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I opened my mouth to say yes. What came out was, “I should get home.”
Priya blinked. Then nodded quickly, like she’d expected it.
“Course. Yeah. No, that’s sensible.” She let go of my wrist. “Sorry. That was weird. Forget it.”
“It wasn’t weird. I just…”
“Owen, honestly, it’s fine.” She smiled, a little too brightly, and pulled her cardigan tighter. “Get home safe, talker.”
Dez held the door. The cold hit me like a slap. I had thirty-eight quid in my wallet, which wasn’t enough for a cab across town, so I walked to the night bus stop and stood under the shelter with a drunk man eating a kebab.
The bus took forty minutes to come.
I sat on the top deck and replayed it. Her hand on my wrist. Ten minutes away. A bottle of wine and a sofa. A lot of practice at lap dances that I never get to finish properly.
I had said no. To that. Why had I said no?
Because of the job, I told myself. Because of Tuesday. Because I was sad and broke and didn’t want to be a sad, broke man in a stripper’s flat.
None of those reasons sounded any good at three in the morning on the top deck of the N29.
When I got home, I lay on my bed in the dark with my jeans open and my hand round my cock, thinking about her sofa, and hated myself just a little.
Ending 22 of 25: The Night Bus. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.