Page 80 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“C’mon,” Desi says as she slides off her own stool. “I’ve gotta go, too.”
I watch the two of them weave through the bar toward the bathroom as I play with the stem of my wine glass. This is just what I needed.
“Management says you’re not allowed in here for another week,” the bartender at my back says.
“I didn’t start shit,” a voice says, and I hate that every part of me hunches over to hide. It’s Wes Winters. The last time we saw each other, he was making an excuse as to why he couldn’t get hard and rabbiting out of Grady’s house. The night of reckless sex Grady said I needed to have in order to get over Jett ended up an embarrassing catastrophe.
But at least I got the good end of the stick. I smile and straighten my shoulders. I’ve got Grady Malone. Does Wes really even matter anymore?
Desi and Emerson come back and are getting seated when something is said that gets all of our attention.
“Why are you not allowed in here?” a male voice asks.
“Because of that asshole, Grady Malone. The fucker took a shot at me a few weeks back,” Wes says, and I can see Emerson slide a glance over to her side to see who is speaking.
“Malone? He’s usually chill. Why’d he have a beef with you?”
“He didn’t like
the truth.”
The three of us look at each other, and suddenly, there is a pit of dread dropping into the bottom of my stomach. Like I want to turn this show off but can’t stop watching it, either. Because the only tie that connects Wes to Grady is me.
“The truth?” the friend says and laughs. “You’re worse than an old lady, Winters. Quit beating around the bush. What the hell happened?”
“Malone got all fired up because he overheard me talking about his roommate. Shit, I had beer goggles on when she asked me over to her place, and once I got there, I couldn’t fucking follow through. I’m all about getting laid, but even a drunk man has standards, and she . . . dude, you know me. I like ’em petite, and she’s definitely not petite, if you know what I mean.”
My cheeks grow red and heat flushes my entire body as Emerson and Desi give me the dreaded look of sympathy. Every part of me wants to crawl under the table and die from humiliation.
“That’s cruel,” the friend says.
“But it’s the truth,” Wes jokes in a boisterous voice. “So he threw a few punches to defend her honor and then probably went home and gave her a good pity fuck until someone better-looking comes along.”
I lower my eyes and stand slowly.
“Don’t listen to him.”
“He’s a prick,” they both say in unison, but I lift my eyes and meet both of theirs. “It’s okay. Please stay. I’m gonna go.”
And with that, I slink quietly out of the bar, mortification skewing my every thought and self-loathing at an all-time high.
I walk the streets of downtown Sunnyville. Each step another thought I shove away. Each street crossed another attempt to hide the heat of the tears coursing down my cheeks. Each house I pass, a way to evade the mortification that I’m slowly drowning in.
And each foot up Grady’s driveway is another stick prodding my shame to morph into anger and irrationality.
I haven’t thought of what I’m going to say to Grady, but the minute I walk in the door, I freeze. He’s sitting at the barstool bringing a spoonful of Cheerios to his mouth, and it stops mid-motion when he sees me.
“Where’ve you been?”
I know Emerson has called him by now. I know he knows what Wes said. The insults repeated for another person to know my shame.
“Is it true?” Was I just a pity fuck?
“Dylan?” He part laughs, part rejects the question with a shake of his head as he drops his spoon into the bowl.
“Yes. Or. No. That’s all I want to know, Grady.”
“What the ever-loving fuck are you talking about? Is what true?”
