Page 10 of Worship

A long breath exhales from my lips, and my body relaxes for only a minute because I know that every fucking time I jerk off to thoughts of her, it will only serve to make me want to fuck her more. I tug my sweats back on, over my dick, stand, and make my way to the bathroom to wash myself off, rinsing off the evidence of my obsession.

THE BUZZING FROM THE PHONEon my nightstand hasn’t stopped. I know it’s Drew because she’s the only person who would call me incessantly on a Saturday morning. Without bothering to look, I fumble around, and slap at my phone until the speaker engages.

“I’ll kill you.”

“I texted, but you didn’t answer.” Her chipper voice is irritatingly happy.

“Shouldn’t that be enough of a deterrent?” I grumble under my covers.

“Come on. Get up,” she sings.

“Why do you sound like you’ve hit the lottery? We have to break up. This is a hard limit for me. Mornings are for sleeping through.”

I open my eyes and sit up, kicking at my covers like I’m bearing a grudge. I blame them for not keeping me in my slumber.

“Meet me at our spot?” she asks.

“I hate you.” My words are met with her laughter. “I’m drawing a line in the sand, and I am not getting out of this bed, Drew.”

“Fine. Be a grump, but call me later…and you’re welcome for the early wake-up call. Maybe you can use all this extra time to fucking unpack.”

“Such a foul mouth for a beauty queen.”

She blows a raspberry into the phone, and I hang up. I really do hate her in this moment. Because now I’m awake at eight in the morning on a Saturday, with no hope of going back to sleep.

Opening the french doors that separate my bedroom from the rest of my apartment, I survey the large room full of boxes, a deep red velvet couch, and a television. I’ve lived here for over a month, so my acceptable laziness level has reached the statute of limitations. I just never have the time—I live at work; I just sleep here. I should’ve hired people to unpack me.Hindsight, you’re a twat.

My kitchen is open to the main room, separated only by a marble-topped island. I pad around it and stand surveying my wine fridge, also known as my regular fridge. I’m reminded of my failure at an essential life skill because it lacks all the food. Looks like I’m ordering in.

Half an hour later, I’ve got the most delicious breakfast burrito, a coffee, and a marathon ofReal Housewives. This early-morning thing isn’t so bad. I may just keep it going for the whole day. Thank god for take-out, technology and shitty television.

As I devour my food, I shoot a text to Lyla wondering what we are doing tonight. She’d mentioned meeting for drinks at this posh little bar downtown that has a bluesy feel and an incredible bar menu.

My phone vibrates and I crane my neck to see what it says.

Lyla: Wanna double?

“What?” I say to myself, reaching for my phone and opening the whole message.

Lyla: Wanna double? ‘Super sweet guy’ asked me out again and I think I want to go, but his friend is in town…sooo. Don’t say no.

Me: But you sold him so well the first time, I can only imagine how incredible his friend is. I think I’d rather stay home and schedule a lobotomy.

Lyla: I said, don’t say no.

Me: And I didn’t say no, I said I have surgery scheduled…on my brain.

Lyla: If you don’t come. I will never speak to you again.

Jesus, she’s so twenty-three. Originally, it was me and Blair plus Lyla. Then Blair canceled for something with clients, and I felt bad canceling too. So now I’m stuck.

Me: Fingers crossed because friends don’t offer friends garbage.

Lyla: I’ll buy all your drinks and your bar food.

Me: Yes…now we’re talking. Sold. But I reserve the right to bail if shit gets sketchy, and I’m taking you with me!

Lyla: Mwah. Deal.