“More’s the fuckin’ pity.”
My heart pulses. Stupid traitorous organ. “You’ve got quite the poetic streak for a rugby player. Do you read or something?”
He glares at me. “Thompson’s a dickhead. And a perv. He’ll try to fuck your feet.”
I tilt my head, as though vaguely tempted by this prospect, and Jake swears under his breath.
“If that’s what you’re into,I’llfuck your feet.”
His offer is so irritably sincere,I can’t help laughing. After all my fake giggles, it’s a relief to feel actual joy. Reliefthat quickly turns to iced water down my back.
Jakewoulddo anything I wanted in bed, but that doesn’t mean I can let him. After all, he’s the one who told everybody we hooked up. Probably in his crusty little golf chat.
“Fuck whatever appendage you want as long as it doesn’t belong to me,” I tell Jake. “I’ll try and do the same, ’kay?”
He half-turns as though appealing to some invisible jury. “Thrasher posted about getting you ice cream. Said that’s all it takes to be with you, and believe me, I’m cleaning up his language.”
Jesus Christ. At this rate, I’m going to need revenge for my fucking revenge. “Well, I’d say that’s case closed, Detective. Turns out I do fuck for ice cream.”
Jake faces me fully, his dark grey gaze drilling into mine. “You don’t want him.”
“No.” Curse his hot-guy hypnosis...
“But you’re still gonna go home with him? After he talked about you like that?”
His naked hypocrisy jolts me back into my brain. “Here’s a better question: why are you in a group chat where men say disgusting things with impunity?”
His mouth twitches, a deadly tell. I jam a crowbar in the crack.
“Did you call Thrasher out? Leave the chat? Start a discourse on the corrosive effects of casual misogyny?”
A flush creeps across his chiselled face. “We’re not talking about me.”
“I am. I wanna know where you found the nerve to come here swinging your dick around like you’re any better than Thrasher.”
“What? I’d never?—”
“How does he know we slept together, Jake? Because the only reason he came to see me is because he heard Flute-Slut’s spreading it around.”
Jake glares at Stabbie’s entrance like he’s hoping Thrasher is about to walk through it. “That motherf?—”
“So, you admit you told him we fucked?”
“I didn’t say shit,” he snarls at the door. “The night we?—”
“Fucked?”
“Hooked up.After you left, I?—”
“Joined your comrades at the strippers?”
“Had some drinks in the poolby myself,” he says, returning his gaze to mine. “Then the boys came back and asked how it went with you.”
“And you told them you fucked me?”
“No. They could just tell.”
I raise a brow. “Oh, really? Did you have thatspecial glow?”
