Dark Wild Night (Wild Seasons #3)(25)
Author: Christina Lauren

“Wait.” Not-Joe stops him. “Lesbian roommates? Why am I just now hearing this story? I feel betrayed.”

Oliver continues to watch me, and lifts his eyebrows as if to say, Well? You were saying?

“According to Ansel,” I tell Not-Joe, trying to sound casual, like this information doesn’t make me itch under my skin whenever I think about it, “Oliver had two female roommates at universiy in Canberra. Both were into other women, but being that it was college and we’re all sort of loose about things in college, they took it upon themselves to show Oliver the ropes, as it were. Ansel says that loads of women have just raved about Oliver’s—”

“No one has ever raved to Ansel,” Oliver cuts me off, looking flustered. “I mean, it’s not like that at all.”

“Well, it sounded exactly like that,” I say, giving him a playful smile.

But he doesn’t return it.

In fact, he looks really tense, like he doesn’t like that I’m talking about this. And of course he doesn’t; we’re in the middle of his place of business. But . . . wasn’t he just the one talking about knowing sex with him is good?

Confused, I blink down to the book in my hands and read the same dialogue bubble over and over.

“That . . .” Not-Joe claps a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “That is legendary. Remind me of this the next time I give you shit.”

Oliver doesn’t say anything; he just scowls down at his clipboard.

And now it’s weird. I made it weird, but when I think about it, it’s been weird all morning. I took a leap and crossed an invisible line last night at his place. I exposed the farce of this Just Friends business, at least my end of it. Just friends works as long as everyone is on the level. As soon as it’s clear one person wants more, the entire house of cards crumples. Saying I wanted to draw him a few days ago . . . last night, with the spooning and the hand-petting, and now here with the knowledge about his former sex life when he and I never talk about those things . . . I’ve probably knocked down the entire carefully constructed fortress and doused it with gasoline.

I walk over to him, lightly punching his shoulder. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I just opened my mouth and dropped a whole lot of awkward on this moment.”

He doesn’t look at me. “S’okay. I just don’t want you to think . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” I say when he trails off. I get it. He doesn’t want me to think about him like that.

The panel shows the girl, staring down at the beating organ in her hands.

We fall silent as another customer approaches, and I turn away, headed back toward my things on the couch. I slip my sketchbook back into my messenger bag and sling it over my shoulder, ducking past Oliver and around an aisle of comics so I can discreetly escape.

“Where you headed, Lola?” Not-Joe calls.

“Just going out,” I mumble, pushing open the front door.

Outside on the sidewalk, I carefully dodge the reporter and pull my phone from my bag, quickly dialing my dad just to look busy.

He answers on the second ring. “What’s shaking, baby girl?”

I duck, speaking quietly into the phone. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He pauses, waiting for me to say why I’ve called. I did it as a cover, but now that I’ve got him on the phone, I realize how it feels like water is building behind a dam in my chest. Art and writing and the film and Oliver. My fits and starts of flirtation, the way I’m terrible at reading Oliver and even worse at trusting my own instincts with guys. It’s too much all at once on my plate.

I could have called one of the girls, but I almost regret talking to Harlow about it the other day and don’t want her poking me about Oliver right now. London is at work, and Mia can’t help but pass along everything she hears to Ansel.

“What’s up?” he asks again, prompting.

I grimace, closing my eyes. “I’m just short-circuiting.”

“Tell me about everything that’s got you.”

“Who gave me a grown-up card? Like who thought that was a good idea?”

Dad laughs. “They give out grown-up cards? Huh. Must have passed me right up.” He inhales again, voice tight with a held breath when he says, “Spill.”

God, where do I even start? Dad would have opinions about Austin—he sounds too slick, do you really think he’s the right guy for this project?—and the idea of Razor as an alien from Mars—is he fucking kidding? Did he read the damn story? Talking to him about my work always triggers his protective don’t-let-them-screw-you instinct and, while I do love how proud he is of me, he has no experience with Hollywood. His opinions would be loud and unhelpful.