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“Alright.Moreof an asshole.”
“It’s not women’s fault that men harass them,” she utters, her slight frame shivering slightly. “It’s the fault ofmenand men only, and we need to start putting the onus back on that and not blaming us for everything you do to women.”
“I don’t do that kind of thing. Ever.”
Her head snaps to look at me and I realize her eyes look misted, and not just from the water we’re swimming in. “I didn’t meanyou. I meant… men. Not all men. Just enough to make our lives miserable.”
“It was their fault, not yours. I know that. I shouldn’t have brought up your clothes. I just get… protective around you. Stupid.”
She peers up at me, her large green eyes always searching. “Why do you even care?”
I study her face, how earnest her expression is, how vulnerable despite anger clearly brimming beneath the surface of her vain attempt at composure. There’s something about this annoying creature that’s so unfamiliar to me. She’s wild. Untamed. She’s so different to the women I know—composed, sophisticated, elegant.
Predictable and willingly domesticated.
I think of Gabriella for a moment and despite our numerous arguments, I don’t think there’s one time she’s dared looked at me so boldly as this little one. Not just boldly; Indigo glares at me as if demanding answers.
It would be amusing if it weren’t so vexatious, if it didn’t tear at the fabric of my need for control.
As it is, taming her to my satisfaction is still very much on the menu. In fact, by the impertinent way she glowers at me, I would almost guess that’s exactly what she’s looking for.
“I don’t know, Indigo,” I reply truthfully to her question, locked into her eyes for what feels like an hour.
She turns back to look at the side of the pool as I study her beautiful profile. She looks like some pixie, her features dainty but for blaring eyes that could see right into you. Three silver hoops are looped into her creamy earlobes and behind her ear lies some tattooed symbol in white ink. I can’t make it out but it’s all I can do to stop myself running my tongue along it.
She closes her eyes for a moment as her fingertips curl around her slim, wet arm. Her nails are painted white and chipped in several places, which, of course they would be. She’s a walking tornado. I’m used to women who are manicured and pruned to within an inch of their lives. But despite the chaos, I like being around this one. It feels like being able to breathe. I study her fingers, wishing I could draw them into my mouth and suck on them as she watches me… and then make her do the same.
“What is it?” I ask as she quivers, holding herself tightly.
As her eyes open, a trickle of water makes an exquisite path down the side of her neck, her skin calling to me, my teeth itching to bite.
“Just thinking about those pigs outside. And then… that car.”
Her words jolt me, a tidal wave carrying me back to a day long ago. A day I carry with me in silence, trying to forget, never knowing when the memory of it will leave me paralyzed for a few hours or days or weeks, until I work it out of my system and carry on, as if that day never happened, just as I’ve always been told to.
“It’ll take a few days to get over the shock,” I say.
She turns to look at me, eyes too solemn for a girl such as this. “I hope they arrest the driver.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” I reply.
She evaluates me for a while until a rogue blast of cooler ocean air hits us, making her turn and head towards the steps that lead out of the pool. I join her, making sure to walk on the side of her that the pigs were lurking on earlier, to shield her from their lascivious glares. I turn to look at them as she reaches the lounger and grabs a towel that the waiter must have left for us, wrapping around her body.
Once she’s covered, I grab my own, wiping the water off my body as she sits down, holding the towel around herself. As my eyes wander to her face, I see her looking at my back—no doubt noticing the large scars snaked across it and the bumps from the skin graft I had over twenty years ago.
A heartbeat later, her eyes lift to meet my face as I take a seat next to her. She reaches into her bag, pulling out a slim watch which she clicks easily into place around her wrist, her thumb sliding over the oval face of it as if it soothes her.
“Ready to eat?” I ask.
She peers over at the group speaking animatedly on the far side of the open restaurant, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m not really in the mood after all,” she says, swallowing hard.
“Why not?”
She blinks at me slowly. “Because I’m a woman and changing our minds every five minutes is one of the few privileges of that.”
“Maybe there are privileges of it that you aren’t aware of yet, Indie.”
She cocks an eyebrow, scrutinizing the daring smile I feel playing on my lips at the innuendo.
