I don’t know. The point is that I should stop. I’ve said my piece. I’ve even gotten my apology now. Not that he was nice about it but still.
But the thing is, I don’t wanna stop. I don’t wanna walk away, because there’s something else.
Something crazy and dramatic and drastic that I wanna do before I leave and go cry in a corner of this dark bar. Because as soon as I leave, he’ll go find a girl and distract himself.
I shouldn’t do it. Ishouldn’t.
I have to though.
I absolutely have to.
Because what I’m about to do will make my statement, ‘I’m not a thief,’ completely true. It will make me a borrower, at the worst.
So when it looks like he’s about to break his intense scrutiny and open his mouth to say something – probably derogatory – I take half a step back and blurt out, “And there’s something else too.”
And then, I do it.
I grab the hem of my t-shirt – I’m not wearing a sweater tonight; I only have a t-shirt on,his,among other things – and tug it up.
I clench my eyes shut and pull it all the way up and take it off my body.
Yup, I take my t-shirt, orhist-shirt, off in a crowded bar. A bar full of drunken people, people who might have witnessed my shameful, slutty act.
At least I’m not naked underneath.
No, I’m wearing another t-shirt. My own.
Because I’d come prepared.
Like a fool, I not only thought that I’d run into him again, I even readied myself for it. All the while I was putting on my owntop underneath, I told myself that I wouldn’t do it. There is no chance in hell that I’d ever take my clothes off in a crowded bar.
I guess I underestimated myself.
And now his t-shirt is wadded up in my hand and I throw it at his chest.
“Here’s your stupid t-shirt back,” I tell him, ready to make my grand exit now.
Ready to go somewhere in a corner, curl into a ball and cry while he finds someone to curb his pain.
But all my thoughts about leaving and crying in a corner vanish when all of a sudden, he bends down toward me and snatches my wrist. He not only snatches it, he puts pressure on it and pulls me toward himself.
That’s when I get a good look at his face.
I’ve been so agitated and embarrassed at what I did that I forgot to pay attention to him, but I’m paying attention now.
I’m paying attention to his rippling chest, going up and down with his harsh breaths. I’m paying attention to his chain that seems to be jerking up and down as well.
And his eyes.
God, his eyes are so narrowed with anger, they’re almost slit-like.
“You’re coming with me,” he growls.
I swallow. “C-coming where?”
“Where you belong.”
“What?”
