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Cat’s got herself a gun.
“MG.”
“Touch me, and I’ll shoot, Jac. It’s loaded, and I do know how to use it.”
He raises his hands. “I was just having fun.”
“You know you sound pathetic, right? ‘Please, officer, it was only a bit of fun. She wanted me to.’”
“Don’t.” His word is soft. Full of steel.
“Go away, Jac.”
“I came to talk,” he says, “all right? You—”
“Do not say I owe you. After last time, where you let me know you paid me for my services, remember you’ve got every dime back. I’m not financially obligated to a thing. Not even listening to your bullshit.”
I wince because Jac would say that. The fury surges within me again. I’ve probably said worse to her, but we were playing. Jac removes that layer. And when he’s angry…
He fucking hates I’ve been there. Just as much as I hate he has.
“MG, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”
She flips off the safety, and he goes still. “My bruises from you—where I looked beaten up, by the way—have faded, but you won’t ever touch me again.”
He pushes the gun back a little, which is ballsy, and he offers her his smooth, good Jac smile. “Admit it, maybe we went a little far, but you had fun. I know you did. All those orgasms.”
My stomach twists and knots.
Both hands curl into tight fists. The door’s open enough that if I move, Jac just might notice, or she’ll look. As it is, I can feel her not looking, that’s how aware she is of me. And her nipples are beading, pushing against the dress thing I gave her because it’s sheer and short and it doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
And now Jac gets to enjoy it.
At least he gets a gun pointed at him for the privilege.
Jac says, “You didn’t say no.”
“You’re right,” she says after a beat. “I didn’t. And I enjoyed it, but as I said, that doesn’t mean you get to touch me again.”
“If you say so.” He points to the sofa, and he takes the armchair opposite. My phone’s on the coffee table but he wouldn’t recognize it. We don’t take selfies together.
“Sit there, MG.”
When she doesn’t move, he taps a hand on the arm of the chair. Then he gets up, goes to the kitchen and comes back with my bottle of Japanese whiskey. He mutters something nasty and takes a sip.
“I said sit, MG. Please? You can keep pointing the gun at me. Hendrick’s Hibiki whiskey?” He holds out the bottle to her, but she shakes her head, eyes narrowed.
“What happened,” she says, “to you leaving so you don’t get shot?”
He shrugs. “I like to live fucking dangerously. Sit. Or stand.”
What the fuck is he up to? I can’t move. I’m that soldered to the spot.
Jac’s up to something, and he’s angry, but that’s pretty much what he does. What I don’t like is the confidence, the way he’s in control, not bothered by the gun.
I’d love to say she’d shoot him. Or that she wouldn’t. But the thing is, I don’t know what she’s going to do. Neither does she.
It’s not Jac’s welfare I’m concerned about, more what this means to Magdalena. She doesn’t like him, but she wants him, just as much as she wants me. It’s so déjà vu that I’m greasy with it. I kill people. I make money. I’m a king in my world. How the fuck does she reduce me to this? Half-naked, barefoot in her bedroom, listening as she talks to her other lover.
