Dirty (Dive Bar #1)(9)

“What?” Elbows on the table, he leaned in, getting closer. “When was the last time you two f*cked?”

I blinked. Not “had sex.” Not even “made love.” Fucked. Like language even mattered, and yet … maybe I was a prude. I’d never thought of myself as one, though as today was showing, I knew shit.

“Lydia?”

“Sorry. Just mentally beating myself up again.”

“Stop it. That’s not going to help.”

“No, it’s not. But kind of hard to avoid today.”

“Mm.”

Tattoos covered his arms to the wrists. Black and gray, mostly, with traces of color erupting here and there. An electric guitar with an ornate skull above it. A diving bluebird surrounded by licks of flame. Beautiful ink work. Whoever he went to was an artist.

Opposite me, he pushed back his pale-red hair, waiting on me to answer his question.

“Well, we were waiting to have sex. His family are religious and quite traditional.” My fingers meshed and twisted in my lap. “Big on appearances and stuff. Yeah…”

Little lines appeared between his brows.

“But he told me he loved me all the time. And he’d call several times a day just to check on me, to see if I needed anything,” I said with just a hint of desperation. “He respected me. Without a doubt, he’s the most adult, well-adjusted person I’ve ever been in a relationship with. We wanted the same things, a stable economic future and a family, two kids. We were both ready to settle down. Marrying him made perfect sense.”

“Sounds great,” he deadpanned.

“I thought it was.”

He sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table. “Let me check I’ve got this right. You guys were together for months, getting married.”

“Yes.”

“And absolutely nothing between the sheets?”

I pursed my lips, readjusting my turban-towel hairdo. You know, buying some time. If only I’d kept my mouth shut and just let the guy gawk at my breasts. Much better than having this humiliating conversation, especially with him. The man was obviously some sort of ridiculously cool Idaho sex god. Who the hell even knew such a thing existed?

“Lydia?”

I growled or moaned. It was definitely one or the other, I’m just not sure which. Emotionally, things were in upheaval. “There was some couch action. We messed around, we just didn’t go quite that far. Well, we sort of did it.”

His brows went up. “Sort of?”

“Yes.”

“Babe, if you’re not sure what you did with this prick was sex or not, then it’s not. Let’s get that straight right now.”

My grin was a forced, ugly thing. “Right.”

“Guy was dating you and he didn’t want any?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Does he have a dick?”

“Yes, Vaughan, he has a dick.”

“You sure about that?”

I looked to heaven. No help was forthcoming. “It’s kind of you to think that.”

He laughed, gaze sliding down to my breasts for a millisecond. “No. Just being reasonable.”

“Some people believe in celibacy before marriage.”

“You don’t.”

He had a point. No way was I acknowledging it, however.

“Do you?” he persisted.

“I believed in him.” My pride was a sad small thing. I could feel it sinking slowly to the floor to play dead. “You know, I thought talking about this would help, but it’s not. Can we stop now?”

“No. I want to understand this.”

“God, get in line.” This time, it was a definite moan of despair. Pitiful. “I’m not even sure I can explain it anymore. And you don’t want to understand it, you want to mock it.”

“That’s not true. C’mon, I’m trying here.”

Brows high, I gave him a look most dubious.

“I am. But you had to suspect.”

“Or maybe he was a damn good actor and I was one of those sad lonely women who get taken in.” The ugly truth. My stomach twisted and turned, making me want to heave.

“But—”

“Stop. Please.” God help me, I could take no more. I softly banged my forehead against the tabletop and stayed there, facedown. “Can I convince you to press charges? I think maybe I should go to jail after all. A nice, quiet jail cell might be just the thing.”

“You’re not going to f*cking jail.”

It’d been worth a try.

“Hey, I’m sorry you got screwed over, but shit will sort itself out.”

The weight atop my head shifted and then my towel turban disappeared. Straggly damp blond strands feel around my face. I sat up, pushing back the whole mess.

“Sorry,” he said, throwing the towel in the general direction of the kitchen counter. “I was trying to give you a comforting pat on the head.”

“Thanks.”

A pause.

“No straight guy could stay away from that rack,” he said quietly. “Just saying.”

“Not everyone’s a tit man.”

“Well, they should be,” he scoffed. “Breast is best.”

I snorted, laughing a little despite myself.