Page 56 of Resisted
Wantto know what’s worse than trying to make eye contact with someone after a one-night stand? Trying not to make eye contact with three someones after a dancefloor gang up. Admittedly, I’d had alcohol leading up to the incident, but I couldn’t even claim I’d been drunk. No, I was anything but drunk. I’d been lucid and wanton, and though I hadn’t verbally said it, my eyes were the dare they’d needed.
I wouldn’t regret it, not when it was the best orgasm I’d had in this lifetime. Not when I could still feel Vincent’s hands on me, Silas’ lips against mine, and Boyce’s tongue spearing into me with a vibrating hum of satisfaction. But lack of regret didn’t mean I was willing to looking them in the eye in the light of day, after the calming effect of the alcohol had worn off.
I spent half the morning working myself up to a conversation with them. Psyching myself up, singing theme songs to myself, knowing that I absolutely couldn’t stay in my room much longer without someone, probably Vince with coffee or Boyce with that boyish grin, seeking me out. Coffee. I could smell the savory aroma, and my mouth watered. I needed coffee.
Coffee and space.
I knew they were giving it to me. They could have come in here at any time to disturb my bout of overthinking, but they’d let me be, and for that, I was thankful. If I had to look at them, any of them, without being mentally prepared, I might lose all train of thought. I might wilt to the ground like some sort of sacrifice, begging them to take me.
It took me an hour from the time I opened my eyes until I managed the bold action of opening my bedroom door. It was silent on the other side, though I knew they were there. I could feel them, if that was even possible. My feet were silent as I walked toward the kitchen, my senses open to their location. They were there, all three of them, and I knew they were waiting for me.
I found them all at the kitchen table, each one sipping coffee with a plate of toast in front of them. Silas was reading the paper—did people still do that? —while Boyce played a game on his phone, and Vincent had a novel in his hand. Why was that always a hot sight to see? No one looked up from what they were doing as I walked past them, heading for the coffeepot. I wished Vincent would have gotten up and made a cup for me. His coffee always tasted the best, but I was a strong independent woman and I could pour a cup.
I reached for a cup, grabbed the coffee carafe, and poured. Someone cleared their throat, and I looked up, temporarily sidetracked, but none of them were looking at me. The splattering sound against the tile shook me from my distraction, and I jumped back, nearly missing pouring coffee on my bare feet.
“Shit!” The curse fell from my mouth, breaking the silence, but none of them moved to help me. They only watched as I placed my cup on the counter and stared at the mess. I turned to them, waiting for someone to say something, anything. Nothing.
Fucking fine, I could clean up this mess. It wasn’t like there was broken glass. I grabbed a towel and tossed it onto the floor before using my bare foot to swish the towel around and soak up the spilt coffee. I bent down to grab the towel, and as I came back up, my arm grazed the coffee mug, knocking it into the pot and breaking off the handle.
I took a deep breath. It was only broken glass. What more could really happen, right? I grabbed another mug, dumped the coffee into it, tossed out the broken mug, then reached for the cream in the fridge. Empty. I turned, looked at all the eyes staring at me.
“Did you fucking plan all this?”
“What?” Vincent looked innocent, but I knew out of all of them, he was the least innocent.
“This.” I gestured to the mess that was my coffee situation.
Vincent smirked. “No, baby. But we sure enjoyed watching it play out.”
“You’re a jerk,” I muttered, and he didn’t bother to deny it. Instead, he shrugged and continued reading.
I tossed the empty milk in the garbage, then went for the vanilla creamer I had in back, the one I was saving for special occasions. What was more special than me being forced to make my coffee after every man at that table had run their own fingers through my vagina last night? I poured the creamer into my mug, grabbed a banana, and then sat at the table.
Not a single man acknowledged me as I sat there, sipping my coffee and eating my banana. Not a single word spoken. Absolutely nothing. When the silence grew too thick, I finally blurted out, “Is no one going to talk about what happened?”
“Nope,” they all said in unison, right before Silas turned the page of the paper.
“Bunch of pussies.” I took a bite of my banana, probably more aggressively than normal.
“I can’t take you serious when you call us pussies while you’re eating a banana, baby.”
I choked, I fucking choked on the bite I was just about to swallow, and Boyce bounced up to pat me on the back. When I could finally breathe again, Boyce sat down. “You did that on purpose.”
“Yup.” He went back to his book, pretending to read, but I knew damn well he wasn’t.
“Have you ever read a paper in your life, Silas?”
“I’m reading one now, aren’t I?” He didn’t look up from the pages.
“When did you start?”
“Today,” he stated.
I’d come out here worried I’d have to look one of these boys in the eyes, and here they were, avoiding me like I carried the plague. They weren’t allowed that. Now when they approached me last night, not the other way around. Not when they’d initiated it all, not the other way around. Not when it should’ve been me ignoring them.
“You guys are avoiding me.”
Boyce and Silas stayed concentrated on the entertainment in front of them, and though Vincent didn’t look up, he did faintly say, “Never.”