Page 31 of Playboy Pitcher

I knew telling her about that would come back to bite me in the ass. “Please don’t call him that. It’s creepy.” An image of Ben standing pissed off and bare assed pops into my head, and I can’t help but smirk myself. His face was red as hellfire, and he stared at me like he wanted nothing more than to fold me in half and stuff me inside his locker. “And no, we didn’t hit it off. In fact, the last time I saw him, I think the only thing he wanted to hit was me.”

“You probably deserved it.”

“Em!”

“You were a bitch to him to make yourself feel better about letting your guard down the night before. Tell me I’m wrong.”

My good mood tanks, and I say nothing.

She lets out a tired groan. “Willow…”

I get it. She’s as frustrated with me as I am with myself, but I’m not in the mood to argue. “I’m hanging up on…” I trail off, distracted by a sudden grinding sound. Flipping the radio off, I listen again. “Did you hear something?”

“Only the sound of you changing the subject,” she huffs.

I listen again, but the rhythmicclack-clack-clackhas either stopped or, as I suspect, is coming from the pickax currently chiseling inside my skull.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out a heavy sigh. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but—”

“But you have a headache. I know,” she finishes, letting out a resigned chuckle. “Keep your cool, Will. Call me if you need bail money.” The line goes dead as she hangs up without a goodbye.

Sighing, I toss my phone onto the passenger’s seat. I can’t blame her. I’ve balanced on a frayed rope since leaving New York, but it’s too late to turn back now. I never expected to have the door to the past flung open, but now I have no choice but to face what falls out.

* * *

Pulling a jumbo bag of Skittles from the glove box, I slam it closed and then slump into my seat. I have no idea why I’m still sitting in the hotel parking lot. It’s been half an hour since I turned off the ignition, but I can’t make myself get out of the car. Maybe it’s because I know the minute my head hits the pillow, I’ll fall asleep, and another day will pass by without a solution or plan.

Or maybe it’s because I can’t get Emma’s voice out of my head.

“It’s okay to like someone, you know. No one would blame you.”

“I’d blame me.”

“Therein lies your problem. You’re an iron-willed masochist.”

Tearing the bag open with my teeth, I pour a handful of the rainbow-colored candy into my palm and shove all of it in my mouth at once. “I’m not a masochist. I’m a realist,” I garble to absolutely fucking no one.

Christ, the girl has mastered the art of the backhanded compliment like it’s her calling. Ever since announcing her life goal of becoming a reality TV show psychiatrist, she’s taken it upon herself to pass out unsolicited life tips at will.

As if watching dating show train wrecks makes her qualified.

The thing is, she’ll probably do it. Once Emma sets her mind on something, it takes a caravan of bulldozers to stop her. I admire that. The girl has it together. A plan. A path. Even a boyfriend.

Me?

I have a multi-million-dollar problem and a broken vibrator.

It doesn’t get more fucked up than that.

Actually, I take that back. Being stuck in nowhere West Palm Beach, Florida surrounded by shitty flamingo bars, sawgrass, and meth labs just topped that list.

Fuck.

Stuffing my mouth with another handful of Skittles, I bounce against the headrest, waiting for a spark of hope or a lightning bolt of inspiration to strike.

“A little help? Is that too much to ask?” I yell as a red Skittle flies out of my mouth and lands on Drake’s pristine business card.

Guess so.