“What do you want from me, Cuba?”

He rearranged the bread basket, his hands fidgeting. “Why so hostile? Earlier in the week, you mentioned us getting together and talking? Would you still want to?” He seemed to hold his breath.

“There’s no point. We’re not pals. And I don’t think Emma would appreciate it.”

He gave me a sad smile. “I’m not in love with Emma.”

What did that mean?

Oh, yeah. He didn’t fall in love.

“Why do you think I care?” I said crossly.

“You care,” he replied, sounding beaten.

“Cared, past tense. I don’t anymore.”

“You don’t make a good liar,” he growled at me, eyes low.

“What do you want?” I bit out. Wishing he would go. But not. It was completely messed up.

He spoke then. Killing me.

“When we broke up last year, I went nuts. I’ve lost count of the number of girls I was with after you. It was awful and I—”

My face reddened. “Took that many to erase me? Why do you think I want all the details now?”

His jaw clenched. “I fucked them everywhere. In my house, at their house, in hotels, in clubs, outside, wherever I happened to be. It was a binge. Sometimes more than one at a time. But lately, something’s changed, and it’s like I’m waking up—” he stopped, rubbing his hand through his hair. He swallowed. “I can’t put words to it, but I’m sick of who I’ve become. And I’m sick of being a selfish coward. So you see, you’re lucky you got away from me. I’m fucked up, and I would only have hurt you in the end. More than I had already.”

“You make me sick,” I hissed.

A look of resignation hit his face. “Yeah, I’m not surprised.”

I tossed the napkin on the table, bitterness from the past rising up. “Then stop torturing me with your stories. I already know that you didn’t care about me, okay? There’s no point in rubbing it in.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Dovey, no. Please wait; let me explain. I don’t want to—”

“Is Emma pregnant?” I snapped out, closing my eyes briefly at the sharp slice of pain those words caused.

Silence descended on us, the air crackling with tension. He bit his lip and looked way, twisting his class ring around and around. Finally he faced me, his face hard, his shoulders tense. “She is. And she needs me, and maybe I need this.”

“Just. Please. Go,” I begged, his words killing me inside.

He tensed up. “Dovey, listen to me. I can’t explain everything right now, but you mean something to me, and I—”

“She told you to go. So, get the bloody hell out of my seat, Hollywood,” Spider bit out. He’d come around the corner and had been standing there for a while, obviously hearing most of our convo.

Cuba focused on me, ignoring Spider. “Whatever you think of me…in the past…I made mistakes, but I’m trying to make up for it with Emma—”

“Get out of my seat,” Spider bellowed, his entire body drawn up.

The entire restaurant hushed, and the waitress scurried over with refills to make sure we were okay.

“Spider, it’s fine. He’s leaving,” I assured him.

Cuba exhaled heavily and rose, looming over Spider’s smaller six feet. His mouth tightened as he gazed down at him. “Grow up, Spider, and put a leash on that temper of yours. Especially if you’re going to be with Dovey. She deserves better.”

And then he turned and walked out the door.

Spider cursed and sat down. He slapped his cell on the table. “If I’d known he was going to harass you…”

“Let it go,” I said.

He grumbled under his breath, but I ignored him. Maybe I was a little ticked at him because he’d been gone so long. But, he wasn’t my protector either.

Thankfully our food came and both of us got quiet.

“So. Emmo is preggo,” he sang in between bites of his pizza.

I set down my knife and fork on my plate. My food was tasteless anyway. “Yes.”

He shrugged and took a sip of the beer he’d ordered with his fake ID. “She’ll get fat, you know. We can make fun of her. But, she’ll probably get rid of it.”

“Don’t be so flippant,” I snapped, angry with his attitude. “What if that was you and not Cuba?”

He smirked. “Emma is not my type. Too much fake going on.” His eyes scanned over me. “I want someone real, someone like you, Dovey.”

Not this again.

I looked away and took a sip of water to cover up my nervousness, but I don’t think I fooled him.

A few minutes later, we finished and walked out of the restaurant. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight, and we’ll watch a movie.” He pointed out at the white-covered parking lot. “And it might be a good idea if you spent the night. The roads will be crap.”

I nodded. Heather-Lynn was with Sarah tonight, and sleeping at Spider’s sounded perfect. Right?

AFTER SLIPPING AND sliding the entire way back to his dorm in his SUV, he smuggled me into his one bedroom apartment—he paid extra for a private suite—and we watched Pulp Fiction. We lay on his suede couch while his beer bottles accumulated, and I dozed on and off, the screams and the blood from the movie not registering. We’d only watched it a dozen times together.

I woke to the credits rolling across his big screen. Stretching out, I eyed my bag, resting next to his discarded pizza boxes from one night this week. Or maybe it was last week? Ha. His room was a mess, and I wondered if I should pop over one day and offer to clean it up for him. It was the least I could do since he was loaning me money.

Spider sat his drink down on the side table next to the couch and tugged me into his arms. “You staying?” he asked, his nose nuzzling my cheek.

I stiffened at the touch, yet the moment I’d climbed in his car, I’d known we were teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

But why not experiment? And maybe I wanted this. To prove to him that Cuba meant nothing to me.

“Let me check in with Sarah,” I said, calling home. I half-way wanted her to tell me to come home, but Heather-Lynn answered and said they were fine and for me to stay put in this weather.

I hung up the phone and my eyes locked with his warm ones. I gazed into them, searching for answers about our iffy relationship. Were we friends who turned into lovers?