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“There is noher. I have an ex that I see sometimes. Despite rumors, that is all.” His eyes narrow. “Is that why you didn’t take my calls?”
“I told you I needed space. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“And is that why you changed your number without telling me?”
The displeasure scribbled into the faint crease around his brows seems to have morphed into something else. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked hurt.
I didn’t mean to do it that way. I thought about giving him my number before I changed it, but I’m too aware of how much of a red flag this man is, and how potent the effect he has on me is and I can’t shake the feeling that this man is going to hurt me one day, so badly that I don’t recover.
I look down, knowing it was kind of an asshole move and done in a moment of panic and fear.
“Why did you change your number?” he asks.
I don’t answer, lifting my gaze to find his eyes now tainted with concern.
I haven’t told him I’m still being harassed by a man who hurt me. Part of it is the sheer embarrassment of me, a smart woman, managing to fall for someone like that, to miss so many red flags. And I just hate talking about it.
When I don't answer, he speaks. “I could have got your new number any number of ways, Indigo. I decided not to out of respect for your wishes, and because I knew I’d see you here. I want you to give it to me now.”
“Won’t your so-called ex object?” I ask, still simmering with unjustified jealousy and not entirely sure I can believe him. Apparently, Tom told Carrie he and this woman were engaged at some point, and trying to work it out.
“I don’t give a fuck if she objects. We’re not together. I haven’t touched her in months. The rumors are not true. Not even close.”
I try to conceal the sigh of relief that I have no right to. “Well, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“And yet, you asked, Indigo. Clearly it would bother you… just as it would bother me if you had a man to replace the fool I saw you dump.” I gulp down his words and the unmasking of pretense as we get straight back to the dynamic we were in before. He leans into me. “Have you touched a man since I last saw you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Oh yes, it is,” he bites. “I need to know if there’s a man whose life I need to make a living hell.”
The way he growls the words possessively makes me shudder, the skin on my bare arms and bare belly below my tight white cropped T-shirt prickling into goosebumps.
The way he is sometimes is scary… and intoxicating. He doesn’t do it with the same bitter, unhinged rage that my ex did, but instead feeds me possessive words in a way which stuns my senses and plays into my need for protection.
“I want an answer,” he continues.
“Well, sorry, but I’m not your property, so—”
“Indie! Any chance of getting our drinks?”
I glance over to our booth just ten or so feet away in this now busier bar to see Frannie concealing a smile while Rami blinks slowly, clearly highly unimpressed by Grey’s unexpected appearance on day one of our retreat. Her strong hand is slid down the top of the back cushion, her expression amusingly terse.
“Good evening, ladies,” Greyson shouts over the 80’s rock song currently playing. “Here for the wedding?”
“Yoga retreat,” shouts Fran with a smile. “And to make sure Indie doesn’t get herself into too much trouble,” she jests.
“Or get caught up with any undesirables,” Rami throws at him in that usual piquant way of hers.
“Ah, I’ll be doing the same,” Grey responds, causing me to pivot in a flash, looking up to find his eyes laced with possessiveness above a rather sinful smile.
“Do you think we’ll get our drinks sometime today?” asks Rami.
“Fuck,” I mutter, just in time for the barman to place Rami’s Mezcal and three packets of chips next to my and Fran’s drinks.
“That’ll be twenty-seven even, please,” he says, and I dig out the two twenties from my back pocket.
“I’ll get these,” says Greyson.
