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“Actually, I do mind,” Punk chides, pushing off the table. With his arms folded over his lean chest, he steps in front of me to face Trent. “Seeing as how you’re trying to start shit with my brother’s old lady.”
“Punk, I’m not his old lady.”
“Right,” Punk taunts. “And Jo’s not our sister.”
“I can handle this.”
“Never said you couldn’t. But I’ve seen how violent you get when provoked. Don’t think I haven’t forgotten how you gave me welts when you whipped me with your property jacket. I’m just trying to keep us in a job. If I have to referee, so be it.”
Not going to lie. He has a point. I throw hands when pushed too far.
With teeth bared, Trent tries to walk around Punk to come face-to-face with me. Punk steps in his way. Trent goes to the left, and Punk follows. He then goes to the right, and Punk goes right along with him. Back and forth they move.
Punk holds out his arms. “I can do this dance all day, dude. Though I prefer to get down with a woman, unless you’re trying to tell me you’re into me.”
Trent jerks back. His face contorts in a mixture of disgust and fury.
“Aww,” Punk muses aloud, with a smile in his voice. “You like me, don’t you?”
My ex shakes his head angrily. “Simone, call me. Seriously.” He spins on his loafers, marching for the door.
“Don’t be like that, man,” Punk calls after him. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try anything once.”
Trent slams the door behind him.
Alone with Punk, I smack the back of his head.
“Ow. What was that for?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re as bad as Chase. Did you really have to hit on him?”
Punk snorts. “As if. He’s totally not my type.”
“Right. Because he has a dick.”
“Are you sure about that? I could have sworn he had a pussy.”
I scoff. “Such a misogynistic stance that women are the weaker sex because we have vaginas. Women are strong.”
Punk rubs his chin. “You’re right. My apologies. Pussies are tough. They can take a pounding and keep going. Your ex is exuding little dick energy. I bet he can’t make it past the ass cheeks.”
“I can’t handle your energy today,” I admit in a tired voice, walking to the wall of boxed files.
“And are we pretending the blowhard isn’t orange?” Punk persists.
“Spray tanning is popular in Sacramento,” I mumble, opening the first box.
“I don’t recall you being colored like a dreamsicle, Miss Pale Ass. Who the fuck spray tans to the point where they shine? The dude stands out like a highlighter. Seriously, how did you date aFanta-looking weasel without laughing in his face?”
Shaking my head, I pull out the first file. Punk’s description plays on repeat in my head as I skim through the contents. A small laugh bubbles in my chest. I attempt to disguise it by clearing my throat.
“He is sort of orange looking, isn’t he?”
Punk sits in a chair, kicking his boots up on the table. “Like a prison jumpsuit.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
CYNTHIA
