Author: J. Saman
Category: Contemporary
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/j-saman/page,79,558335-start_again_series_a_billionaire_romance_box_set.html
I like my men not to be raging drug addicts.
It’s not my fault, blame my mother for instilling that predilection.
But just what the absolute fuck? Who says shit like that so freely? Oh, hey, I’m a high school dropout because I’m a junkie. Is he kidding me with this bullshit?
“What else do you play besides piano and guitar?” he asks, leaning his body into mine, oblivious to my inner disgust and disbelief. Our thighs brush under the table, and I instantly pull away. In fact, I’d really rather he not touch me. My eyes go to his, checking out his pupil situation. Is he high right now? I wonder what his drug of choice is.
I shrug, feigning casual. “Bass, cello, and I like to pretend I can rock out on the drums, but in reality, I’m awful with them.”
“The cello?” Kyle asks, chiming in on our conversation that I hadn’t realized he was listening in on.
“Yep. My mom had one. She taught me. You’ve seen the one I have in my apartment.”
Kyle nods his head, trying to hide his smirk. Apparently he finds my cello playing amusing.
“Where did Miss Kaylee run off to?” I ask, noting her absence from our foursome.
“Restroom,” Kyle supplies, leaning back in his chair and sipping at his vodka rocks.
“Awesome. I think I shall do the same.” I turn to Jonah. “Be right back.”
He nods and smiles, and as I get up to walk past him, I catch Kyle’s eyes on me. But he’s not smiling like he was a moment ago. In fact, his expression is completely blank. It makes me frown as I meander through the crowded restaurant and push open the door of the restroom.
I don’t actually have to pee, I just wanted to wash my hands before dinner. I wouldn’t say I’m OCD or anything, but I’ve got a thing for cleanliness.
I turn on the tap and allow it to run for a moment so that it can go from freezing cold to warm. Just as I’m rinsing the soap off my hands, Kaylee comes out of the stall, smiling absentmindedly to herself. I know that smile. I catch the traitorous thing on my own lips all the freaking time when I think about Kyle.
“Oh, hi,” she says with the smallest hint of a southern accent. “I hope the boys are getting on well.”
I smile as she approaches the sink next to mine, turning on her own faucet. “I’m sure they are. Kyle can get along with anyone,” I say as a matter of pride. Like I know him so much better than she does. Which I do, but still, I hate that I feel like I’m trying to compete. It’s a juvenile response. Then again, I’m not exactly known for being the most mature.
“He’s great. I really like him.” Kaylee smiles at my reflection in the mirror, before her eyes scan down to the sink as she dips her hands under the water, rubbing them together briefly before shutting off the water. Then she runs her wet hands through her hair.
And I freeze. She didn’t use soap. She just ran her hands under the water in order to wet them for styling purposes. Do I say something to her? Mention that her hands are just as dirty as they were the second she walked out of the stall, if not more so since she rubbed them through her hair? I definitely don’t know this girl well enough to call her out on her poor bathroom hygiene, but seriously? It’s not like we were chatting away and she was distracted.
Her eyes were on her freaking hands, for fuck’s sake.
And now, she’s pulling her hot-pink lipstick out of her bag and applying it to her lips. After not using soap to wash her hands. After using the bathroom in a public restaurant.
Next, she’s going to go back out into the restaurant, eat her food—and touch Kyle.
No. Just no.
She finishes applying her lipstick, ignorant to the fact that I’m still frozen, staring at her in utter horror. “I’m heading back out,” she says with a bright smile.
“Yeah,” is really all I can manage. Okay, maybe I’m overdramatizing this. I mean, I’m sure a lot of people don’t wash their hands when going to the bathroom, but ew. Just ew.
I cannot not let Typhoid Mary here touch my friend.
Reaching into my bag, that I’m suddenly so glad I had the foresight to bring with me, I shoot Kyle a quick text.
Me: Alarm! Kaylee did not wash her hands after she peed!!
I feel a bubble of relief when Kyle texts back within a few seconds.
Kyle: And Jonah used his knife to pick at a piece of octopus in his teeth.
Me: Gross.
My nose scrunches up in repulsion. I’m so done with this date.
Me: Wanna get out of here?
Kyle: Meet me at the hostess stand in five.
I smile so big my cheeks hurt. I can’t help it. Kyle gets it. Not washing your hands after you pee and picking at your teeth with your knife are deal-breakers. Oh, and the fact that my date is probably high as a kite.
But just before I exit the bathroom, I catch my reflection and pause, my huge smile dropping to a frown. What the hell am I doing? I’m using the most bullshit excuse to put an end to this double date. To put an end to watching Kyle with another woman.
Normally, I wouldn’t run out on the date. Normally, I’d stick it out until the end and then tell the guy to scram. But that’s not what I’m doing. I’m running out on this because Kaylee is pretty and sweet, and she said she likes Kyle.
I shake my head, mentally righting myself as I push through the door and take a turn to the hostess stand. Kyle is already there, waiting for me with a smile on his face. I breathe out the smallest sigh of relief because he doesn’t exactly seem too bent out of shape about getting out of here.
“What did you say to them?”
