Page 5

Story: Reaching Ryan

Like Molly is a disease.
Like being a mom makes me less of a woman somehow.
Not that I’m complaining. When it comes to Jerkus Erectus, I don’t care if he looks at me and sees a braying donkey.
But sometimes, it bothers me.
Like when the guy seems nice.
Like someone I’d like to talk to.
Someone I’d say yes to if he asked me out for coffee.
Which is definitely not this guy.
“Yeah?” He laughs into his glass before he takes a sip of something clear, poured over ice.
“What are you, one of those MTV Teen Moms?” He lowers his glass and gives me the once over, his pale brown gaze raking over me from head to toe. “Did you get knocked up on Prom night?”
Be nice. This is Cari’s big night. You don’t want to ruin it for her by dick punching a senator’s son.
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Giving him another forced smile, I stand, aiming myself toward the narrow space between him and the wall. “Enjoy your evening,” I tell him, attempting to shoulder my way past him.
He doesn’t let me.
“Whoa.” The hand in his pocket comes out in a flash, his arm stretched across my exit, to press its palm against the wall next to me. “Where you goin’?” This close, I can smell the vodka fumes rolling off him. Fantastic. Jerkus Erectus is even more fun when he’s drunk. “I thought we were having a moment.”
A moment?
A fucking moment?
Christ, the force is strong with this one.
Wanting to ask him if he’s drunk or just stupid, I struggle to keep the question to myself. “What’s your name?” I ask instead, looking up at him.
“Ashton Parker Gates—” He smiles down at me, a wide, slick smile, straight out of a toothpaste commercial. “The third. My friends call me Trip.”
“Of course they do.” I soften the veiled insult with another smile. “Well, Trip,” I say, managing to make Trip sound a lot like shitface. “This moment has come to an end, so—”
“Doesn’t have to.” He grins again. “When a woman looks like you, kids aren’t necessarily a deal breaker,” he tells me, searching my face for the look of relief I’m supposed to feel because I’m still in the game, despite the fact that my mom status makes me defective. When all he sees is palpable disdain, his grin loses some of its shine. “Come on, Teen Mom—let me buy you a drink. Maybe take you someplace quiet so we can talk.”
Backing up a half step I want to kick myself for being so stupid because I’m pretty much trapped and that’s my fault. Give me a quiet, unoccupied corner, free champagne and a padded bench and I let my guard down. There’s no way I’m getting out of this without making a scene.
Sorry, Cari. I tried. I really, really tried.
I open my mouth, ready to unleash my inner honey badger, but the voice that comes out isn’t my own. It doesn’t even come from me. It comes from behind Jerkus Erectus.
“Grace.”
The asshat with the Rolex immediately drops his arm and turns away from me to look at the man standing a few feet away. As soon as he gets a good look at him, he visibly pales.
It’s not hard to understand why.
This guy—whoever he is—is dangerous.
Not Jerkus Erectus dangerous. Not give-you- pretty-word-and-promises-to-get-what-he-wants dangerous.
No.