Taming the Storm
Page 35
I feel a sudden sense of privilege in this moment. I sleep under the same moving roof as Tom. I’ve seen the dude freshly showered and wearing only a towel. I get to talk with him all the time. He’s become a real friend to me over this past week.
I guess these women would think I’m lucky.
Maybe I am, and I just don’t appreciate it.
Or maybe this is just the beer talking.
Smiling to myself, I step back into the bar area, and that’s when I see Tom standing at the bar. And there’s a pretty bottle-blonde woman with hair down to her tiny waist, legs like bar stools, and big boobs that look real. And Tom is looking at them with full appreciation.
She’s his ideal.
I feel a war of emotions all at once. Witless—and yes, jealous—I decide against going to the bar, and I grit my teeth as I head back to our table.
Why the hell am I bothered that Tom’s talking to the blonde?
For the same reason I was bothered by him flirting with Ashlee.
I glance at Ashlee, and she looks seriously pissed at losing Tom to some random bar chick.
She’s jealous just like I am.
God, it would be funny if it wasn’t so depressing.
“I got you another drink,” Cale says, handing me a fresh beer.
“Thanks.” I smile at him gratefully as I sit down.
“Ly,” Sonny catches my attention. “We were just saying, it looks like Tom will be getting some tonight. I thought he’d be doing Ashlee, but I’m thinking it’s gonna be this chick at the bar. About time, if you ask me. He’s been low-key since we got on the road. It’s time Tom got in the game. Looks like you’re giving up the bedroom tonight.” Sonny nudges my arm, grinning.
I’m instantly irritated. Mix that with jealously and you’ve one very sour Lyla.
Over my dead body. Tom is not screwing her in my bed tonight—or ever.
Giving a noncommittal shrug, I turn away and gulp down a mouthful of beer.
“Another five minutes,” Van says, “and Tom will be out of here and banging her. Lucky bastard. She’s hot as hell.”
“Five minutes?” Sonny laughs. “More like two.”
I’m blaming the beer for the next words out of my mouth. “I bet you fifty dollars that Tom doesn’t have sex with that blonde tonight.”
What am I doing? Stop, Lyla. Stop now.
But I can’t stop because I’ve said it, and now, Sonny is glaring at me with his gambling face on.
If there’s one thing that Sonny can’t resist, aside from women, it is a bet.
“One hundred dollars,” Sonny drawls. “Because I’m that fucking sure he will.”
“Done.” I stick my hand out.
Sonny shakes it. “You’re gonna be changing your bedsheets in the morning,” he incites. “And I’m gonna be a hundred bucks up.”
He’s goading me.
Did I mention I have a competitive streak?
Ignoring him, I twist in my seat, praying to God that Tom has not left the bar with the blonde already. I look for him while I figure out how I’m going to win this bet.
He’s still here, and he’s not kissing her. Good sign.
But she’s all over him, and he’s not pushing her off.
Tom glances across the bar at me. I quickly look away.
I wait a few seconds and then look back.
The blonde is whispering in his ear. He laughs. Then, his hand comes to rest intimately on her hip.
I start to feel a bit sick.
He can’t have sex with her because…because…
I can’t lose this bet. If I lose, I’ll never hear the end of it from Sonny.
Chaka Khan’s “Ain’t Nobody” starts to play in the bar. The blonde seems to get overly excited by the song.
She slips her leg in between Tom’s, straddling his thigh. She starts to gyrate against his leg—well, gyrate is putting it cleanly. She’s dry-fucking his leg.
Shit.
He’ll have her bent over the bar, and be doing her in seconds at this rate.
My eyes squeeze painfully shut on the thought. My fingers curl into my palms, nails biting into my skin.
And that’s the reason for what I do next. I’m blaming Chaka Khan for initiating dry-leg-fucking, and I’m sticking with it.
Nothing to do with the fact that I’m sick with jealousy.
Nope, nothing to do with it at all.
I stand, picking up my beer, and head straight for Tom and his blonde groupie. I’m so beyond ready to put an end to their little show that it’s not even funny.
Tom’s eyes flicker up at my approach. There’s a note of wariness in his look. Then, he smiles—no, he grins, which pisses me off to no end.
Bastard.
My blood starts to boil.
“I just can’t fucking believe this!” I cry at Tom.
The blonde jerks away from him at the sound of my wailing.
“I can’t believe that you’re doing this to me—again!” I thrust my hand out at him.
Shock slackens his features.
“You promised you loved me!” I say in a whiny voice, making strangled noises like I’m about to start bawling. I even wipe my nose on my sleeve for effect.
