A beat of silence. Then, “So?”
Warmth surges within me, and my attention switches away from the monuments to wealth and gratuitous abundance outside the window to Jordan. As if feeling my gaze on him, he glances at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Everything. His response iseverythingto the woman who’s always been called a nerd or weirdo or freak because of something I never asked for or have no control over. And those were the kinder names. “I guess Antonio was cool with my job as a breakup specialist, just fine with my lack of filter, and completely okay with my slightly obsessive preoccupation with anime, but my being a card-carrying member of the largest and oldest high-IQ society in the world? That made him squirrely.”
I frown, not needing any prodding to remember the new speculative looks slid my way and the inevitable questions threaded with disbelief and resentment. Those particular notes are so familiar, we’re frenemies.
“Fuck. Him,” Jordan snaps.
“I did. And that was anticlimactic. Literally.”
It’s late October, and warm air streams out of the vents to combat the dip in temperature outside. But I swear, a blast of arctic air swirls inthe interior of the Hummer, skimming my exposed skin. The big hand on my thigh is a leaden weight, and though shadows cling to him, I still catch the hardening of those almost too-full lips and the flicker of a muscle at his jaw.
Heat flares so hot, so suddenly, low and deep inside me I wouldn’t be surprised if my ovaries are covered in soot. I recognize signs of annoyance, of anger, when I peep them. I should since I inspire both on a regular basis. Possessing a strong IDGAF gene tends to do that. Yet for the first time, a thrill sprints through me as if chasing a gold medal. My chest rises and falls; my muscles tense. Excited. I’m excited, teetering on the edge of a precipice, eager to see what he’s going to say, do.
I’m wrong. I’m a conflicted mess of signals, wants, and intentions.
And I don’t care.
“Then it’s a damn good thing you got rid of him. Bad dick is horrible. Insecure bad dick is all kinds of fucked up.”
Disappointment pops inside me, and I deflate like a pricked balloon. Hell, what did I expect? We’re strictly friends. I made sure of that. And what the hell am I doing? Stomping into territory that’s pocked with land mines that could blow me to emotional pieces.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, dragging me out of my head.
“What’re you apologizing for?” I ask, hating the snap in my voice.
“He hurt you.”
“With underwhelming smashing?” I snort. “Please. If I cried every time a man failed to make me orgasm, I’d have my own special raft to sail down the river of my tears.”
I wait for a laugh or a smart-ass comeback at the very least.
But ... nothing.
The fingers on the steering wheel tighten, and he moves his hand from my thigh back to his. Like air hitting a burn after the bandage has been torn off, my leg throbs, branded and aching from the heavy weight of his heated touch. I stare down at my hands, daring them to move.
Stay right where you are, you shameless hussies. Don’t you dare grab his hand and put it back.
Thank God they obey, but I swear “selfish bitch” whispers through my head.
Andholy shit, what was in that spaghetti I ate earlier tonight?
“He hurt you, Miriam,” he says again. Softer. And Miriam. Not Blondie. Not Marilyn.
Miriam.
He means business.
Gritting my teeth, I consider not answering. But then refusing to gives his question more importance, moremeaningthan it deserves.
“Yes.”
I twist in my seat. Tonight, his long dark-blond hair is pulled up and away from the shaved sides, secured into a loose bun at the back of his head. The style offers an unimpeded view of the sharp lines and angles of his profile. And the flagrantly carnal curves of his mouth. Silver glints at his eyebrow, ear, nose, and lip. My fingertips itch to trace those edges and slopes. Map them out so I can close my eyes, pick up a pencil, and re-create them just from memory. I could do a perfect rendition. With no problem. Because I crave that so badly, I rub my fingers together, reminding myself of the perils of touching what I shouldn’t.
“He hurt me. Being treated like a novelty instead of a woman, a damn person, stings just a little bit.” I was a sixteen year-old college freshman; God knows I should be used to that feeling by now. He’s also aware that I’ve erected a wall around myself countless times to try and guard my heart, but maintenance on that thing is a motherfucker. “I didn’t need a nine hundred number or spirit guide to see where it would go from there. Either one of two places—morbid fascination with fucking the certified genius or suddenly having a condescending competitor in my bed hell bent on proving his manhood. No thank you. So I did us both a favor and dumped him before we could even travel down that road.”
