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“Can we file him in the Asshole category and move on?” drawls Rami, who has little tolerance for men on the best of days.
“He was obviously looking for an excuse to knock again,” says Fran, sipping on some water through a straw, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “I mean it’s not even midnight.”
“Or maybe he just does have a stick that tightly wedged up his ass,” I retort.
“Hot as hell, though, huh?” Fran says, wiggling her eyebrows.
“And he knows it,” adds Ram, ruffling her short dark overgrown pixie cut. “Plus, he’s waving about fifty red flags in the air at any given moment.”
“Oh, shush,” chides Frannie. “He can’t be worse than—”
She stops, no doubt seeing my deep inhale and nervous swallow.
I hate these stupid waves of trauma which paralyze me whenever she brings Micah up, especially because it’s not her fault. She doesn’t know the full story of what happened on that last day that we split up.
And she also doesn’t know that I’ve been getting strange messages lately.
An anonymous number leaving me one single word:Hello
It’s hardly the stuff of horror movies, but I block it each time and shortly after, another comes through.
I should change my number again, but I’ve had to do it three times already and I just don’t want to have to go through all that again.
“Well, he can’t, can he?” adds Fran.
“Would you calm down, woman?” I chortle. “I’m only staying here another week, you know. I doubt I’ll even bump into him again.”
She throws me her most obnoxious grin. “By the look in his eyes tonight, I’m guessing you will.”
“And make sure you chew him up and spit him out again if you do,” deadpans Rami, making Fran and I dissolve into giggles.
In reality, as hot as he is, you’d have to have your head buried in the sand to not spot the dozen or so red flags that the self-righteous stranger was waving about… and after the year I’ve had, I’m not putting myself in the grasp of risky men ever again.
3
Indigo
The bright magenta droplets dribbling down his fresh white shirt are the only thing that exist for a few seconds, dropping as if in slow motion down crisp ivory cotton of what I’m sure is the very expensive variety.
The strong hand wound tightly around my upper arm that stopped me from faceplanting right into his steel plate of a chest and bloodying up his shirt just to add to the bright burgundy dye job I’ve inflicted upon him lifts me a little, helping me to straighten myself up.
I can’t help but wonder if the pool of beetroot juice now lying just in front of his expensive—and rather large, I can’t help but notice—black leather shoes could possibly transform into a secret portal to another dimension that I could jump into to escape the sheer hell of another trainwreck of a social situation I’m just a world-class expert at stumbling into.
He pulls a little more, helping me to my feet as my gaze staggers—against its will—up his long legs, sheathed in black suit pants, and up to what is without a doubt a prominent bulge, now dripping with red liquid.
Managing to drag my eyes away from it, I check out the pièce de résistance of today’s work: the Jackson Pollock painting I’ve now transformed his shirt into.
As I get to my feet, and he releases my arm upon making sure I’m relatively steady and not about to faceplant into him again, my gaze finally pans one whole foot up to meet bright eyes that gleam darkly above a way-too-amused smile.
Greyson Everitt glances down at his crime-scene of a shirt before looking back up.
“Still upset about my cycling tips, I see.”
Holy God…
I’ll be a good girl from now on.
Just please stop me from dive-bombing into these messes…
