“Oh, okay.”
Why didn’t he go when I did? I took my purse with me.
I glance around the mostly empty restaurant.
The cute server—the one who kept eyeing Jameson—is gone too.
Did this asshole seriously just ditch me to get his dick wet?
I’m telling Eve everything. Every fucking detail. And her friend? The one who thought Jameson was “sweet”? They’re getting an earful, too.
I sit. I seethe. But something’s wrong.
My body sinks.
Not tipsy, not warm, just … wrong.
My arms go slack against the table. They’re so heavy.
My thoughts slip, slow and syrupy, like I’m wading through molasses.
I blink, and Jameson’s back in his seat like nothing happened.
When the fuck did he get here?
His shirt’s crooked. His hair’s a mess. And that smirk.
Lazy. Self-satisfied.
The kind of grin a man gives after getting blown by a stranger in the bathroom.
The kind of smile that makes me want to sink my teeth into his goddamn face.
The waitress’s perfume clings to him, making my stomach twist and burn. The last bit of clarity I have boils with rage.
You pathetic, fucking coward.
Can’t handle rejection, so you crawl between someone else’s legs to cosplay as a man?
Fuck you.
But the rage sinks, drowning under the fog creeping through my skull.
“Didja have fun innere?”
My voice slurs, the words collapsing into each other. That wasn’t how I meant to say it.
My tongue … heavy.
My lips … barely cooperating.
What the fuck?
Jameson chuckles. Not awkward. Not nervous. Amused. Like I just said something cute.
“Now, now, baby girl.” He leans in, voice mock-sweet. “I think you had a little too much to drink.”
My rage spikes briefly, then vanishes. Pressure clamps around my skull. My vision tilts. The table warps. My fingers twitch, fucking useless.
