“You’ve got to be f**kin’ shittin’ me,” he snapped.

“What?”

He moved around me to open the door but being drunk and not thinking clearly (if I was thinking clearly I would have run screaming into the night), I moved into his face.

“What?” I asked again.

“Get in the car.”

“What?”

“Jesus. I want to think you aren’t playin’ games but I know you’re f**kin’ playin’ games. Nobody’s that stupid.”

My fine and loose feeling slipped a notch mainly because, again, it felt like he’d slapped me across the face.

He watched my face change in the streetlight.

“I’m not stupid,” I whispered.

He got close and backed me against the car again. I went, my head tilted back to look at him, my feelings still smarting from his comment.

“So you’re sayin’ you don’t know that every f**kin’ guy’s dick is hard from watchin’ you move. Christ, give you a pole and put you in a g-string, you wouldn’t have been more effective.”

My mouth dropped open. Then I snapped it shut.

“I was just dancing,” I told him.

“Right.”

“I was.”

He watched me but stayed silent.

“I like to dance,” I said softly. “I was just dancing.”

He kept watching me and it seemed like he did this for a long time. Finally, his hand came to my neck with his thumb out to touch my jaw.

“Jesus, you aren’t lyin’,” he muttered.

I shook my head because no, I wasn’t lying. Instead I was freaking out about what he said.

“I’m never going to dance again,” I said, quietly to myself on a little tremble, so upset at the thought of people watching me, men watching me and having that reaction that I didn’t even care I was quoting bad eighties music. Serious yuck.

“Ava.”

My eyes had slid to the side and they came back to Luke. “Men suck,” I whispered. “They take everything. Everything.”

Before he could respond, I slid out from between him and the car and turned to the door. He didn’t say a word just bleeped the locks. I opened my door and got in. He shut it for me, got in on his side and we glided out into the street.

I watched Denver pass me as Luke took us to his loft. Neither of us spoke. I was still drunk and I wanted to be happy but I couldn’t stop the dark “all men are bastards” thoughts from flooding my head.

He parked and we took the elevator to his loft. He switched on the lamps and I went directly to the Triumph t-shirt which was sitting, folded, on the barstool where I left it two days ago. I dumped my purse on the bar, grabbed the tee and walked to the bathroom.

“I’m going to bed,” I announced and then walked into the bathroom, shut the door, took out my contacts, got ready for bed, put on my glasses and walked out. I dumped my clothes on my suitcases and headed toward the bed.

I saw that Luke was in the kitchen. I grabbed a pillow and walked to the couch. I threw the pillow down, threw myself on the couch and settled on my side. I was going to sleep there, without a blanket if I had to, I didn’t care.

On this thought, Luke’s legs came into my vision. I looked up. He was holding a glass of water out to me.

“What’s that?”

“Ibuprofen and water. Take it, you’ll need it for the morning.”

“I don’t get hangovers,” I informed him, again not lying. I had to be far more drunk than I was to get a hangover. Sissy called it my gift. She got a hangover after two beers.

“Take it,” he demanded.

I was in no mood to argue. I was in the mood to go to sleep for fifty years, wake up an old maid and live out my life in a nursing home with my only excitement being Friday Night Bingo.

I sat up, took the pills he had in his fist and drank the water. When I was done, he pulled the empty glass from my hand and put it on the coffee table. Then he came back to me and, I kid you not, picked me up (again!), turned and sat on the couch, settling me in his lap, his arms around me.

“Luke, it really bugs me when you haul me around,” I told him, sounding bitchy.

He ignored my bitchiness. “We’re gonna talk.”

Right then, still drunk and feeling in a shitty mood, I thought this was an excellent idea.

“Good. I have a few things to say,” I informed him.

He stared at me a beat then said, “Shoot.”

“First, I’m confiscating this t-shirt,” I announced.

He kept staring at me. Then he said, “Come again?”

“From this point on, your Triumph tee is now my Triumph tee,” I declared.

His lips did that twitch thing like he was trying not to laugh.

I crossed my arms. “I’m being perfectly serious.”

“Babe, I’ll make you a deal. As long as you share my bed, the t-shirt is yours.”

“No. The t-shirt is mine forever,” I countered.

He shook his head. “You’re not sharin’ my bed, the tee stays here.”

“I’ll give you twenty-five dollars for it,” I started to haggle.

The lip twitch came back and it looked like he was losing his battle at biting back his smile. “No,” he said.

“Fifty.”

“No.”

“One hundred dollars!” I cried a little loudly because I had never paid a hundred dollars for a t-shirt in my life and I was worried he would accept.

“I gave you an offer, it’s the only one you’re gonna get.”

“Okay then, I’ll steal it,” I blabbed.

His body started shaking and I was pretty sure it was with silent laughter. “Probably shouldn’t tell me your plan to steal my tee,” he advised.

“Forget I said anything,” I told him.

He shook his head still silently laughing and when he was done, his arms got a little tighter. “Now we’re talkin’ about what I want to talk about.”

“I’m not finished.”

“We’ll get back to your shit later.”

I made a “harrumph” sound and glared at him.

“You owe me,” he said (again).

“I don’t –”

He interrupted me. “Your first payment is to tell me who else got a piece of you.”

Was that it?

I thought he was going to make me clean his bathroom with a toothbrush (or something else, something that required me being na**d but I didn’t want to think thoughts of being na**d with Luke not when I was sitting in his lap, on his couch, in his loft, wearing his t-shirt, not ever).