No. I needed him gone.
So I picked up my bowl of barely touched pasta and resumed my position on the couch, only now I was sitting smashed up against the armrest instead of in the middle of the cushion.
Distance was my friend. I’d given up on comfort.
Laughing under his breath, Jamie took a seat and scooted the coffee table closer again, causing my knees to bend since my bare feet were propped up on the edge.
I twirled noodles around my fork and started eating.
He started eating, too.
Not that I was watching, because I wasn’t. I kept my eyes on the muted TV and took up lip-reading a repeat episode of Law & Order: SVU.
When Mariska kneed a perp in the balls, I smiled and imagined he had ocean-salty hair and a surfer’s build.
He didn’t. He was old and bald and looked like a retired bus driver. But in my head, I was watching someone different drop to the floor.
This was the best show ever.
I was on my third bite of pasta and engrossed in the storyline when Jamie finally spoke.
“Damn. What kind of pie is this?” he asked, smacking his lips loudly and humming in delight.
“Strawberry rhubarb,” I answered.
“Strawberry what?”
“Rhubarb.”
“What the fuck is a rhubarb?”
I slurped some noodles into my mouth before turning my head.
“It’s what you’re eating,” I said around my bite, delivering some sass with my answer. “If you’re curious about it, you can go home and google ‘what is a rhubarb.’ ”
He sucked on his index finger while staring back at me.
I watched his lips, fully capable of doing a lot of things, remove the juicy goodness of my pie from his fingertip for a full second before realizing what I was doing and lifting my gaze.
Rookie.
Should’ve gone with the macaroon recipe. No juice, meaning no sucking on anything.
Live and learn, Tori.
“Ease up on the attitude, babe. You’re gettin’ me hard,” Jamie shared. Then he leaned a little closer and added, “Unless that’s your goal, then by all means. Keep throwin’ it.”
I sucked in a breath, quickly cut my eyes away, pressed my back firm against the couch cushion, and resumed eating my pasta.
My attitude was getting him hard? He wasn’t serious, was he?
Do not look for evidence. Do not look for evidence. Do not look for evidence.
“Christ. This is gonna be a cake walk,” Jamie chuckled. “I had you pegged to give me a run, but I take that back. I’m doubtin’ you know what you’re even in for.”
I was on the brink of reacting to that comment with more sass when Jamie grabbed the remote from between us and pointed it at the TV, unmuted it, leaned back, kicked his legs out, and propped his sneakers up on the coffee table, crossing his feet at the ankles. Then he dropped the remote, threw one arm behind him over the back of the couch, and draped his other across the armrest, keeping his eyes on the program.
He was relaxing. Jamie was done eating, but he wasn’t heading out. He was getting comfortable. In my house. On my couch. With his loser feet up on my coffee table.
No. Absolutely not.
I stood up, sat my bowl down, grabbed the remote he’d dropped between us, and turned the TV off.
“What the hell, babe?”
“It’s time for you to go,” I told him, knocking his feet off the coffee table and then shoving it back into position. “You ate your pie. Said you’d be leaving after you ate it. It’s eaten, so you’re set to leave.”
I stood there waiting for him to get up, arms crossed over my chest while my foot tapped impatiently.
Jamie smiled and tipped his head back, keeping his arms exactly where they were. “I’m beat. Wanted to watch a little TV before I settled in,” he shared.
My brows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“Beat,” he repeated.
“I heard that part. Then I heard something about settling in.”
“Yeah. That’ll be happenin’ after I watch a show with you.”
“Settling in where, exactly?” I questioned, needing clarification more than my next breath.
I had a terrifying feeling I knew exactly where Jamie was planning on getting settled, and that feeling was only confirmed when he cranked that smile up in brightness, stretched his legs out again, crossed his feet at the ankles, and propped them up on the edge of the coffee table as he switched the TV back on.
Panic twisted my stomach into a tight knot. This wasn’t just settling in. He was pulling an all-nighter.
Jamie McCade intended to sleep over at my house, and if that wasn’t alarming enough, I didn’t see an overnight bag, meaning he wasn’t packing pajamas.
