Rhythm by Marie Lipscomb
Chapter Fourteen
Finn
He’s alone when he wakes, afraid he’s dreamt the whole thing. It had to be a dream. There was no way on this earth any of it could’ve happened, but the scent of her lingers on his body, and he’s in her bed, isn’t he?
His heart leaps at the muffled sound of her voice. She’s real. It happened.
He climbs out of bed and ventures out of the bedroom, cock still semi-hard, to find her standing on the balcony in nothing but a t-shirt and panties. Her phone is pressed to her ear, one foot sliding up and down the opposite calf. God, she makes his heart glow.
Desire overcomes him, the desire to walk out there, wrap his arms around her, maybe even to fuck her right there out in the open. He steps forward, and her voice becomes clearer.
“It was just one night. I doubt I’ll ever see him again.”
It hurts a little to hear it, but he likes her. He wants to make it work. Perhaps like him, she’s cautiously optimistic.
“It was pretty bad. An absolute asshole… It was super shitty. I honestly hate myself for it.”
His blood runs cold.
With every word she utters, his heart, which he had lain before her so open and bare, closes and hardens. He’s always fallen too hard, too fast. Her words leave him wounded.
Heat scorches his face. She hates herself. Hates herself for touching him, for fucking him. There’s no talking this through. He doesn’t need a performance review, or a critique of his rusty techniques. No, he needs to get the hell out of there and preserve what little dignity he still has.
He hurries back to the room and throws on his damp clothes, unable to bear the shame of her seeing him nude, still hard for a woman who thinks so little of him. There’s an ache in his chest which won’t leave; anger, confusion and pain. He walks back out to the living room and sits on the couch, replaying what happened, feeling as though pieces of him are flaking and drifting away.
It has to be some kind of mistake. It has to be.
His breath hitches as she ends the call. And the second before she slides open the glass doors lasts forever.
Any doubt he had of her disgust in him vanishes as she steps inside and her eyes meet his. Her disappointment is unbearable, and the wounds she’s already clawed open begin to fester.
Like any other injured animal, he doubles down on his defense. He stands up and backs away from her. “Hey, so, thanks for last night. I’m gonna head downstairs and try and make headway on the damage.”
“Oh…” She frowns a little and folds her arms over her chest. “Yeah, no problem. It looks like there’s a lot to do.”
“Yeah.”
“Want any help cleaning up?”
“I’ve got it. Thanks.” He takes a step toward the door, and the proud voice in the back of his mind admonishes him for letting it end on her terms. He has to say something, has to show her how little her rejection affects him. “Look, I’m leaving for the tour in a couple of weeks… this would never have worked anyway, but it was fun, I guess.”
Her face hardens. “Oh.”
And that’s it. That’s all she can say.
The humiliation of picking up the portrait is too much. Last night, the snarling, powerful beast was a compliment, but now… now it hurts. In her eyes he’s lumbering, hideous, and she hates herself for touching him. Hates herself.
He leaves without another word. The door clicks behind him, and his boots pound the stairs. Lumbering. Hideous. The part of his mind which had him convinced she could love him retreats.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs and he’s faced with the full extent of the damage, his eyes begin to sting. The thick mud coating the floorboards, staining the bottom few inches of upholstery on the couch, blurs as he blinks back tears. His bed is sodden, and with a heavy heart he realizes he’ll have to spend the next week or so sleeping in the upstairs bed anyway. Alone.
No doubt she’ll tell her friends what a terrible lay he was, and they’ll all have a good laugh. It’ll probably be all over Vixen Wail’s social media pages by tomorrow.
“Fuck this.” He slams the door closed, and gets to work.