooftop in Trevor’s hideous Crocs. Aside from being ten sizes too large for my feet, they’re disgustingly comfortable and convenient for hot tub sessions. The tiniest sliver of me partially understands the hype, but I’d rather commit to an exclusive diet of raw vegetables for life before I admit that.
The lights are off in our apartment, which tells me Trevor is still out on the town. I imagine he’s in his glory right now, surrounded by beautiful, large-breasted women, on track to bringing home another Instagram model of his choosing to ravage. Maybe five. Though he’ll concentrate most of his efforts on Kyla.
I seethe with jealousy at the mere thought of him with Kyla. How does one properly prepare themselves to hear the guy they like having sex with another woman across the hall?
Perhaps this was inevitable all along. Aside from moving out and taking up residence in a cardboard box on the street, what else am I supposed to do but suck it up? Maybe it’ll get easier with each successive woman.
The acoustics of my trusty Taylor Swift breakup playlist fill the apartment as I await my fate in the living room, engulfed in darkness (to match my mood). Like my Ex-Files box, this playlist has been with me since my breakup with Tommy in ninth grade. With each new album, I strategically add the gloomiest songs in advance of such a time as this.
I’m seven songs deep when Trevor returns, interrupting the emotional bridge of “All Too Well” (the ten-minute version, obviously). Bracing myself for Kyla’s inevitable high-pitched giggle, I drag myself into a seated position, taking in Trevor’s massive outline in the doorway. It appears he’s returned alone. Kyla is nowhere to be seen. I do the mental running man, followed by a couple of air punches. I’m far more elated about his temporary lone-wolf status than I should be.
“Hey,” I rasp through the darkness, hitting pause on Taylor Swift.
“Why are you lying in the dark alone?” His tone is lazy and slurred, a far contrast from his typical terse, rushed cadence. He wobbles a tad, groping at the wall for support. He is definitely not sober.
Drunk Trevor doesn’t care that he’s kicked his shoes into a messy pile. Or that his coat slipped off the hanger the moment he walked away. Drunk Trevor even props his feet on the coffee table the moment he slouches onto the couch.
A chunk of his usually tamed, ashy waves branches upward, Alfalfa-style. I stand to pat it down before my brain sounds the alarm, reminding me he’s like a rescue dog wearing one of those Do Not Touch, I Bite vests because he can’t be trusted yet. And neither can I.
“I’ve never seen you under the influence before. I hope you Uber’d,” I say, forcing both hands at my sides where they belong.
“Course I did. What’d you do tonight?”
“Hot tub. Self-loathing. The usual.”
His chuckle is light and easy, almost giddy. He runs his hand through his hair, inadvertently making his cowlick worse. He fishes the remote from the crack between the cushions. Without notice, he tosses it to me, thoroughly entertained when I dazedly fumble it like a slow loris. “Wanna watch The Bachelor with me?”
“You’re going to watch it without me either way, aren’t you?” I venture. “Who knew you’d become such a proud citizen of Bachelor Nation.”
He swings me a lazy, resigned grin. “What can I say? I’m invested in Wyatt’s life now. Come on, sit with me.”
“Spoiler alert: he will choose a bride and they’ll split up six months later,” I inform him, not budging. If I know myself as well as I think, spending more quality time with a guy I have unrequited feelings for can only end in a tsunami of tears.
He pats the middle cushion next to him for emphasis. Like the weak-willed individual I am, I concede, settling on the far cushion. My entire body is engulfed in flames. I’ve basically just agreed to a TV date with Satan.
I’m profusely sweating in my flannels throughout Wyatt’s group date. The girls are quite literally boxing and taking punches to win his affection. One girl is hard-core, nearly breaking another woman’s veneers.
Trevor nudges me on the thigh with his knuckle. “I could see you breaking someone’s nose. You’re like a little scrappy hamster.”
“I once bit another girl who tried to kiss Daniel at recess,” I admit.