The Badboys' Good Lips

11

c h a p t e r e l e v e n
tw: google translate Spanish + mention of non-con

I had never been diagnosed with anxiety.

Sure, my leg bounced from time to time, or I twirled my hair for a couple hours straight, or I fidgeted with my fingers when it was apparent that my stress levels were rising. Yes, I admittedly got nervous more often than not and I had been told once or twice that my need to clean things was a bit anal for the average person. But did I have anxiety? Could I claim it was something I struggled with? No, I couldn't. I had never been diagnosed with it and therefore I could continue living with the ignorance that I was just prone to nervousness because I was schooled to aim for perfection.

This was something Ryder struggled to believe.

"Stop it."

"What?" I blinked, flinching when he reached across the center console of the car and grabbed my left wrist. His grip wasn't tight by any means but was certainly warming my skin.

He glanced at me and then back to the road, the line of traffic moving slowly. "You're anxious."

"No," I mumbled, tugging at my wrist for him to free it. He didn't. "I'm not."

"You're cutting off circulation when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Twist that hair tie," he said it like it were obvious but I hadn't even realized I had started doing it again. One glance down at my lap and I saw that my right fingers were inches from my wrist, confirming Ryder's accusation. But it wasn't anxiety. It was nerves. And I couldn't help it.

After getting back up to the apartment earlier today, Ryder had sent me off to get ready for the evening's festivities. It didn't take me long to get showered and dressed, and while the bodysuit and shorts combo was definitely outside of my comfort zone, putting them on had been the easiest part of the process.

It was what to do with my hair and makeup where I had been having some trouble.

I had gone to Ryder to ask him what he wanted me to do with it: Hair up or down? Innocent or suggestive? Pretty or adorable? With my blonde locks falling to just below my shoulder blades, I had a plethora of options for it.

However, my questions about my hair were inevitably followed by questions about what I should do with my makeup. I wasn't too well versed in any sort of heavy costume cosmetics, especially when I hadn't done much with it for the past two years. But Ryder seemed to brush it all off.

He didn't care about how I should wear my hair. He didn't care for how I did my makeup. In fact he got so annoyed he told me to 'channel my inner promiscuity' and then went off to get himself ready.

Was it my fault that I was nervous about all of this? According to Ryder, yes, but the correct answer was no. I wanted to perform well for him. I wanted him to look at me and see some sort of value. I wanted to use tonight to prove myself to him and he was making it harder by not telling me exactly how to do everything, detail by miniscule detail.

I blinked rapidly, trying to shake off my askew energy. Ryder finally let go of my wrist, letting his foot off the gas so the car rolled forward. "I wasn't doing anything with my hair tie," I mumbled, not putting much effort into trying to sell the untruth.

"You make it obvious that you don't know how to handle your anxiety."

"That's not true," I lied again, not looking at him. I tucked my hands underneath my thighs, staring at Ryder's profile as he made it to the intersection and turned right onto a lonely-looking road. The destination was his gang lair that he had kidnapped me to a week ago, and our surroundings were beginning to look slightly familiar. "I don't have anxiety. I just get nervous. Everyone gets nervous. I'm allowed to get nervous."