Page 40 of Don't Say You're Sorry

I hit the button on the key, the sound of the car unlocking bouncing off the walls and echoing through the silence. He opens the passenger door and climbs inside. My feet are still frozen, refusing to move.

It’s not until he opens the door and says, “Get in or I’ll find my own way there,” that I finally walk around to the driver’s side and climb in next to him.

Wordlessly, I start the car, my fingers curling around the steering wheel as the engine purrs to life. It smells like it’s been cleaned recently. This week? Did he get it ready for me while I was in London, knowing I’d be back? I resist the urge to ask.

“How the hell did you afford this?”

“I didn’t. My dad did,” he says numbly. “I worked for him the summer you left as payment.”

God.Why would he do that for me after what I did?

Again, I don’t ask. Instead, I whisper, “I love this car.”

“I know.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll pay you back.”

He turns his head to look out the window. “Forget it.”

“You all right?” I ask, glancing at Easton every few seconds as I drive him to campus. “E?”

“Yeah.” He won’t look at me again. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You seem…” Quiet. Distant.Sad.

It doesn’t escape me that he’s been acting like this since last night. Since he came on my dick and told me I’m still the only guy he’s ever been with.

He plays the happy-go-lucky guy well, but underneath all those smirks and laughs and taunts, he’s broken. He’s broken because I broke him.

When I pull up next to his car in the car park, he doesn’t move or say anything. He just stares straight ahead through the windscreen, a vacant look in his blue eyes.

Just as I’m about to ask if he wants to talk it out, vent about metome, he takes a breath, plasters on a cocky grin, and opens the door. “Thanks for the ride, little brother. Have fun at your interview later.” He climbs out of the car and takes a couplesteps, then comes back, lowering his head to look at me through the open window. “But not too much fun,” he warns, playfully narrowing his eyes before he walks away.

I don’t move a muscle until he disappears through the main doors.

Mick is not at all what I expected. He sounded older on the phone, but he looks about twenty-five. Six-two, six-three, maybe. Dirty blond. Nice jaw. Hot as fuck. The way his hard gaze keeps flicking up at me from my résumé—held in the middle of his empty club—makes me shift on my feet, my cheeks heating under the low lights.

“I know it’s a little…bare,” I say awkwardly. “I’m an artist. I’ve been working for myself for the last few years. I can give you a great reference though.”

He doesn’t laugh. “Do you have any bartending experience?”

“No, but I know my way around a bar.”

“Oh, really? What’s in a Tom Collins?”

“Gin.”

“…and?”

Fuck. “Uh, lemon and club soda.”

“Good guess,” he deadpans. “You forgot the syrup.”

I shrug, giving him my best smile. “Three out of four isn’t bad, is it?”

He sighs. “You got any weird tattoos or scars I should know about?”

I refrain from making a face at him, confused as to why he’d need to know that. “I have a tattoo here.” I tap my chest with my finger. “It’s not weird.”