Score: Change My Mind - One Direction

Mark

It's been a week since Lydia and I started sleeping together, in my bed.

That's it. Just sleeping. We haven't even kissed once, since the night of the last game.

It has been a fucking torture, because I want nothing more than to feel her warmth again, to touch her, kiss her, fucking devour her, but I don't want to push her. The first time we were together she was drunk, and, then, after the game I'd lost control, riding on the adrenaline from winning, so now I don't want to force things. I want to give her space. I want to be sure I'm not alone at this party. And I want her to make the first move this time.

But she hasn't yet.

That's what you get for falling for your best friend. There seems to be no right move. Like, should I pretend I want to be just friends again? That's obviously not an option. Should I just tell her the truth and get it over with? Can't do that either. She'll fucking hate me. Should I get off my ass, walk to the guest room, which she's been using as a closet ever since we started sleeping in the same bed, and where I know for a fact she is right now, and fuck her brains out? Definitely the best-case scenario, but I can't keep pushing this. I can't keep pushing her, especially now that she's got no place to go. The last thing I want is to make her feel not safe in this flat.

And, to make our current living arrangement even more unbearable, she's been walking around the house in the shortest of shorts and the tiniest of tank tops. OK, I admit we are having a heatwave, but, come on! Like I need any more fuel to the fire, blazing inside me already!

I must have set a world record for wanking this past week.

I feel so wound up about this whole thing, that I decide to resort to desperate measures. A short, blonde one in particular.

Martha and I have been shagging on and off since I was seventeen. I've known her since I was sixteen and started playing poker. We met at a friend's house, where she saw me playing. We came across each other a couple more times in the course of a year, and, one night, we played the same table. That night, I lost for the first time in my life.

To her.

Later that night, I lost my virginity to her, too, in the back of her car.

She's the one, who introduced me to The Game, when I turned eighteen.

She's been there for many of my firsts, obviously.

We used to hook up after games, but it all ended shortly after Italy. The pandemic hit, and I got stuck in Amsterdam, and the games stopped, and, frankly, Martha had been the last thing on my mind at that point.

I saw her again, for the first time since I came back, on the street on the day that I brought Lydia to The Game. It was nice seeing her, though she nearly busted me to Lydia that night.

She has never been on the bright side, I guess...

But now, I am in desperate need of her. And, no, I don't mean fucking. Like, I could look at another woman again, in that way, since sleeping with the girl I've been in love with all my life. No. I need her advice. She's the only female I can turn to for advice in this situation. I can't possibly resort to Gloria for support with my issues with Lydia. She's way too biased.

So, I called Martha earlier and asked her if she wanted to meet up, without telling her what it was all about. She agreed, and, now, I'm making my way down my hallway. I have made an effort with my looks for once, and am wearing a black button-down shirt, and black jeans. Martha might want to go somewhere for dinner, and, knowing her, it would be some place fancy. I think I might have gone a little overboard with the aftershave, though...

"Going somewhere?" A voice cracks through my thoughts. I shake my head, confused, and look in the direction the voice came from.

Lydia is standing in the doorway of the guest room, leaning against the doorframe, her hands folded over her chest. She's wearing the white shorts, that I know are barely covering her ass, and a tan crop top. No bra in sight.

Fuck.Me!

And then it hits me. Can I make this a little more interesting? After all, she's been torturing me all week here. Why not give her a taste of her own medicine? That is, if she is into this...into us, at all. A little experiment...

"Yes, on a date, actually," I say, without a twitch of the eye.

Lies.

Lydia's eyebrows shoot up.

"A date?" Her eyes drop to the floor for a fraction of a second. She shuffles her feet nervously, then looks up at me again, as if to see whether I've noticed.

Aha! Just as I thought!

"I didn't know you were seeing someone," she says, straining to keep her voice casual, but failing miserably.

This is going to be more fun than I expected.

