I fully expect him to turn and give a glower my way, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t offer me anything else other than what he’s given me.
You were too deep with Bobby, and I was going to tap out, let you live happily ever fucking after, until I discovered his whore, Jolene.
You, daydream, were clickbait.
You were everything my family was going to use to get Bobby’s perfect little fucked up world in line.
Was I a pawn in a game I didn’t know I was in? I haven’t done my research, and I have nothing to back Bronte’s story.
Maybe this is a sick game, and he doesn’t know me at all.
“What was I wearing?” I ask, taking in the way his body fills out the space between the doors. “The day we first met.”
“Dark blue jeans,” he immediately replies. “And a white Britney Spears shirt.”
He wouldn’t know that.
He wouldn’t be able to look that up anywhere.
There could’ve been pictures at the event. He could’ve looked them up.
“What was I eating?” I lift my chin because Bobby could’ve told him everything about me.
“You weren’t eating anything.” Bronte turns on his heels and hits me with an uneven expression. “But I did tell you not to go flirting with those three guys who were eye fucking you that day. You said you’d try. I told you I didn’t share and I’d fight for it.”
“Well, I did.”
“You didn’t,” he says confidently. “Because I sent them toanother block to help out. I didn’t need the alleged competition. Not that they were anyway, but still.”
I adjust myself in my chair under his gaze and force myself to proceed. What he said—even if it was accurate—doesn’t make me buy into his story. “You said…you’ve been with me before…”
“Several times.”
I can feel my skin flush everywhere, but I inhale through my nose and exhale with, “When?”
“You didn’t notice?”
I don’t know if he’s teasing or taunting me, but it’s not funny.
Because, no, I don’t think I did.
“Your first Christmas with Bobby,” he claims, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks. “He told you he was working late…but he showed up, didn’t he?”
Yes.
I’m irked that he knows that. But, again, it could’ve been Bobby who told him specifics.
“No,” I lie, hoping it makes him give me some sign that he’s over his depth here. That he only knows certain things.
“Why don’t you ask me how I know?” Bronte imparts. “Maybe it’ll help fill in some of those blanks in your head.”
He’s challenging me to be smarter about this, but I don’t believe anything I say will make this better.
Because it’s all shit.
