Like Gravity(37)

The man—whore doesn’t even want you. Talk about an ego-bruiser.

I wasn’t too proud to admit that his lack of attention over the past week had stung. I hadn’t heard from him at all, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of the way I’d avoided him at the beginning of the semester. Oh, how the tables had turned. How the mighty had fallen. How many more clichés can I use in a row?

I was getting a taste of my own medicine – okay, that was the last one, I promise – and, unfortunately for me, it was the disgusting store-brand, grape flavored liquid cough syrup my foster mom used to shove down our throats when we couldn’t sleep at night.

It was obvious that Finn had chosen this song, one that cried out for redemption and second chances, purposefully. It was equally unobvious why he’d chosen it. The lyrics were clearly an apology, a plea for someone’s forgiveness – and I was near-desperate to figure out whose. Somewhere along the line, he’d started to matter to me.

Evidently, the feeling was not mutual.

But he’d been there for me last week after my breakdown. Granted, his jokes were so pathetic they could barely be considered consolatory. Still, if he needed someone to talk to, I would try not to be a coldhearted bitch for at least five minutes and offer him some comfort. I would be his friend.

As soon as he stepped off the stage, women with too much makeup and too few clothes surrounded him. They reminded me of the seagulls that would swarm any flyaway scrap of food on the California beaches my mother had so often taken me to as a child. She’d called them rats-with-wings, laughing as she’d tossed yet another potato chip into the sky to increase their rabid fervor. Come to think of it, Finn could probably throw a dirty sock into this swarm of girls and they’d kill each other in the animalistic race to win it.

He was laughing, in his element as he soaked up their attention. The sadness that had been etched onto his face as he performed had retreated back behind his eyes and that trademark panty-dropping smile. Or maybe I’d been seeing things.

I rolled my eyes and turned back to Lexi, who was watching me closely.

“You like him,” she said, surprise written across her face.

“No I don’t,” I snapped, forcing a laugh as if she was ridiculous to think such a thing. “And we’ve already discussed this, haven’t we?”

“No. We talked about you sleeping with him and tossing him aside, like you do all the others. Not that there have even been any others lately – but we’ll get back to that later.” She stared at me, as if trying to decode my brain with just the power of her eyes. “You like him. As in, you care about him. I never thought I’d see the day.” Her voice was laced with something like awe as she continued to look at me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lex. You know better than anyone that I don’t do relationships or commitments or even emotions.”

“Then why haven’t you been with anyone else since you met him? Explain that!” She stared at me, triumphant.

“You know, you’re right. It has been too long,” I said, pushing back my seat and standing up. “I think I’ll go find someone to go home with right now.”

Sadness and regret instantly flashed in Lexi’s eyes. “I’m sorry I mentioned anything, Brookie. Stay with me,” she pleaded. “Don’t do this again.”

“Take my guitar home for me, ‘kay?” I tossed over my shoulder, ignoring her as I turned to head for the bar. A quick glance toward the stage assured me that Finn was still busy with his adorning fans. With one blonde on each arm, he certainly wouldn’t be in need of my friendship tonight. I mentally scoffed at my earlier thoughts of comforting him; clearly, I’d been mistaken.

When I reached the bar, I singled out the guy who’d be taking me home within thirty seconds. It was a talent I’d possessed for years: one glance told me everything I needed to know about a person.

My bedmate for the night was an easy mark. He was at the bar laughing with two male friends, which told me he was laid-back and likely single. He was drinking a beer, so he was probably straight and wouldn’t be so hammered that he’d have any problems performing in the bedroom. His light green plaid button down was casual, but showed off the muscles in his broad back and mirrored the color of his irises.

I could have him back at his apartment, naked, within the hour if I played this right.

Approaching slowly, I made sure to ignore him as I walked up to the empty barstool next to his and leaned over the bar. I waved in the bartender’s direction to signal that I was ready to order, then pushed my dark curls over my shoulder in a gesture designed to appear impatient. If my approach alone hadn’t caught plaid-shirt boy’s attention, the fragrance of my shampoo would do the trick. I bought it on special order and it smelled like apples and cinnamon – something that, apparently, attracted boys like crack. I think its male-enticement abilities would be surpassed only by bacon-scented shampoo, and I was pretty sure John Frieda didn’t make that.

When the bartender reached me, I ordered a bottle of Sam Adams and paid him quickly. Turning around, I faced the stage and leaned back against the bar, taking a deep pull on my beer. I could feel the weight of plaid-shirt boy’s gaze on my profile as the cool bottle rested against my lips and I swallowed slowly. The tip of my tongue lightly traced the glass rim, and I hid a smile as I heard him clear his throat roughly and shuffle his feet.