Determined not to let DiAngelo get me down, I take my coffee and my new furry best friend to the bathroom with me. Bonny and I have hit it off exceptionally well, which tickles me to no end. She may be the best part of this whole fiasco.
Bonny lies on the cool stone floor while I do my hair and makeup. We listen to Olivia Dean croon about how easy it is to fall in love with me. I sing along. It’s a good reminder that I’m the only person I need.
While finishing up, I realize that my nails are in desperate need of painting. Grabbing one of the cosmetic bags I threw together, I sit on the floor to see what polishes I brought with me. I know there has to be a couple buried in the bag somewhere.
Not wanting to be left out, Bonny gets up and clacks across the floor to join me. She lies with her front paws extended as if showing off her chunky black nails.
“Oh, Bon Bon. Do you need your nails painted, too? You’d look beautiful in red.”
She makes a playful noise and scoots a tiny bit closer. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was goading me.
“I couldn’t. He’d go ballistic.”
Again, Bonny whines. She even lays her head down as though begging me to dress her up.
“Well, let me see what the internet says. I don’t want to hurt you.” I’m glad I took the time to check because it turns out human polish is dangerous for dogs.
Duly noted.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. There are other options.” Who am I to deny a girl some pampering? That would be cruel when nontoxic doggy polishes exist and can be delivered to our door tomorrow.
“If your daddy still has a stick up his butt tomorrow, you get a spa day,” I sing to her, scratching her head.
Bonny wags her tail, which shakes her entire back end. I think we’re both equally excited.
I’m not superfamiliar with today’s yoga class. I see one girl I know and chat with her briefly before the instructor begins. The lights dim, and I notice DiAngelo bring in a folding chair from the lobby. He plants himself in the seat.
Last week, he waited in the lobby. Is he planning to station himself in the workout room from now on? What on earth will everyone think?
My gaze darts to the class instructor, who has taken notice but appears to be moving on anyway. I dash over to D, trying not to make a scene.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a hushed whisper.
“Same thing I’ve done for the past week—keeping an eye on you.”
“You didn’t stand in here last week.”
“You hadn’t been specifically targeted last week.”
“DiAngelo, no one is going to hurt me in here. Look around. They’re here for yoga, not murder.”
He remains rooted to the spot, ignoring me.
My teeth clench tightly together.
“Fine,” I hiss.
It’s not like I have a lot of options, so I return to my mat and sync up with the instructor’s movements. I can feel DiAngelo’ssurly presence in the back of the room and wonder if everyone else is as painfully aware of my bodyguard acting like the Secret Service during our hour-long class.
The worst part of all? I sense his eyes on me, and it reminds me of last night. He got off watching me. I saw the enormous bulge in his underwear—the room was dark, but notthatdark. He was hard as a rock, and knowing how intensely I was affecting him was a dizzying drug injected directly into my bloodstream.
And the way he sucked my fingers?
God, it was like he couldn’t get enough.
Touch yourself again in my bed, and I’ll take that as an invitation.
His parting statement seemed pretty clear, but the emotions tied up in it still confuse me. He was so damn cold to me this morning. Why?
