“Leaving already?” Scott asks, finally tearing himself away from Rebecca.
“I’m tired,” I say, shooting down his comment as I throw on my jacket.
“I’m tired too,” Abby gets up too. “Would you mind walking me home?”
I really didn’t need this.
“Don’t you live just around the corner?” I ask rudely.
“Yeah, but it’s late and it’s dark, and you shouldn’t let a woman wander around at night on her own.”
“We’re basically surrounded by CCTV cameras,” I retort, losing my patience.
“Come on Ryan, what’ll it cost you?” Scott looks at me hard.
Nothing, I guess. It won’t cost me anything.
I nod towards the door, leaving Scott and Rebecca to it, while I begrudgingly take Abby home.
We walk side-by-side in total silence, as she pulls her coat across her chest, pointing out her building. I accompany her up to the door and wait for her to type in the access code, but she turns to me, suddenly, sliding her hands down my jacket.
I step away instinctively, putting some distance between us, but she doesn’t give up. “You’re so difficult, Ryan O’Connor,” she says, winking.
“You have no idea,” I mumble dryly.
“I like a challenge,” she retorts, approaching me again.
“This isn’t a game.”
“We could make it one,” she insists, sliding her hands under my jacket and stroking my chest through my shirt.
Her touch pisses me off.
I grab her wrist and step back, gruffly. “It’s not a game for you.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, not understanding why I’m rejecting her.
“I just don’t want you to touch me.”
And it’s true. I don’t want this young, reckless girl to touch me, to take me back to hers. I don’t want her to push me onto her bed, to brush her body against mine, to have any claim over me. No, I don’t want anyone to touch me, enter into my life – not even for five minutes.
“What, am I not your type?” she asks, incredulous.
As if I cared, as if I’d even looked at her. She really doesn’t get it.
“That’s irrelevant. You could be the most beautiful woman in the world, and I wouldn’t care. You have absolutely no effect on me.”
Bullseye. She takes a step back, glaring daggers at me.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an arsehole?”
I shrug and walk away, without a response. I know exactly what I am – I don’t need anyone to tell me.
Not her or anyone else.