“You promised this wouldn’t happen again! After the last time, when I caught crabs from you, I had to go to the doctor and have all that smelly medicine spread all over my vagina! I trusted you when you said it wouldn’t happen again! But here we are—again—with another groupie!”
I guess these women would think I’m lucky.
Maybe I am, and I just don’t appreciate it.
Or maybe this is just the beer talking.
Smiling to myself, I step back into the bar area, and that’s when I see Tom standing at the bar. And there’s a pretty bottle-blonde woman with hair down to her tiny waist, legs like bar stools, and big boobs that look real. And Tom is looking at them with full appreciation.
She’s his ideal.
I feel a war of emotions all at once. Witless—and yes, jealous—I decide against going to the bar, and I grit my teeth as I head back to our table.
Why the hell am I bothered that Tom’s talking to the blonde?
For the same reason I was bothered by him flirting with Ashlee.
I glance at Ashlee, and she looks seriously pissed at losing Tom to some random bar chick.
She’s jealous just like I am.
God, it would be funny if it wasn’t so depressing.
“I got you another drink,” Cale says, handing me a fresh beer.
“Thanks.” I smile at him gratefully as I sit down.
“Ly,” Sonny catches my attention. “We were just saying, it looks like Tom will be getting some tonight. I thought he’d be doing Ashlee, but I’m thinking it’s gonna be this chick at the bar. About time, if you ask me. He’s been low-key since we got on the road. It’s time Tom got in the game. Looks like you’re giving up the bedroom tonight.” Sonny nudges my arm, grinning.
I’m instantly irritated. Mix that with jealously and you’ve one very sour Lyla.
Over my dead body. Tom is not screwing her in my bed tonight—or ever.
Giving a noncommittal shrug, I turn away and gulp down a mouthful of beer.
“Another five minutes,” Van says, “and Tom will be out of here and banging her. Lucky bastard. She’s hot as hell.”
“Five minutes?” Sonny laughs. “More like two.”
I’m blaming the beer for the next words out of my mouth. “I bet you fifty dollars that Tom doesn’t have sex with that blonde tonight.”
What am I doing? Stop, Lyla. Stop now.
But I can’t stop because I’ve said it, and now, Sonny is glaring at me with his gambling face on.
If there’s one thing that Sonny can’t resist, aside from women, it is a bet.
“One hundred dollars,” Sonny drawls. “Because I’m that fucking sure he will.”
“Done.” I stick my hand out.
Sonny shakes it. “You’re gonna be changing your bedsheets in the morning,” he incites. “And I’m gonna be a hundred bucks up.”
He’s goading me.
Did I mention I have a competitive streak?
Ignoring him, I twist in my seat, praying to God that Tom has not left the bar with the blonde already. I look for him while I figure out how I’m going to win this bet.
He’s still here, and he’s not kissing her. Good sign.
But she’s all over him, and he’s not pushing her off.
Tom glances across the bar at me. I quickly look away.
I wait a few seconds and then look back.
The blonde is whispering in his ear. He laughs. Then, his hand comes to rest intimately on her hip.
I start to feel a bit sick.
He can’t have sex with her because…because…
I can’t lose this bet. If I lose, I’ll never hear the end of it from Sonny.
Chaka Khan’s “Ain’t Nobody” starts to play in the bar. The blonde seems to get overly excited by the song.
She slips her leg in between Tom’s, straddling his thigh. She starts to gyrate against his leg—well, gyrate is putting it cleanly. She’s dry-fucking his leg.
Shit.
He’ll have her bent over the bar, and be doing her in seconds at this rate.
My eyes squeeze painfully shut on the thought. My fingers curl into my palms, nails biting into my skin.
And that’s the reason for what I do next. I’m blaming Chaka Khan for initiating dry-leg-fucking, and I’m sticking with it.
Nothing to do with the fact that I’m sick with jealousy.
Nope, nothing to do with it at all.
I stand, picking up my beer, and head straight for Tom and his blonde groupie. I’m so beyond ready to put an end to their little show that it’s not even funny.
Tom’s eyes flicker up at my approach. There’s a note of wariness in his look. Then, he smiles—no, he grins, which pisses me off to no end.
Bastard.
My blood starts to boil.
“I just can’t fucking believe this!” I cry at Tom.
The blonde jerks away from him at the sound of my wailing.
“I can’t believe that you’re doing this to me—again!” I thrust my hand out at him.
Shock slackens his features.
“You promised you loved me!” I say in a whiny voice, making strangled noises like I’m about to start bawling. I even wipe my nose on my sleeve for effect.
“You promised this wouldn’t happen again! After the last time, when I caught crabs from you, I had to go to the doctor and have all that smelly medicine spread all over my vagina! I trusted you when you said it wouldn’t happen again! But here we are—again—with another groupie!”
