The harsh taste of bile assaults my throat. I had no idea it could make me this sick to see him touched like that, and eventhough he takes a step back, slipping out of the hand’s reach, it doesn’t make me feel any better.
I’m locked on, every second crawling by in slow motion, like I’m on the edge of a black hole.
Then in walks—and believe me, I know how outlandish this sounds—in walksJon Bon fucking Jovi.
But Jon Bon Jovi in his prime. Maybe he was born later in this timeline? He’s got the hair—full eighties hair. He’s got an earring. He’s got a leather jacket all covered in studs and tassels, and he’s got insanely tight ripped jeans. He’s wearing fucking cowboy boots. And worse than all of that, now he’s got both his ring-adorned and perfect hands on August’s cheeks.
I want to vomit blood and hit him all at the same time.
August lifts his chin to pull back. Those same hands slip to his shoulders, then to his hips again, tightening, and the guy doesn’t let go this time. His voice is a gruff, flooring New Jersey accent when he yanks August’s pelvis flush against his own and says, “You’re the one who called me.”
August doesn’t move. He takes a moment to look him dead in the eye, the space of a breath between them, then replies, “And you’re the one who hung up.”
Jon Bon fucking Jovi leans in, and Jon Bon fucking Jovi kisses August.
I can’t even describe the flare of emotions in my chest. It’s like a gas canister explodes, and it’s all fire. I don’t like it. I don’t fucking like it, and it’s over as soon as it began, physically, but not inside me. Inside, it’s like he’s grabbed me, and kissed me, and I hate him for it.
I’m on the edge of my seat, ready to jump up and throw him off, but August’s already shoved him against the closed door and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You have no right to do that.”
“Bullshit,” he throws back. And as though it could possibly mean a thing, he says, “I still love you.”
“You never loved me,” August spits out, rapid fire, and I get the feeling this is old ground for them.
Dickwad proves me right when he replies, “You’re going to start this again?” He says it on a bitter scoff, then turns away with a roll of his eyes, but that’s exactly when his gaze lands on me.
He turns whiter than a full moon, just for a second, then his eyes are straight back to August. Then back to me.
I don’t think the look on my face is going to help him settle comfortably into the new situation.
It’s the way his shoulder dips towards August then that really sets me off. It happens automatically. Like they have something unspoken. Like he’s close to August.
He doesn’t know what being close to August is. Iamfucking August.
And I must be looking death straight at this guy.
No one’s saying anything. I like it like that. I want him to feel uncomfortable. I want him to know he’s outside of this. Whatever we have.
But August plasters his hand over his eyes, and sends me deeper into what I’m well aware is a jealous spiral when he evidently feels the need to explain, “He’s my… cousin. He’s…”
Yeah, sure. I’m your cousin. Your cousin, who spent the whole night dreaming of kissing you.
Asshole’s eyes are on me again, squinting like I’m a slide in front of a microscope. A dumb microscope that uses too much hairspray. “Your cousin?” Again, he looks at August. Again, he stares at me. “That’s…”
He’s coming over now, and I’m wondering how mad August will be if I punch him in the face. He hasn’t mentioned him once,so he can’t be that special to him. But who wouldn’t mention they have a thing with Jon Bon fucking Jovi?
The same Jon Bon Jovi who’s leaning in way too close to me, who then drops the remarkably astute, “Has anyone ever told you, you two look really similar?”
“Can’t see it myself,” I deadpan.
He stares at me a moment, confusion swimming in his stupid blue eyes. “But… you’re…” Then his face cracks, and the teeth in that smile are fucking perfect. If you consider bleached, blinding white and straight as a row of fresh gravestones to be ‘perfect.’ And I don’t. Obviously.
Prick.
“You had me,” he laughs out in that annoying accent of his. With an intimate something in his eye, he says to August, “I didn’t know you had a cousin.”
Why should he know? Why should August tell him anything? But August’s fumbling about for excuses. “Um. We’re… He’s… This is…”
He doesn’t know what to call me. He’s trying not to make it weirder than it already is by saying our name.
