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I don’t give him the satisfaction of answering his condescending freaking question.
Not until he squeezes my arm again, shaking me this time and growling, “Is that fucking understood?”
“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Good.” Letting go of me and stepping back, he finishes, “Let’s do it then.” Then, as if to himself, “The sooner you drive away, the sooner I can follow you back and call it a fucking night.”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“What?”
“You’re going to follow me back?”
“So?”
“So do you think I’m stupid?”
“Not until tonight.”
I exhale sharply. “I don’t need you to follow me home, all right? I’m not a child. I can drive myself back and I can do it very well. Because who knows what you’ll do with it later. Probably use it as an excuse to exact petty revenge on my brother or something. God knows you’ve done it enough by being a raging asshole tonight. So —”
“If you think,” he bites out, interrupting me, “even for a single second that putting you in your place and having a little fun with you is my idea of revenge, then maybe you’ve forgotten how much of a raging asshole I can be.”
No.
No, no, no.
He’s not saying that. I refuse to accept that he’s saying that.
“Have you?” he continues, his eyes boring into mine. “You couldn’t have though, right? Because it’s only been thirteen months.”
Thirteen months.
The cursed number. The number with tragedy and catastrophe written all over it.
The number I don’t want to think about.
And that’s why I don’t.
I refuse to think about it.
I refuse to think about what happened thirteen months ago.
“And if you have, then I’d be happy to remind you. I’d be happy to remind you how far I’m willing to go to exact revenge and how exactly I’m going to use you to do that. And it wouldn’t be hard, trust me. Given how eager you were to be used. How you panted and writhed and fucking begged me to make all your dreams come true and fucking abuse the shit out of you.”
A quickening starts up in my belly.
Thick and heavy.
Overpowering.
As if my body is reaching out to him. My body, my soul, my very center.
My very femininity is reaching out to him to be, yes, used and sacrificed.
Like it did that night, thirteen months ago.
But I don’t give myself the time or space to gather my strength, to calm down. I break into action.
I push at him.
And thank God, he moves away.
Thank God he gives me space so I can unglue myself from the metal and make my escape for the third time tonight. And then I’m rounding my car, throwing myself into the seat and flooring it.
I’m running away.
From the past.
From my shame at all the things that I promised I’d never do that night three years ago, but still did.
I promised myself that I’d get over him that night, didn’t I?
But I lied.
Because I didn’t.
Not that night. Not the next day. Not the next week or month. Or even a year.
I didn’t get over him; I didn’t stop chasing him; I didn’t stop thinking that there was more to him than what people said until thirteen months ago.
Until he broke my heart so irrevocably that I thought I was going to die.
I thought I was going to choke on my own feelings and foolish dreams.
Chapter Seven
Her Beautiful Thorn
When people ask me what my anger feels like, I tell them it’s an itch.
If I ignore it, it only grows.
If I scratch it, it grows then too.
And by grows, I mean the little itch that starts somewhere deep in my gut spreads out. It takes over my chest, my throat. It goes down to my legs, my toes. My fingers, my jaw. My teeth. The back of my neck, the heels of my feet.
Until it covers every part of my body like little red ants.
Coating my vision in a red film.
Uncontrollable. Undeniable. Fucking explosive. That’s what it feels like, my anger.
And I was kidding before.
As in, when they ask me what my anger feels like, I tell them to fuck off.
Because it’s none of their business.
It’s none of anyone’s business.
Although in probably two point five seconds, it’s not going to be true anymore. Because it looks like I may have to make it their business and I don’t even care if it gets me in trouble.
More trouble than I already am.
I’m not going to sit here, at this fancy fucking restaurant, and let this jacket — which is one size too small — suffocate me any longer. I roll my shoulders and yank at the collar of my shirt, gritting my teeth.
I’m also clenching and unclenching my fist, hoping that I get to plant it in someone’s face.
Or at least in a piece of furniture or on the wall.
“So tell me about it.”
The words are spoken by my dinner companion and my agent, Gio.. He’s the one who chose this restaurant. Where you can’t eat their overpriced and overcooked food unless you’re wearing a dinner jacket. And since I never wear a jacket — and fuck, a dress shirt too — they gave me one of theirs. The wrong size and fucking annoying.
