On my phone, I search for Nash on social media, but I’m not surprised when I can’t find a single thing about him. Guess bikers aren’t all for sharing their everyday lives with the rest of the world.
When there’s no movement for several more minutes, I assume he’s laid down to take his nap as he mentioned. What would be the harm in watching him sleep if he left his laptop open in his room? It would be nice to get to stare at him like I always want when I’m around him but can’t without him thinking I’m nuts.
With a few clicks of the keyboard, I have access to his camera. And, suddenly, I’m not looking at a sleeping Nash but his wide-awake face right in front of me.
He’s still on his computer, his shirt off, bare chest sexy as hell as he leans back and…holy shit! Is he…yep, he’s masturbating. Getting off to a picture of me!
I know I should slam my laptop shut and stop watching, but he’s just too hot to stop watching. Besides, I can’t even see his dick, just his forearm moving rapidly, faster and faster. Nash’s jaw is clenched tight as he looks at the computer screen through hooded eyes. Then, his lips part and his head tips back, which can only mean one thing…he’s coming.
And god, I wish I could’ve been there, that it was my hand on him or my mouth he emptied himself into.
As turned on as I am by what I just witnessed, I’m also incredibly confused.
What the hell does it mean?
Does he want me? Is that why he sought out my photos and did that to them?
Why didn’t he just make a move when he was in my apartment if he was hot for me? The real thing is better than his hand.
Unless…he’s not ready for that kind of intimacy yet, still too hung up on Ellie to finally be with another woman after years of waiting for her.
I hate her for what she did to Nash.
He deserves so much more.
And maybe, if I give him some time, he’ll want to be with me.
Chapter Fourteen
Nash
Over the next few days, I get off to Lucy’s photos. A lot.
So often that I feel ashamed when I’m around her, which is why I’ve cut her visits short whenever possible. She cleans, she cooks, we eat, and then I make up an excuse for her to leave.
My rejection hurts her feelings. I fucking know that. But what choice do I have?
Tell her I want to use her body to ease the ache I have for her?
Fuck no. That would hurt her even worse.
So, I’ve been leaving the apartment more, hanging out with Malcolm and the guys on the cruise boat at night rather than binging television shows with Lucy, despite the fact that I miss her and would rather be with her than playing poker.
At least I still get to see her every day. She still comes over at least once, despite my consistent rudeness.
It’s a small thing, seeing her for one meal, but I take comfort in her not giving up on me.
Which is why on Wednesday when she tells me that she’s leaving tomorrow, going out of town for the wedding, it hits me like a sledgehammer.
“Right, the wedding. That’s this weekend?” I ask her disappointedly before downing my beer.
“Yep. I’m leaving tomorrow around lunchtime,” she says while sitting across from me at the dining table once we finish eating the burgers she made. Her usually upbeat happy face is now sad and her narrow shoulders hunched. “Before I leave, I’ll bring a few meals up and put them in the fridge for you to heat up over the weekend.”
“When will you be back?” I ask, not giving a shit about the food, even if it’s sweet of her to think about me enough to cook in advance. She shouldn’t worry about me or care about me because I can’t give her what she needs. How can she not see that?
“The rehearsal is Friday; then the wedding is Saturday, so I’ll probably head back Sunday after the family brunch.”
It’s only three and a half days, but fuck, I already miss her. And now I sort of hate myself for trying to distance myself from Lucy the past week because of my shame.
“You sure you don’t want to just blow it off?” I say, peeling the label off the bottle, knowing it’s useless but still trying to convince her to stay.
“Nah. I’m a ‘backup bridesmaid,’” she says with finger quotes and a roll of her bright blue eyes behind her glasses. “I told my parents I would go, and I spent way too much on those dresses to let them just hang in my closet…”
“Yeah,” I reply, disappointed that I won’t get to see her in the dresses again, that I won’t be there with her at all when I know it’s going to be a tough weekend for her. Hell, I can’t deny that I’ve started to care about her too, more than I realized. For days, I’ve thought I just wanted her in my bed, but now I know it’s more – which is surprising.
“I think getting some closure will be good for me,” Lucy adds. “To finally move on. Besides, not going would make him and everyone else think I’m not over him, that I’m still a miserable lump of shit wallowing around in bed, missing him. And I’m not.”
“So, you’re over him?” I ask for clarification.
“Mostly,” she replies, which is not a yes. “The betrayal still stings and probably will for a while.”
“I know what you mean,” I agree. Hell, I’m not too far away from being a miserable lump of shit even now, years later. “When you get back Sunday, I’ll make dinner.”
“You will,
