Page 92 of The Ache That Stayed

“Apparently she enjoys disappearing in shite weather without telling anyone.”

She didn’t look at me. Didn’t break her smile.

“I didn’t think I needed permission to work.”

The second Blondie’s hand landed on my thigh, every muscle in my body locked. I felt absolutely nothing. Instead, it felt wrong. Almost disgusting.

Wrong woman.

Wrong hands.

Wrong mouth.

I clenched my fist under the counter so hard my knuckles cracked. I imagined tearing the Blondie away and dragging Roxanne into my lap and showing her exactly who she was provoking.

But I sat still. And watched. Waited for Roxanne to react.

Roxanne’s eyes flicked to Blondie’s hand—her expression didn’t change, but her pulse kicked hard in her neck. She didn’t react outwardly. But I’d spent too many years watching her to miss it. The way her fingers tightened around her glass—just enough for the ice to clink. The way she sucked in a deep breath, shoulders going still.

And she took the next sip like she’d personally declared war on her drink.

I almost smiled.

There’s my Volpi.

Fuck me all the way to Sunday because jealousy looked fucking lethal on her.

The space between us grew hotter by the second, tension thickening until breathing around it felt impossible. I thought she’d say something, do something. But instead she kept her eyes on the bartender. Not once looking at me.

“So… usually what time do you get off?” she purred, batting her eyelashes.

What the fuck!

She purred at him.

The bartender grinned like he’d won a prize. “Nine. But I can stay a bit longer.”

I wanted to break his fucking jaw. Painfully slow, so he could feel every crack.

Indirect warfare.

Her and me.

Talking to other people, aiming every word at each other.

“You know there are phones now,” I said, “that you can use to let people know where you are so they don’t worry themselves sick.”

She kept her eyes on her glass, voice cool, polite, the edge razor-sharp.

“Well. I didn’t realise I was supposed to report my whereabouts to someone who thinks they own me for breathing in the wrong direction.”

I downed the whiskey and slammed the glass down hard enough that Blondie jumped.

“Well, I didn’t think of you as those people who enjoy pretending they’re unaffected,” I said, leaning back, “while others are burning alive.”

The bartender raised a brow. Roxanne finally turned her head—a fraction, barely, but enough for our eyes to lock. Heat radiated off me in waves. Her silence was the loudest thing in the room. Then she stood, throwing her hair back.

“Put it on his tab,” she told the bartender.