“I told them we had a family emergency. Kaylee offered to come, so did Jonah, but I tossed some cash down on the table and told them to stay.”
I look over at him as we cross the parking lot to get to his car. “Are you disappointed about missing out on the rest of your date?” I’m trying to tease him, but I don’t know if I quite accomplish it.
“Not even a little,” he laughs, shaking his head. “She had horrendous breath, even before she ate that octopus thing, and apparently she doesn’t wash her hands after she uses the bathroom.”
Kyle tosses his arm over my shoulder, pulling me into his warm side, and I can’t help but rest my head against his shoulder as we walk.
“That’s nasty, right?” I snicker. “She even applied lipstick right after.” I give an exaggerated shudder, and he laughs.
“That’s pretty bad, but I think your date was worse. Unless you’re a fan of junkies who pick at their teeth with their dinner knife.”
“Um. No. Not even a little.” I scrunch my nose up.
Kyle hits the button, unlocking the door to his car, and within minutes, we’re speeding off into the black Seattle night. Kyle turns the dial for my butt warmer to turn on, and I sink back into the soft leather of his seats, enjoying the blast of heat that pushes out of the vents.
“Am I taking you home?” he asks softly against the low background music he has going.
“Yeah,” I say, turning in my seat to watch his profile as he drives, the passing transient light of the street creating shadows across him. “You wanna come up? Hang out for a bit? We can order delivery,” I offer.
“Sure,” he says, turning to me with a smile.
His expensive car with the large, powerful engine purrs while we wait at a traffic light. I have to ask him. It’s something I’ve been curious about for a while and since Kyle lived in New York until recently, I’ve never met any of the women he’s ever dated. I know of Abby, a fellow redhead, but that’s it.
“Was Kaylee your type?”
Kyle spins his head in my direction before it tilts to the side, his gaze locking on mine. “My type?” he parrots, seemingly confused.
“Yeah. You know. The type of girl you like to date.”
His eyes flicker out the windshield for a moment to confirm that the light is still red before he turns his attention back to me. The corner of his mouth pulls up into a small impish grin. “What makes you think I have
a type?”
“You’re deflecting,” I tell him with just a hint of annoyance in my tone. It’s the lawyer in him. He’s very difficult to get a straight answer from. He likes to answer questions with questions. “Besides, all men have a type.”
His smile grows, peeling back slowly and showcasing his perfect white teeth. “I guess we do. No, Kaylee wasn’t my type.” His eyes lock on mine. “I like my women smart. And beautiful. Fiery and feisty and confident. I like a woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid of going after it.”
I shift in my seat, just a touch uncomfortable with his pointed words and heavy stare. The light changes, and I’m given a moment’s reprieve from his eyes.
“Do you have a type, Claire?”
The way he says my name makes it feel loaded. Like he’s egging me on here.
You started it, moron.
Right. I did.
“No,” I lie, but not really.
I wouldn’t say I have a specific type of guy I’ve gone after over the years. I’ve dated all sorts. My high school boyfriend was a preppy, frat boy type. My first college boyfriend, who liked to make amateur porn, was bisexual and had both his septum and dick pierced. And my last college boyfriend—who is incidentally my last real boyfriend—was your quintessential nice guy. Still is, for that matter.
I guess you could say my tastes are eclectic.
But my answer still feels like a lie, because for the past few months—probably longer, if I’m being honest—I’ve only seemed to like the idea of one guy.
He’s all I see.
Nothing good ever comes out of fucking your friends.
Nothing good ever comes from blurring those lines. Because once you do that, once you fall victim to that moment of weakness, it’s over. It’s all over, and you’ve lost before you can even win. At least that’s how it feels now.
Kyle trusts me. And he cares about me. And I’m hiding everything from him.
People see me in a lot of different ways. They look at my red hair and odd clothing choices, and think I’m outlandish. They see that I play in an indie rock band, and think I’m hard. They see my job title, compare it to my educational background, and think I’m lazy. They hear me speak, and think I’m brazen.
I guess I am all of those things to a certain extent. But I’m also just a touch lost within myself. And Kyle has a way of making me feel found. Of making me feel like he sees the real me, despite the many masks I may or may not wear.
I cannot, and will not, give that up.
I need it too damn badly.
I told Kyle I didn’t have a type, and he let it drop. He didn’t even question me further. Just allowed the paused conversation surrounded by the electronic harmonized notes of Radiohead to consume us. For some reason, that pisses me off. For some reason, tonight, I want him to challenge me more on it. Call my bullshit card. Throw my words back in my face.
Maybe it’s the idea of that girl, Kaylee, and him.
Maybe it’s the fact that I hate this weakness in myself where he’s concerned and I’m just about ready to call a spade a spade.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m a goddamn walking contradiction tonight. I can’t have it both ways. I can’t have him challenge me on my lie and continue on as we are.
So, I ignore my ire. Because this dangerous moment of self-reflection could all be because I’m hungry. I have a tendency to become a whiny vagina when I’m hungry, and this seems like one of those moments. Apparently, it also makes me introspective and not in a good way. I’ll have to work on that.
Because like I said, no good can come from these thoughts.
