That's all, though.
No part of me gets excited to come back after a long trip to see Jamie. He's pushy and far too possessive for my liking. My body may enjoy him, but that's all he'll get.
At least that's what I tell myself as I scoop my phone off the couch and read his unopened text. It's sweet and a little bossy. I don't eat dinner like he reminds me to do, and I don't sleep well like he hopes.
Jamie has no power over me. I'll scream that at the top of my lungs even as I imagine him between my thighs while I rub the pad of my middle finger over my clit.
I have to stay strong in my stance to stay alone even as I slip into a fitful sleep. I'll continue convincing myself it's better being single and detached as I struggle to stay warm at night.
The nightmares, the chill of January, and my burning eyes tell meI'ma liar. But I lie to myself because it's easy. Because I don't trust myself. Because most of the time I don't even love myself.
Two
VIOLET
“Motherf—" I quickly cut myself off when an older lady whips her head around to glare at me. To be fair, it looks like she's having a pastry with her grandchild.Oops.
Although I don't say anything because I've made that mistake before, and that woman was not happy with my insinuation that she was old enough to be a grandma. Even though, spoiler alert, she actually was a grandma.
I wiggle my fingers at the crabby lady and turn back to the scone that decided to ruin my day. Honestly, I was seconds away from taking the perfect shot when it just...crumbled.
It may,may, have been my fault for rearranging it for the ten thousandth time, but really? The shape was all wrong anyway. Maybe I can convince the barista to give me a stack of cookies to take a photo of instead.
I chose the scone because the blueberries peakingthrough the carbs would really pop in the early morning sunlight.
Sometimes I have no idea why I do these random jobs. I love taking photos and have a knack for knowing what sells on social media, but the coffee shop and hair salon don'texciteme.
The nightclub is fun. I'd just rather be on my hikes and take pictures when it feels right. This is forced even if it's artsy and offers me some income.
"Hey, Sweets."
"Really?" I grumble under my breath. When I woke up this morning I had a plan, and that plan did not include fumbling around with a scone. And it definitely didn't involve Jamie freaking Murphy helping himself to the seat across from me.
"That nickname can go right in the garbage with my prop," I sass, leaning back in my chair.
He looks even better in the daylight. His dark brown hair is pulled back from his face in a man bun. A few wavy wisps have escaped their entrapment and tickle his lightly scruffed cheeks. The black gauges in his ears shine in the sunlight, and I notice he's replaced his cartilage hoop with a silver one while I was gone.
I hate myself a little more when sadness rips through me at not being able to see his dragon tattoo that climbs up his neck. Jamie is a work of art, and it drives me crazy.
In his bedroom, that's great. Out in the real world where we aren't meant to see each other, it's infuriating.
"Come on now," he rumbles while eating said prop. "We can't waste free food."
"Who said it was free?" I snap even though it was free. Of course, he just raises an eyebrow and smirks at me.
My clit pulses. I really, truly, hate seeing Jamie around Detroit. It makes the boundaries I've set very hard to maintain, especially when he's feeling particularly pushy.
I'd rather continue talking about the half-eaten scone, but Jamie has other ideas. "What are you doing tonight?"
My body heats at the underlying question, but I have plans that don't involve his hands on my body. "Going to Club Surreal."
"Work or pleasure?"
It's a fair question considering I help take images for their socials too. I narrow my eyes even as my tummy swoops. While I answer his question, I'm trying to figure out how to get him to leave. "Girls’ night."
He nods and reaches for my iced latte. Before his fingers can wrap around the cup, I bat his hand away. Only, Jamie has a bit of a dominant streak. Moving fast, he snatches my wrist in a firm grip that makes my breath catch.
"Sharing is caring, Violet," he scolds and grabs my drink with his other hand. He takes a sip, and that simple act of wrapping his lips around my straw heats my blood. Right up until he sucks a third of my fucking drink down.
