We swivel away from each other until the crowd blends again, fresh faces move forward, and a girl looks over. She’s a petite little darling. She smiles at him, and he tentatively smiles back.
No. I don’t have the stomach for it. I make eye contact with the smiler and mouth, Fuck off. She does.
“Put your foot back,” I instruct, and he laughs in response, a flash in his expression like he’s thrilled, down to the gut.
In my ear he says, “You little animal.” And not like it’s a bad thing.
I pour wine into my mouth. “Just practice flirting on me, so I don’t end up on death row.”
Tom spots something or someone. There’s a frown on his brow, then he turns back to me with an idea in his eyes. He puts a hand between my legs and drags my stool closer until I’m in the frame of his spread denim thighs. It’s the best seat in the goddamn house.
The warmth of his skin engulfs me and the noise from the room recedes. His hand cups my jaw; my face is tilted and he speaks into my ear.
“Don’t look now.”
Chapter 17
The room could be filled with red smoke and clowns for all I care. My jaw is in his palm and I’m not moving it. “Don’t look at what?”
“Vince is here. With someone else. Blond, early twenties. He’s seen us.” After trailing his fingers down my throat, he hands me my wineglass. It’s the smooth move of a consummate womanizer. That’s how I know it’s fake.
“Oh,” I say after a beat. My heart is sinking because I know what Tom is doing. He’s a good friend, putting a little protective padding on my ego. A set of muscles to flirt with. A kitty-cat’s scratching post. “Yeah, this is his local. He’s here almost every night.”
“Is that why you brought me here?”
“Relax, baby,” I tell him, and link my fingers into his and squeeze. “You’re not part of a revenge plot. You’re the beautiful, irreplaceable Tom Valeska and I am the luckiest woman alive to be sitting between your thighs.” I get a ping of triumph when his worry is replaced by amusement and he looks down at our legs. “Consider me electrified.”
I put my hand on his bicep and squeeze. If I’m not careful, I’ll slide it. Okay, whoops, it’s sliding. Too late to do anything about it. I watch myself feel up to his shoulder, dig the black nails in, and then make the glide to his collarbone.
“Why the fuck would he want to be with someone else?” He takes another sideways glance. “I mean, I’m sure she’s a nice person but …” He looks back at me with a hot gaze and I know the end of that sentence. She’s got nothing on me.
I show the indifference I know he craves. “He can do what he wants with his time. He isn’t mine.”
“Has anyone ever been yours?” His fingers are on my shoulder and my brain empties out. “Don’t answer that.”
“Of course not.” I have a full-body shiver. “Once someone’s mine, they’re gonna stay mine. One hundred percent, forever. You know what I’m like.”
He leans down and tips his face into the curve of my neck to speak over the music. He’s just keeping up the fa?ade for our audience. “If you had someone, you wouldn’t be sitting here with some random guy all over you.”
“You’re not some random guy.” I almost say, You’re the guy. But thankfully I’ve still got a little of the safer humiliation left in my bloodstream. “I’d be sitting here with my guy and I’d be all over him.”
He pulls back and our noses graze; we’re agonizingly close to a kiss. His eyebrow quirks at whatever my expression is. “What if he doesn’t want to be consumed, body and soul?”
My confidence sizzles out. “I guess … I guess I’d just have to hope …” Everything pulls back into focus. We’re talking about a man who will not be Tom. I try to turn back to the bar but his knees press tight.
“Hey,” he says, and strokes my cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m sorry. He’ll love it. He’ll only want your hands.” He hesitates, then plunges. “Being the full focus of Darcy Barrett is something else, let me tell you. It’s intense.”
“Yeah, I know. Kitchen-smashing intense.” I reach for my wine. “Hopefully whoever ends up mine will know beforehand exactly what he’s gotten himself into.”
Gotten into? It sounds too close to get in me. I need to make this conversation be a little more rhetorical. “What kind of guy would you approve of for me?”
This should be the perfect thing to say. It’s light, it’s neutral, and it covers up everything that has been scribbling so confusingly inside me. But I’ve said the wrong thing. His entire body flexes. The big knees squeeze, the fingers on his hand close, and his jaw barely lets the words out. “No one.”
Even if he’s jealous, it’s pointless. I look across the room. There’s Vince with a blond girl. Her face is lit up blue from her phone screen. I give him a nod, and he nods back, glum.
“Ha ha, he’s having the worst night.” There’s not even a blip of emotion inside me.
As soon as I’m looking back at Tom, no one else exists. I’m beginning to think that it’s going to be the case for life. It’s why I really should make an effort to find my silver medal. “Please, tell me. What kind of guy?”
Tom responds like I’m testing his patience. “There’s no one in the world I’d choose for you. He’s still looking, then?” He weaves my bra strap between his fingers. “You wear some fancy stuff around my building site.”
The lace stretches tight and I feel it everywhere. “Only up top. Down below, it’s nothing but sturdy, abusive cotton.”
“What do they say? Right now?”
“Oh yeah. They say …” I lean up to his ear. “None of your business.”
“Your jeans are tight enough that I can almost make it out.” His fingers are on my hips now, sliding into my belt loops. The tiny tug he gives me rocks me another half inch into him. I’m turned on. In public, on another goddamn stool.
“Hey, you’re blushing. That’s a pretty pink.” He presses a kiss on my cheekbone, sits back, and smirks in Vince’s direction.