She seemed to relax a bit and smiled. She wrapped her arms around me, and then kissed my neck. Her lips felt soft and warm not an hour ago. In front of Abby, they were like two sticky buns lined with barbed wire.
“I’ll leave my number on the counter.”
“Eh . . . don’t worry about it,” I said, purposefully nonchalant.
“What?” she asked, leaning back. The rejection in her eyes shone bright, searching mine for something other than what I truly meant. Glad this was coming out now. I might have called her again and made things very messy. Mistaking her for a possible frequent flyer was a bit startling. I was usually a better judge than that.
“Every time!” America said. She looked at the woman. “How are you surprised by this? He’s Travis Fucking Maddox! He is famous for this very thing, and every time they’re surprised!” she said, turning to Shepley. He put his arm around her, gesturing for her to calm down.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, on fire with anger and embarrassment, and then she stormed out, grabbing her purse on the way.
The door slammed, and Shepley’s shoulders tensed. Those moments bothered him. I, on the other hand, had a shrew to tame, so I strolled into the kitchen and opened the fridge as if nothing had happened. The hell in her eyes foretold a wrath like I had never experienced (not because I hadn’t come across a woman who wanted to hand my ass to me on a silver platter, but because I’d never cared to stick around to hear it).
America shook her head and walked down the hall. Shepley followed her, angling his body to compensate for the weight of her suitcase as he trailed behind her.
Just when I thought Abby would strike, she collapsed into the recliner. Huh. Well . . . she’s pissed. Might as well get it over with.
I crossed my arms, keeping a minimum safe distance from her by staying in the kitchen. “What’s wrong, Pidge? Hard day?”
“No, I’m thoroughly disgusted.”
It was a start.
“With me?” I asked with a smile.
“Yes, you. How can you just use someone like that and treat them that way?”
And so it began. “How did I treat her? She offered her number, I declined.”
Her mouth fell open. I tried not to laugh. I don’t know why it amused me so much to see her flustered and appalled at my behavior, but it did. “You’ll have sex with her, but you won’t take her number?”
“Why would I want her number if I’m not going to call her?”
“Why would you sleep with her if you’re not going to call her?”
“I don’t promise anyone anything, Pidge. She didn’t stipulate a relationship before she spread-eagled on my couch.”
She stared at the couch with revulsion. “She’s someone’s daughter, Travis. What if, down the line, someone treats your daughter like that?”
The thought had crossed my mind, and I was prepared. “My daughter better not drop her panties for some jackass she just met, let’s put it that way.”
That was the truth. Did women deserve to be treated like sluts? No. Did sluts deserve to be treated like sluts? Yes. I was a slut. The first time I bagged Megan and she left without so much as a cuddle, I didn’t cry about it and eat a gallon of ice cream. I didn’t complain to my frat brothers that I put out on the first date and Megan treated me according to the way I behaved. It is what it is, no sense in pretending to protect your dignity if you set out to destroy it. Girls are notorious for judging each other, anyway, only taking a break long enough to judge a guy for doing it. I’d hear them label a classmate a whore before the thought ever crossed my mind. However, if I took that whore home, bagged her, and released her strings-free, I was suddenly the bad guy. Nonsense.
Abby crossed her arms, noticeably unable to argue, and that made her even angrier. “So, besides admitting that you’re a jackass, you’re saying that because she slept with you, she deserved to be tossed out like a stray cat?”
“I’m saying that I was honest with her. She’s an adult, it was consensual . . . she was a little too eager about it, if you want to know the truth. You act like I committed a crime.”
“She didn’t seem as clear about your intentions, Travis.”
“Women usually justify their actions with whatever they make up in their heads. She didn’t tell me up front that she expected a relationship any more than I told her I expected sex with no strings. How is it any different?”
“You’re a pig.”
I shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.” Regardless of my indifference, to hear her say that felt about as good as her shoving a two-by-four under my thumb nail. Even if it was true.
She stared at the couch, and then recoiled. “I guess I’m sleeping on the recliner.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sleeping on that thing! God knows what I’d be lying in!”
I lifted her duffel bag off the floor. “You’re not sleeping on the couch or the recliner. You’re sleeping in my bed.”
“Which is more unsanitary than the couch, I’m sure.”
“There’s never been anyone in my bed but me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Give me a break!”