“Know it well, do you?” he murmurs.
My mouth twists in spite of my determination to not reveal how another failed potential relationship has left me beating back resentment like a prizefighter.
“I have the hobo stick and blisters on my feet to prove it.”
Silence thickens in the car, only the sound of Lizzo telling people about themselves and their rumors emanating from the radio. Already, a prickle of discomfort tingles beneath my skin. I shouldn’t have said anything. One of my pet peeves—one of my fears—is revealing weakness. For too many years, I walked around as a living, breathing target. Until I refused to be the butt of anyone else’s—of the world’s—jokes and told them all to go fuck themselves with a rusty-ass spork.
I’ll never be that naive, vulnerable girl again.
Iloathethat naive, vulnerable girl.
“I hate to break it to you, Marilyn, but it wasn’t your gigantic brain that had him acting like a fucking pussy.”
“Please don’t insult my sex. Its strength and adaptability are incomparable. Now a dick, on the other hand ...”
He purses his lips, then nods. “Good point. I stand corrected. So it wasn’t your beautiful, gigantic brain that had him acting like a raging dick. It was me.”
“What?” I bark out a laugh, shifting in my seat and turning my body toward him. And determined to ignore the spurt of warmth at the “beautiful, gigantic brain” compliment. “Oh this is going to be good. Please explain.”
“It’s simple. Your boy was a ball bunny.”
“A ball bunny,” I slowly repeat.
He hikes a shoulder, lets it fall. “Yeah. It’s not just women who’re groupies. And you should be ashamed of yourself for being so sexist and narrow minded.” He tsks. “Once you told bruh we were friends, he obviously just used you to get closer to me. Sad but true.” He sighs,shooting me a look. “Can you blame him, though?” He sweeps a hand down his torso. “I’m sorry you were caught in the middle.”
I stare at him—no, gape.
Casting a glance at me, he pats my hand. “It’s okay, Marilyn. We’ll get through this together.”
I can’t help it. The laughter barrels out of me at breakneck speed, rolling into the car and filling it. Jordan’s teeth flash in the shadows as he grins wide.
That quick, the ashes of pain, resentment, and bitterness blow away. Leaving behind a golden light that I lean into, tip my head back and bask in.
Yeah, I think I’ll keep Jordan Ransom.
JORDAN
Fuck. Him.
I did. And that was anticlimactic. Literally.
Miriam’s words loop through my head like a bloopers reel—or a tragic shit show that is some sort of eternal punishment.
Fuck. Him.
I did.
Fuck. Him.
I did.
Goddammit.
My fingers curl around the glass water bottle that no doubt cost more than a rib eye at Shanahan’s, and I lift it for a deep drink. Funny. Thirty-dollar water should at least taste like Beyoncé prayed over it, but nope. Tastes like regular old spring water to me. Sighing, I survey the “get-together” that Linc promised me would be low key. Just the teamand another fifty or so people to celebrate last night’s win before they hit the road for an away game on Friday.
Get-together, my ass.
The bass under the music played by the hired DJ throbs throughout the house but still doesn’t manage to drown out the deafening chatter and laughter of the guests pressed wall to wall inside Linc’s Cherry Creek mansion. Even more spill out into the back onto the patio and pool area, even though it’s too cool outside for a dip. As the alcohol flows, that won’t stop anyone, though. As sure as I am that I won’t be using any of his bathrooms because of the bodily fluids being swapped there, I’m certain people will end up playing naked volleyball in that Olympic-size pool.
