Exes and O's (The Influencer #2)

by Amy Lea

Anything to distract myself from the fact that my attraction for Trevor may or may not be blooming into an all-out crush.

Every time he smiles or laughs (or, God forbid, both), I lose all circulation in my limbs.

What if Cody thinks I’m nuts for showing up? What if he laughs in my face? What if he full-out rejects me, like all my other exes? Or worse, what if he doesn’t even remember me?

He releases me, his eyes flickering over my chest. Thank God I wore my push-up bra today.

When he anxiously peeks downstairs, I panic, typing it at warp speed, adding a little pink heart next to my name.

As a self-declared born-again virgin, I can say that sexting with Cody (however horribly) is the most action I’ve had in over a year.

Without notice, Trevor appears over my shoulder. I gasp, red-faced, fumbling to lock my phone screen.

I challenged him to a friendly competition of Find the weirdest shit and he’s accepted the task.

a mint-condition ceramic piggy bank of two rabbits going at it with all they’ve got (because it reminds me of Trevor).

“This one bears a striking resemblance to you, don’t you think? Maybe I can haggle a good deal for you.”

My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend face will be the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad.” It wouldn’t?

I thought you’d be the type who’s into sexting and dirty talk and all that.” My neck erupts with prickles at the memory of my illicit car dream. He averts his stare entirely, deflecting. Yup. He’s totally a dirty talker.

“You’re the one who reads hundreds of sex books a year. Why don’t you pull a line from one of those?”

“Dirty talk in romance novels doesn’t translate to real life. I can’t tell him I want to ride his throbbing member wi...

Talk to me about sex between the stacks in a library. Or anywhere with books.” The moment the words come out of my mouth, I regret them.

He recognizes my slipup, because he clears his throat awkwardly and leans back against a book display, toppling multiple books onto their sides.

CODY: Woops. Meant to send that to someone else. TARA: Who? Your wife?

“Don’t laugh at me, okay? But I haven’t had sex in over a year.” And I’m having very inconvenient sex dreams about you.

I toss my palm to the sky, growing increasingly frustrated. Not over this conversation, necessarily, but over the stark reality of what I put up with. What I thought was normal.

I’m gonna have a one-night stand!”

“But it’ll be worth your while. I’ll do all the cleaning for the next two weeks.” “I’ve heard that before,” he groans.

“Why would you bring a change of clothes to the club?” “Just in case. What if my hookup wants to hang out tomorrow?”

“Tara, this is a bad idea. You do not, under any circumstances, hang out the next day. That defeats the entire purpose of a one-night stand.”

“He looks like he has a kind heart.” Trevor shakes his head with far too much authority. “No. He looks like a youth pastor.”

“Satisfy me? How would you know what would satisfy me?” He sighs toward the ceiling, as if I’ve asked him a trick question. “I have a lot of experience.”

“Not with me.” I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to accomplish with that statement, but his eyes blaze for the briefest of moments.

This is the status quo for the next twenty minutes. Trevor is a bottomless pit of contradictory critique.

His head is weirdly shaped. Way too short, even for you. Definitely a murderer.

I’m a dowdy, flat-chested nerd who still gets carded at the liquor store. Not some supermodel. Time is ticking. I can’t afford to be picky.”

What guy doesn’t have a ten-year-old expired condom folded in his wallet? Really, Mitch?

“You okay?” “Superb. Never better. Actually, I just need a condom,” I tell him with the casual air of a frat bro who freeloads condoms on the regular.

I didn’t even get it in.” “Please don’t say get it in.” “Do you prefer going to bone town?” “No.” “Bumping uglies?” “No.” “Boinking? Bruising the beef curtains?”

ARE YOU AND Uncle Trev an item?” Angie so bluntly wants to know.

“Me and him? An item? As in dating? No way.”

For a dude who was vehemently opposed to my succulents, I think they’ve grown on him. In fact, he’s been watering them for me, single-handedly keeping them alive.

I’ve written My Life Would Totally Succ Without You across the top of the card in faux calligraphy. This card screams friend-zone. At least, I thought it did.

The last thing I want to do is explain to a nine-year-old that her uncle has deep-rooted commitment issues.

She knows I’m full of shit, but she’s allowing me to live in denial. Bless.

“Why? Has your uncle said anything about me?” I ask, pretending to be wholly focused on Crystal’s card.

A devious smile spreads across her tiny face. “He says you have the worst singing voice he’s ever heard. He likes to talk about you.”

“My mom calls Uncle Trevor a spinny door.” She twirls her finger around in a clockwise circle.

“Like the ones downstairs that spin around. Because of all his girlfriends,” she says matter-of-factly. “He has lots. But he doesn’t let me meet them.”

He’s pure, authentic, and good. How maddeningly inconvenient.

“Because grown men who wear Crocs can’t be trusted to make good decisions at a party store,” I retort, shooting daggers at their feet.

Ever since I called him out for the army-green atrocity, Trevor has been wearing them around the apartment and at work like a second, terror-inducing skin.

Turns out, Scott recently purchased his own pair. Wearing Crocs is this bizarre joke that all the crew at the firehouse have adopted like ...

“I’ll never take them off. You’ll have to bury me in them.”

“See? Scott’s gonna do it,” I goad. Trevor glowers at him like he’s just broken sacred bro-code. “Because he’s a sucker. And he likes attention—”

And why does Scotty get to be Prince Charming?” “Because he’s charming,” I explain, to Scott’s delight.