"Good, good." She looks down again. "Anyone I know?" She asks, her voice clearly trembling this time. She clears her throat.

"Yes, actually, you do know her. It's Martha."

Lydia looks back at me, her brows threatening to migrate inside her hairline.

"Martha? From The Game?" Her tone is challenging now.

"Yeah, we are meeting for food and drinks. Don't wait up, I'll be late." I turn to the door.

One...Two...Three...

"Mark?"

Bingo!

I spin on my heels until I'm facing her again.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I thought...I got the impression...It's nothing, really...I thought that you and I..."

She's obviously nervous and she's stuttering.

"You thought what, Lyds?"

"Well, I thought that...because we...I...you know..."

"You thought that because we slept together and I took you in when you had nowhere to go, we are now together?"

I start walking toward her. She doesn't move, or make a sound. I feel excitement creeping in.

Just say the word, baby. Tell me that you don't want me to go and I'll stay.

"No." She looks me straight in the eye, challenging me again. God, she's stubborn!

"Then, what?"

"Then, nothing. Just...Forget it. Enjoy your date." Her voice drops a notch at the last word. Her eyes have red brimming them now and I can swear she's holding back tears.

God, I can't win with you!

"Thank you! I am planning on it." I say as I walk back to the door. I swing it open and leave the flat without saying another word.

Once I'm out in the hallway, a heavy sigh rips off my chest. I lean on the wall outside the door for a second, savoring the sensation of the cold wall against my back, then I search my pockets for my car keys and stomp inside the lift.

Once outside, I hesitate for a bit, looking up and down the deserted street. I tilt my head back and look up to the window of my bedroom. Nothing moves inside.

Fuck it.

I walk to my car and sit inside.

Damn, Lydia and her mixed signals! What did that transparent fit of jealousy upstairs even mean? Does she feel hurt that I am going out with someone else? Will she do the same, given the chance? Worse still, would she come to confide in me after that?

It was hell having to listen about Patrick all the time on that trip all these years ago, and watching them grow close and become a couple, even from a distance. I can't let that happen again. I can't let her slip through my fingers, now that I'm so close to having her for myself, at last.

If I wasn't such a damn coward, I would go straight up to her right now, tell her the truth, and beg for her forgiveness, so that we can then finally move on to our HEA, right? Right?

"Fuck!" I yell at nothing in particular. I shuffle in the seat, considering my next move. "Shit," I mutter, taking my phone out of my pocket. I shoot Martha a quick, apologetic text, then I get out of the car and slam the door shut. I storm back into the building, past the concierge, and into the lift.

When I'm in front of the door to the flat, I stop to think again. I entertain the idea of going back to my car, calling Martha and telling her that the date-but-no-date is still on, and just forget about what I am about to do. But then I push the key inside the lock and open the door.

Lydia is nowhere to be seen. I call her name, but there's no response. I stomp down the hallway, opening one door after another, looking for her with no success. I reach my bedroom and open the door, but she's not there, either.

Dammit! Why isn't she answering, when I call her name? She couldn't have left. I would have seen her. I was literally in front of the building the entire ten minutes I was out.

The only room I haven't checked yet is the guest room.

I swing the door open and, there she is, sitting cross-legged on the bed, headphones on, her laptop in front of her. She yanks her head towards the door and her mouth drops open when she sees me there.

A vise grips at my heart, as I take her face in. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are glistening with tears.

My heart sinks to my stomach, and then rises all the way up to my throat again, threatening to make an escape through my mouth. Or is that my tea?

Bloody fool! Why did I do this to her?

I close the distance between me and the bed in three long strides. I stand by the bed, my eyes locked with hers.

A beat passes like this, none of us moving, none of us saying a word. Then, without breaking eye contact, I grip her chin between my forefinger and thumb, bend down and crash my mouth to hers.

She stills for a second but then reaches frantically for my face and pulls me closer, deepening the kiss, the intoxicating taste of her mouth sinking into my every pore. Into my very being.