Suddenly getting an eyeful of Jamie’s penis became the least of my worries. I might actually have to share a bed with it.
Oh, God.
I left all rational thought in the living room, and instead of demanding Jamie remove himself from my house or else, like a sane person, I freaked and took off running.
Again. It was becoming a pattern.
I grabbed hold of my dress to make sure I didn’t trip on the hem and darted fast up the stairs, getting to my room out of breath and, in my mind, out of options.
He wouldn’t leave if I asked, let alone demanded. I was sure of it.
So I did what I had to do.
“Legs!” Jamie hollered out from a floor below.
I shut and locked my bedroom door, then I took three steps backward until my calves hit mattress, scrambled onto the center of the bed, pulled my knees against my chest, and hugged them while keeping an anxious eye out.
My heart was pounding so loud I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
Jamie was playing the game and he was playing it dirty. And I knew sitting on my bed and staring at that door, waiting for the knob to rattle, that he’d continue playing dirty, and knowing him, this was just the tip of the iceberg.
Things were going to get much, much worse.
So I made a choice that night, and I made that choice after an hour of waiting for him to force himself into my room, then investigating and finding my house empty, the front door locked, his bike gone from my driveway, and my pie rewrapped in cellophane and placed on a shelf in the fridge.
I was done running away and hiding when Jamie got to me, and I was done waiting around to see what else he was going to do.
I affected him. He was hard up. He’d admitted it a hundred times.
Meaning I had all the power and had it in me to take him down. I just needed to yield that power.
And I was ready. I could do this. I could win.
It was time I started playing the game, and if I had any chance at beating Jamie McCade and proving he was the one who wanted me enough to beg for this, not the other way around, there was only one way to play it.
Dirtier.
Chapter Four
JAMIE
Jesus. That fucking body … Smirk twisting across my mouth, I shook my head and watched as Tori made her way toward me on the beach wearing the smallest goddamned bikini ever, black and bloodshot like the devil herself, with three triangles and some motherfucking dental floss holding shit in place, not concealing much but, instead, enhancing every knockout curve she had.
She was carrying herself like she’d worn it a hundred times before and knew the reaction it got her, meaning she was wearing it now for one reason and to get one reaction.
So I picked up my bowl of barely touched pasta and resumed my position on the couch, only now I was sitting smashed up against the armrest instead of in the middle of the cushion.
Distance was my friend. I’d given up on comfort.
Laughing under his breath, Jamie took a seat and scooted the coffee table closer again, causing my knees to bend since my bare feet were propped up on the edge.
I twirled noodles around my fork and started eating.
He started eating, too.
Not that I was watching, because I wasn’t. I kept my eyes on the muted TV and took up lip-reading a repeat episode of Law & Order: SVU.
When Mariska kneed a perp in the balls, I smiled and imagined he had ocean-salty hair and a surfer’s build.
He didn’t. He was old and bald and looked like a retired bus driver. But in my head, I was watching someone different drop to the floor.
This was the best show ever.
I was on my third bite of pasta and engrossed in the storyline when Jamie finally spoke.
“Damn. What kind of pie is this?” he asked, smacking his lips loudly and humming in delight.
“Strawberry rhubarb,” I answered.
“Strawberry what?”
“Rhubarb.”
“What the fuck is a rhubarb?”
I slurped some noodles into my mouth before turning my head.
“It’s what you’re eating,” I said around my bite, delivering some sass with my answer. “If you’re curious about it, you can go home and google ‘what is a rhubarb.’ ”
He sucked on his index finger while staring back at me.
I watched his lips, fully capable of doing a lot of things, remove the juicy goodness of my pie from his fingertip for a full second before realizing what I was doing and lifting my gaze.
Rookie.
Should’ve gone with the macaroon recipe. No juice, meaning no sucking on anything.
Live and learn, Tori.
“Ease up on the attitude, babe. You’re gettin’ me hard,” Jamie shared. Then he leaned a little closer and added, “Unless that’s your goal, then by all means. Keep throwin’ it.”
I sucked in a breath, quickly cut my eyes away, pressed my back firm against the couch cushion, and resumed eating my pasta.
