It had been a kiss that made me want things I shouldn’t, and I have a feeling my response hadn’t been a secret to any onlookers. Monroe had taken control halfway through the kiss, and in that moment, I’d sort of forgotten I was doing it for show. I’d lost myself. If he would’ve turned and pushed me against the nearby wall to keep things going, I probably would’ve let him.
So as we cruise along the roads of downtown Austin now, my mind replaying that kiss over and over again, the idea of a one-night stand is gaining some appeal. I’ve never had one of those. White trash girls get white trash reputations without even having to do the crime. In eighth grade, I wore red lipstick to school one day and had gotten called a whore for it. So after getting the hell out of my nowhere Oklahoma town for college, I’d honed my image and my behavior so that no one could ever make those kinds of assumptions about me again.
But I’m almost out of college now, a grown woman. And I like sex, dammit. Shouldn’t I be able to have it with who I want, when I want, even if it isn’t with someone I plan to have a long-term relationship with? The answer is obviously yes. And Monroe would probably be the perfect candidate. He’s made it clear that he’ll scratch that bad-boy itch if I have one. And he sure as hell won’t be the type trying to send me flowers tomorrow.
Hot sex with a stranger. It would be so very un-me. Which is exactly what I need right now. I want to leave that girl who has a cheating boyfriend, a conniving roommate, and broken-down car behind at the curb outside that restaurant. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.
But even with all that, I know I’m not going to sleep with Monroe.
Because there’s one line I can’t talk myself into crossing. If I ever have a one-night stand, I want it to be about me and the guy. Not because I’m trying to prove a point or get revenge or soothe my wounded pride. No one deserves to be used like that, even if he’s a willing victim.
So I’ll go have cake with Monroe, thank him for trying to cheer me up, and then I’ll suck up my pride and go home. Let Rebecca have her laugh at my expense. I’ll survive. I’ve dealt with meaner girls than her.
The bike slows as we cruise down a road lined with eclectic shops and a few bars—South Congress, I realize. Or SoCo, as most people refer to it around here. This is the part of town where the city keeps its Keep Austin Weird motto going strong. Caleb has always hated it, declaring that this was Texas, not California. But there’s one breakfast place a few streets over that he likes enough to brave the “hippy and hipster” zone on occasion.
Monroe parks in a lot between buildings and helps me off the bike. Before I can ask where we’re going, he clasps my hand and guides me around a building and toward another parking lot. This one has lights strung everywhere and colorful picnic benches half packed with people. Food trucks line the edges of the lot, and a guy with a guitar is playing in the front corner.
My stomach growls at the combination of smells drifting from the lot—funnel cake, tacos, bacon. All the happy food groups. “I think my stomach just realized I never fed it dinner.”
“You and me both. Some high-maintenance chick kept me late at work and made me skip dinner.” I poke him in his side and he laughs. “Come on, let’s not live by cake alone. That bright orange truck over there has these Korean pork sandwiches that are so addictive I’m convinced they’re laced with crack. And we’ll need to grab a fish taco from Bueno’s. And then I know the girl who owns Sweet Revenge, the silver one over there. She will give us the cake hookup.”
His enthusiasm is so open it almost looks out of place on him—biker dude getting excited about cake. But I find myself smiling back. “A closet foodie?”
“Closet culinary student.”
My brows lift. “I never would’ve guessed.”
“That’s because you’re wildly judgmental and put me in the box of former convict or potential meth dealer the minute you saw me.”
“Riiight, says he who has called me sorority girl and princess nonstop.”
“Fine. Are you or have you ever been in a sorority?”
My lips press together. I don’t want to answer, but I know he’s not going to let me off the hook. “It was only freshman year—”
“Ha!” he says, and tugs me further into the lot.
“But I’m no princess. No fairy godmother ever saved me from anything, there’s no inheritance waiting, and my prince just ditched me for a girl who thinks keeping up with the Kardashians is a solid life goal.”
He slows down at that and I bump into him. The humor in his expression softens into something more serious. “That asshole was not a prince. He’s a punk. The way he talked to you . . . like he wanted to manage you. Like you were a task on his Day Planner to handle. Fuck that. I’ve known you for three hours and know better than to try that shit with you. You’d castrate me.”
I blink, a little stunned at his spot-on assessment of how Caleb talks to me. I’ve never put it in those terms, but manage is the exact right word. And I’d let him. Maybe part of me had felt like I needed to be managed, like he’d lead me to some holy grail of fitting in with the “right” people.
“That dude was more concerned about what a dining room of strangers was thinking than he was about what you were feeling. If he really cared about you, he should’ve gotten on his knees and begged you to forgive him for being such a dick. But no, he tried to make you feel stupid and put you down instead. Your fairy godmother did show up tonight—with blonde hair, a fake tan, and a designer bag. She saved you from continuing that bullshit. You deserve better than being some guy’s Stepford girlfriend. Let Blondie take on that job.”
I can feel my eyes filling up, my emotions, which are already running high, trying to spill over because now I’m embarrassed. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
His brows scrunch. “What? How did you get that out of what I just said?”
“He’s a jerk, but I was stupid enough to stay with him.”
Monroe groans and releases my hand. “Stay right here.”
“Where are you going?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he heads toward the guy who’s been playing guitar.
I panic, frozen for a moment, and then hurry after him. But my heels slow me down and by the time I get there, he’s already talking to the man and taking the microphone from him. What the hell? Monroe plants his Chuck Taylor on a nearby bench and propels himself up and onto the picnic table.
“Attention, everyone!”
I’m at the edge of the table now, ready to pull him down by the pant leg if necessary, but everyone is turning our way. “What are you doing?”
He smiles down at me but doesn’t answer, just gives me the one moment motion with his finger. He looks out at the crowd again. “Listen up, today is my friend Natalie’s twenty-first birthday.”
“Oh my God.” Where’s a shovel so I can dig a hole in the dirt and crawl in? I try to scoot into the shadows.
“No one has sung to her yet. She’s had no cake. And worse, no alcohol. In fact, so far today she’s survived being broken down on the side of the road in the heat, has caught her boyfriend cheating and knocked that boyfriend’s nuts into his throat in public, and turned the purse of the chick he was with into a designer punch bowl.”
Eyes swivel toward me. I want to die. But someone claps, and there’s a You go, girl from an elderly lady at a nearby table. That makes me smile.