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I can tell she wants to pry, but I pray she honors my wishes.
“Want to watch a chick flick?”
I sigh with relief. “Yes, please.”
Claire runs to the TV and grabs the Blu-ray case for our go-to favorite,Ten Things I Hate About You.
I can probably come up with a couple dozen more things I hate about Graham. But no matter how strong my hate is toward the man, the passion I feel for him is immeasurable to anything else I have ever felt. I want to hate him. But I mostly hate myself for liking him. I cannot afford another distraction when I am so close to finishing this last semester of school and hopefully getting an internship lined up. This is my last chance. There are no more re-dos.
I daydream during the entire movie. It is great background noise to my chaotic thoughts.
“Angie?”
I feel a soft tapping on my shoulder. “Hmm?”
“You fell asleep,” Claire whispers softly. “Time for bed.”
“Okay,” I moan, trying to gain back my senses. I sit up and hoist myself off the couch.
“Oh, I completely forgot to tell you. There was a package for you on the doorstep when I arrived home. I put it on your bed.”
“Okay, thanks,” I respond, making the ascent up the stairs.
Entering my room, I see the perfectly wrapped pink present on my bed. It is the same shade of pink as Sophia’s dress. It takes everything in me not to hurl the thing out the window.
I tear through the paper in a hurry to get the whole thing over with in one quick motion. I flip open the lid and toss layers and layers of tissue paper on the floor. In the box, I find roughly thirty pairs of designer panties, perfectly folded and on display for my eyes. Some with silk, some satin, some lace, some with just string. Some red, some white, some black, and some with intricate patterns. The styles range from an itsy-bitsy thong to a more conservative boy short. All classic, yet sexy. A very beautifully eclectic selection. It’s so fucking perfect that I want to throw the entire box in the garbage.
I hate him.
I hate them.
I hate that I love them.
I hate that they are pretty.
I hate that he has a pair of mine.
Underneath the array of panties, there’s a note. I clutch the paper in my hand and whisper the words out loud to myself in a scorned tone.
Feel free to dirty these, kitten. -GH
My anger bubbles over the sexual need I have for this man. I want him. Even when he drives me utterly crazy with desire and jealousy.
Feeling frisky, I hop online and find the corporate address for Jealousy. I browse the Internet for several minutes and find the nicest silicone vibrating cock that twenty dollars can buy and ship it to his office addressed to him. I include a cheerful note.
Go fuck yourself. -Kitten
* * *
Sunday morning can be summed up as uneventful. I wake to the sounds of sex coming from down the hallway. Apparently the rich, divorced suitor prefers small townhouse bedrooms—riddled with clutter—over his bachelor pad. I wonder if he has bizarre habits or a secret woman hiding out in the attic. Perhaps he is living in less than stellar conditions after his first wife wiped him clean. Claire doesn’t seem to mind the situation—her moaning evidence of her approval. I chalk it up to home court advantage, but I can’t help but wonder what it feels like to hit that level of pleasure.
I use my iPhone to start the 30 Seconds to Mars playlist of songs to drown out the ohs and ahs and yes pleases. Apparently Claire’s alter ego is very polite in the bedroom, a vast contrast to how she acts in public. This Ethan guy has her unraveling at the seams. For a brief moment, I contemplate grabbing my novel, but then think again at how dirty that would make me feel if I decide to get turned on by chick-lit while my roomie is banging next door.
I make my way downstairs and find the Sunday paper—most likely belonging to Ethan—on the coffee table. The Life & Style section is on top, purposely arranged and left there, I assume. Several dried rings of stains damage the perfect image of Graham Hoffman and Sophia Chantel on the cover. I want to do more than just tarnish their perfection with some coffee.
I stare at the blonde bombshell, sporting the sparkly diamond necklace—easily costing a fortune. Even in the photo, the quality of the classic gemstones shines, but not more than Graham’s smile. And that is what pisses me off the most.
He looks happy.
