Free #Jerk by Kat T. Masen Page B

miniscule of a feeling after he had his way, is enough to eat away at me.
    I cannot fall for him. I cannot even want him in any way.
    Praying for a miracle is my only exit, and thankfully, that miracle arrives at 3pm when Mr. Sadler announces that Haden Cooper will be taking on an assignment in London for four months.
    Halle-fucking-lujah!

 
    W ith the Jerk away in London, I was able to piece my life back together again. Jason still hadn’t contacted me, yet every week a realtor would show prospective buyers around. I wasn’t in a financial position to buy him out, so I settled for apartment hunting in a more affordable neighborhood. Nevertheless, I started packing my belongings and getting rid of items I no longer needed, like my MC Hammer pants from the nineties. There’s nostalgia and then there’s just plain hoarding. Hammer pants fall into the hoarding category.
    As Marcus promised, we had fun. Fun was hitting the clubs, late night dinners, and of course, hot sex with a confirmed 27-year-old. He didn’t tell me directly but when he took a shower at my place, I ‘stumbled’ upon his license. On a drunk bender one night, he asked my age. I wasn’t going to lie, and when I asked him if he had a problem with that, he replied by taking me back to his place and making me come on his roommate’s expensive leather sofa.
    He told me only after, his roommate was his cousin, Haden.
    From that moment, we only ever had sex at my place.
    The Jerk had virtually disappeared, and occasionally, Mr. Sadler would send out a group email in which Haden would respond. That was it in terms of contact. He never once tried to text or send me anything work-related, so it was easy to assume that drunken night in the alley was all in the past and could easily be forgotten.
    Marcus was fun, he made me forget the stresses of everyday life, including my bad bout with the flu a couple of weeks back. I wasn’t sure that I saw it going anywhere, I simply enjoyed his company and for once in my life, I was happy to just go with the flow. Very un-Presley like.
    Then it all went pear shaped—he said he loved me.
    It happened last week at the Bon Jovi concert. The third beer of the night and halfway through “Bed of Roses,” he pulls me into an embrace and whispers into my ear, “I think I love you, Presley Malone.”
    My instant reaction was to dry heave, which ultimately had me running for the bathroom so I could projectile vomit my fears into the dirty toilet. How do you tell someone, “Oh, hey, thanks for saying I love you, I don’t feel the same way but it’s nice to know you care”?
    I remember walking back to him and the puppy dog look on his face when he saw me; it was the look of being in love. I simply smiled, told him thank you, and changed the subject by telling him that I wasn’t feeling too hot. He didn’t seem to think there was an issue, so after the final song we made our way home and I pulled out the ‘Aunt Flo’ card; he understood and left me alone.
    It wasn’t a complete lie; I was almost due and this month I was predicting a bitch of a cycle since the past three months had been light. That bitch never came, and the emergency sirens were ringing, sending Vicky to the rescue.
    “It’s blue.”
    Frozen on the spot, I stare at the little blue line and its evil twin. This cannot be happening. I am not irresponsible! I got straight A’s in sex education class. I paid close attention to that rubber being placed on the banana. In fact, I even took notes!
    “No shit, but are there two lines?” Vicky is panicked, walking back and forth in the confined bathroom, or what I like to call my personal hell.
    Without saying a word, I hand it over, wrong end first as Vicky snatches it away from me.
    “Oh gross, I’m touching your pee!” It falls to the ground, not that it matters; the damage is done.
    “Is it Marcus’s?”
    Mental calculations of who you were sleeping with at a specific time scream “slut” like nothing