I don’t want to. I’d rather flip Gage off and tell him to shove those papers up his ass. Despite the fact it is a fine ass, because yes, I have eyes, and yes, it surprises the hell out of me that I find him attractive in any capacity. For Leena, because Ican tell how worried she is and how this is actually hurting her, I paste on a smile and force myself to nod.
I’ve been strong enough to make it on my own for the past year. And for seven more before that.
Maybe I can find the strength to have a ten minute conversation with a man I want to tuck firmly into my past so that he damn well stays there this time.
Chapter 6
Gage
It’s apparent that Ami and I agree on one thing and one thing only. That our toxic mix should never be allowed to boil over in public.
When she sent me an email saying that she wanted to meet with me, sit down and talk, I was pissed. First, at Wraith, for obviously giving her my email, second at the trap I was sure it was. I gave it a few days, stewed in it like a fucking pickle soaking in brine. After a few days, some of the rage wore off and I figured that meeting her and talking like adults instead of kids throwing a temper tantrum, might actually get us somewhere.
Before I thought better of it, I told her my house. Friday night. Eight. I couldn’t very well go over to Wraith and Leena’s and hash it out with Ami while they were right there. I couldn’t use the clubhouse for that kind of business, even though I have a room there, because my brothers already got involved in my shit one year ago—except it wasn’t really my shit, considering the bitch accused me of attacking her on our wedding night. I wasn’t gonna let all of Helena in on my business, so any coffee shop and restaurant were out of the question.
Just in case things went down and I had to piss on or burn another set of papers.
Things could get messy and I figured the best place for it to go down was my house.
Now that it’s past eight and Ami is late, I’m having second thoughts. I actually made a damn effort to clean up the place. It’s a small house, built in the sixties. Nothing fancy. Outdated for the most part, though some of the fixtures are so old they’re likely just about back in style. I’d give a shit if I actually gave a shit about that stuff. Of course, I don’t. Two bedrooms and a bathroom make up the bungalow. No basement, no second story. It’s unimpressive and uninspiring, but it suits me just fine.
I check my watch, she’s already half an hour late. Not that I actually care. If she didn’t show up at all it would suit me just fine. At least, I keep trying to tell myself that.
I’m not sure why the caveman voice in my head keeps screaming at me to chain her up and lock her away so that she can’t leave again. I want to climb onto the roof and beat my fucking chest and yell at the neighborhood that Ami is mine. That she’s my wife. That she has belonged to me for one fucking year and whether she was here or not, doesn’t change a damn thing.
I want to reason with myself. I want to tell me, tell her, tell the whole fucking world, that she means nothing. That her leaving didn’t wound more than my pride. That it was better when she was gone.
I should have signed her damn papers and sent her on her way.
Because pacing the house like a crazed animal really is not a better alternative.
I’m about to email her and tell her to go fuck herself, and no, not in nicer words, when I watch her little sedan death trap pull up to the curb in front of the house.
I quit the pacing I definitely was not doing and come to a stop in front of the living room window. It’s a bigger bay window with the curved glass. My chest tightens up when I watch the small figure emerge from the car. Fuck. Even just the sight of her with all that glossy black hair, luminous eyes, her pixie face, and her petite little body with all those ripe curves, makes me so hard that it feels like someone just stuffed my whole junk into a door and slammed it a couple times for good measure.
I slowly cross my arms over my chest as I walk towards the door and slap a mask of indifference into place. I’m not gonna let her see how she affects me. She won’t see excitement in my eyes and she sure as shit won’t know that my jeans feel like they just shrunk ten sizes and that they’re so tight, they feel like they’re cutting off the circulation to my balls. I want the fire. It’s easier to deal with her that way, when we’re fighting and sparring. It’s easier to be an asshole than it is to let her see the chinks in the amour. She’d just stuff her knives in there, into any weak spot she could until she cracked me wide open and I’m never going to let that happen.
She knocks on the door, a timid little knock that betrays how nervous she is even before I open it to find her standing there. Dressed in a black cotton tunic that barely hits her knees, and apparently nothing underneath, since there aren’t any visible shorts and sure as hell aren’t any leggings, and a red, thin knit sweater that trails down to her ass, and thigh high black boots, she looks like she’s going out to the bar after to celebrate her victory.
No doubt she thinks she’s going to convince me to sign her stupid papers.
Her hair is long and sleek, so shiny that it glistens blue in the overhead lighting as I wordlessly turn and stalk towards theliving room and she follows me, her boots clicking annoyingly on the hardwood floor. That at least, was part of the house that was updated before I bought it. It’s shitty though, the kind of hardwood you can buy for a dollar a square foot.
Still. It pisses me off that she didn’t shed her boots at the door like anyone with any decency would have.
I have to remind myself that she’s basically the enemy, when I motion to a leather overstuffed chair. She’s taken care with her makeup and it’s flawless. Her eyes are lined, defining just how huge and luminous they are. Her lashes are thick and long, her lips that blood red shade she seems to prefer. Her cheeks have just enough of a hint of blush to hide any natural color that might arise.
She’s so beautiful and flawless that I have to fight the urge to knock her down to the floor and fuck her like an animal. To rip that dress off and suck on her tits until she’s screaming, to do the same to her cunt, to lick and nip and bite her until she’s writhing below me, messing up her straightened hair and her neat clothes. I want to turn her over until she fucking begs me to let her come and then I won’t let her. I’d thrust my cock into her mouth instead and watch while she struggles to take me. Watch as her lipstick smears and her eye makeup runs from the tears.
I want her to be a mess.
I want her to bemymess.
And that pisses me off far more than it should. Because I shouldn’t want her to be anything to me. Mess or no mess. It’s pathetic that after all this time I still have a stupid crush on her, a woman I saw for all of a few seconds before I married her and knew for only a few minutes after that.
“I…” she doesn’t know what to say, so she drops her black tote bag to the ground and it hits the floor with a dull thud.
I sit down slowly, so she can watch every single movement, note the latent power in my limbs and the way I glower at her when my ass is finally planted on the leather couch.