24
Kyle
* * *
I’m mad at Claire tonight, and I think it might be for real this time. This isn’t a little teaser where I’m annoyed or frustrated. No. I’m good and pissed off.
Because I see it written all over her face.
I see it every time she glances in my direction.
I even see it in the small evasive moves she makes. The way she lingers on the edge of her sofa, instead of sitting next to me as she normally does when we watch TV together. The way she’s playing with her hair, keeping those damn sapphire globes fixed on the television like it’s her talisman. Like it will save her from having to own up to shit she has no intention of owning up to.
I left the restaurant tonight, that date, because she asked me to. Because I saw it when she looked at me with Kaylee. She was jealous.
That’s the only goddamn reason I did it. I have zero interest in Kaylee. Aside from the fact that our names are too similar and that’s just begging for mocking, I didn’t like her. I haven’t liked another woman in a while, and that pisses me off, too.
Because part of me is starting to wonder if I’m wasting my time waiting on the girl who may never come around. And I’m pissed off because I can’t get the image of Claire, naked and under me, out of my goddamn head.
We ate our takeout Chinese food in near silence, which isn’t like us. We normally don’t shut up with each other. So that tells me she’s got shit on her mind. It tells me that she’s got me on her mind. I know she does.
I’ve known Claire for over a year now. A year of that time was spent more or less getting to know her on the phone from a distance. But the last couple of months, I’ve spent nearly every day with her. I’ve fallen even harder in love with her than I would have ever imagined possible.
I want her.
I crave her.
I need her.
And I know she feels the same about me.
But the stubborn fucking woman will not admit to it. She just won’t.
I get flashes from her. Moments where I think she’s finally going to give in to me. Situations where she can read my intent clear as day, but she always goes the other way. She always takes the path of most resistance.
I can’t tell you why. Claire keeps her shit to herself. Even when I think I know her inside and out, something new pops up, and I realize just how wrong I am.
It makes me weary.
I love a woman who is hiding something from me. And I’m losing my mind over it. Over her.
Doesn’t stop my brain from going back to that night with her and wishing I could do it all over again. Maybe I’m just finally done with this game. Maybe I’m sick and tired of pretending that I don’t want her the way that I do. That I don’t love everything about her.
I need to tell her. I need to confront this.
Even if she rips my heart out of my chest before jumping up and down on it.
As if hearing my thoughts, my heart starts pounding in my chest. Sweat slicks the palms of my hands and I wipe them on the denim covering my thighs. Claire laughs at something on the television. I couldn’t even begin to tell you what we’re watching, but that sound has me looking over at her and smiling.
That sound has me scooting across the sofa.
Claire’s head whips in my direction, her eyes widen as she catches my expression. I don’t stop moving closer. I’m done, and she knows it. She can see clear as day the thoughts I have swirling through my mind. I’m done with the games, and the lies, and all this stupid pretending. Frankly, it’s killing me. It’s been eating me alive from the inside out all these months.
Claire swallows hard. So loud, I can hear the sound over the television. Her eyes shift around the room before returning to mine. I freeze suddenly, dropping into the seat halfway down the couch and just look at her. Her expression says clear as day, don’t do this. I just shake my head at her as my stomach sinks, and regret consumes me.
“Do you like me, Claire?”
She lets out a nervous laugh, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Of course, I do. What kind of question is that?” She knows exactly what kind of question that is. But she pauses here, looking down at her knees, contrite. “You’re my best friend.”
“Is that all we are? Is that the only way you see me?”
We’ve slept together, even though we both pretend like it
never happened. Wait, let me amend that. She pretends it never happened, and I follow her lead with it. There really isn’t a day—or an hour—that goes by that I don’t think about that night. That I don’t think about her and me.
And us.
Claire is the one for me. She’s so goddamn right for me that I’ve allowed myself to pretend like our perfect night didn’t happen. Like we were really just drunk, stupid, and reckless. I wasn’t any of those things. And I’m tired of being afraid that I’ll lose our friendship—lose her—if I tell her the truth.
“What do you want, Kyle?” she asks so suddenly I let out a humorless guffaw. “What is it you see when you look at me?”
Aha, so we are going to do this then.
But I don’t have it in me to smile. Because the way she asked that question? It wasn’t suggestive. It was pained. It was a plea not to go there with her.
“I see you, Claire,” I tell her, watching her intently. “I see so much possibility that it’s almost too much.”
She just shakes her head at me. “What does that even mean?” She’s getting angry now, her cheeks flushing as she rises a little until she’s practically on her knees. The stiff cushions bend beneath her shifting weight. “Goddamn it!” she yells out so suddenly that it startles me. “Don’t do this,” she begs. “You’ll ruin us. Don’t you get that? Don’t you see?”
“No,” I yell back. “I don’t see that at all.” Shifting my own body so that I’m facing her, I resist the urge to drag her against me and shake some sense into her. “I see us, Claire. Us. You and me. Don’t you see?” I ask, throwing her words back at her.
She shakes her head vehemently, and now I’m working up a good head of steam here. I’m so fucking frustrated with this woman that I can hardly stand it. My fingers yank at the ends of my hair, but it’s doing nothing to relieve this tension.