Page 3 of Trusting You
2
Locke
The morning after is so fuckin’ awkward.
It’s why I don’t have any. Until an accidental now.
I’m pretty sure I got so hammered last night I forgot to chivalrously escort a lady to a car.
I risk a glance to my right.
Fuck. Definitely sure.
Couldn’t she be nudged out by text? Something like Nice to take shots with you, even better to fuck you, but can you get out of my bed?
Actually, not so bad an idea. If only I could… No.
Way too much chance of waking her up.
Instead, I’m stuck beside a woman whose hair is tangled in my pillow, not to mention my face, those red-brown strands that were so sexy a few hours ago sticking to my stubble like we’d used honey instead of lube last night.
Only one set of sheets lives in this apartment. And I only know to say “set” because my sister drilled it into me when she threw the plastic package at my chest after storming out the other day. Something tells me I’ll be picking curly hairs out of this set long after I send it out to be washed.
And I hate sending my stuff out to be washed. Takes days. Usually, I sleep ass-up on the mattress, but after the sex and now the shedding, not to mention my sister’s annoying, You need to grow the hell up, Locke—
“Mmf.”
The woman whose name is… Candace? Candy? Tara? …rolls over, taking her hair with her, but making my nose itch like the red in those highlights contain fire ants.
“God…fuck.” I rub at my nose with my palm, sitting up and flicking the rest of her tangles off me. I take it as my opening.
I stumble out of bed, the groan of the floorboards making me pause half in, half out, waiting for those doe-blue eyes to open and face my ass crack, but relief comes instead when I notice she’s still out cold.
Tiptoeing is not something a twenty-four-year-old man should be doing, especially one with a bum knee, but here I am, doing a creep-limp out of my own bedroom and exerting mental gymnastics to figure out where my phone is. That way, I can text her good-bye and good luck after fleeing my apartment in search of some bacon, the best hangover cure there was.
I give my pits a sniff while heading to my bathroom. Definite shower needed first. Risky, but hell, I brought her all the way over here, maybe I deserve to look her in the eye when I request she leave without so much as a prompting of her name.
I pause, scoff at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Nah.
Locking the door behind me, I croon as I duck under the spray. “Ah, sweet, sweet lady goddess of warm water…”
I scrub at my skull and give my chin a good scratch, phantom strands still tickling. Eyes closed, I take my time, loving a good clean, giving my jewels a good tug and some soap.
Hmm. I glance down at my half chub. Maybe Candy-Tara didn’t have to be dismissed outright. She could be up for another go around…
Pounding at my door halts any further fantasy.
“In a minute!” I call.
“No, right now!” Candy-Tara yells back.
Water gets in my eyes when I freeze mid wash. She doesn’t sound tired. Or hungover. Or confused. She’s…
Pissed.
“Gimme a sec.” Squeaking off the tap, I step out of the bathtub, giving my hair a good shake, like a dog coming out of a pool, and use a towel to do the rest before tying it around my waist. The pounding hasn’t stopped.
“All right.” I turn the knob, and the door unlocks with a click. “What’s the—”