My attitude was getting him hard? He wasn’t serious, was he?
Do not look for evidence. Do not look for evidence. Do not look for evidence.
“Christ. This is gonna be a cake walk,” Jamie chuckled. “I had you pegged to give me a run, but I take that back. I’m doubtin’ you know what you’re even in for.”
I was on the brink of reacting to that comment with more sass when Jamie grabbed the remote from between us and pointed it at the TV, unmuted it, leaned back, kicked his legs out, and propped his sneakers up on the coffee table, crossing his feet at the ankles. Then he dropped the remote, threw one arm behind him over the back of the couch, and draped his other across the armrest, keeping his eyes on the program.
He was relaxing. Jamie was done eating, but he wasn’t heading out. He was getting comfortable. In my house. On my couch. With his loser feet up on my coffee table.
No. Absolutely not.
I stood up, sat my bowl down, grabbed the remote he’d dropped between us, and turned the TV off.
“What the hell, babe?”
“It’s time for you to go,” I told him, knocking his feet off the coffee table and then shoving it back into position. “You ate your pie. Said you’d be leaving after you ate it. It’s eaten, so you’re set to leave.”
I stood there waiting for him to get up, arms crossed over my chest while my foot tapped impatiently.
Jamie smiled and tipped his head back, keeping his arms exactly where they were. “I’m beat. Wanted to watch a little TV before I settled in,” he shared.
My brows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“Beat,” he repeated.
“I heard that part. Then I heard something about settling in.”
“Yeah. That’ll be happenin’ after I watch a show with you.”
“Settling in where, exactly?” I questioned, needing clarification more than my next breath.
I had a terrifying feeling I knew exactly where Jamie was planning on getting settled, and that feeling was only confirmed when he cranked that smile up in brightness, stretched his legs out again, crossed his feet at the ankles, and propped them up on the edge of the coffee table as he switched the TV back on.
Panic twisted my stomach into a tight knot. This wasn’t just settling in. He was pulling an all-nighter.
Jamie McCade intended to sleep over at my house, and if that wasn’t alarming enough, I didn’t see an overnight bag, meaning he wasn’t packing pajamas.
Suddenly getting an eyeful of Jamie’s penis became the least of my worries. I might actually have to share a bed with it.
Oh, God.
I left all rational thought in the living room, and instead of demanding Jamie remove himself from my house or else, like a sane person, I freaked and took off running.
Again. It was becoming a pattern.
I grabbed hold of my dress to make sure I didn’t trip on the hem and darted fast up the stairs, getting to my room out of breath and, in my mind, out of options.
He wouldn’t leave if I asked, let alone demanded. I was sure of it.
So I did what I had to do.
“Legs!” Jamie hollered out from a floor below.
I shut and locked my bedroom door, then I took three steps backward until my calves hit mattress, scrambled onto the center of the bed, pulled my knees against my chest, and hugged them while keeping an anxious eye out.
My heart was pounding so loud I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
Jamie was playing the game and he was playing it dirty. And I knew sitting on my bed and staring at that door, waiting for the knob to rattle, that he’d continue playing dirty, and knowing him, this was just the tip of the iceberg.
Things were going to get much, much worse.
So I made a choice that night, and I made that choice after an hour of waiting for him to force himself into my room, then investigating and finding my house empty, the front door locked, his bike gone from my driveway, and my pie rewrapped in cellophane and placed on a shelf in the fridge.
I was done running away and hiding when Jamie got to me, and I was done waiting around to see what else he was going to do.
I affected him. He was hard up. He’d admitted it a hundred times.
Meaning I had all the power and had it in me to take him down. I just needed to yield that power.
And I was ready. I could do this. I could win.
It was time I started playing the game, and if I had any chance at beating Jamie McCade and proving he was the one who wanted me enough to beg for this, not the other way around, there was only one way to play it.
Dirtier.
Chapter Four
JAMIE
Jesus. That fucking body … Smirk twisting across my mouth, I shook my head and watched as Tori made her way toward me on the beach wearing the smallest goddamned bikini ever, black and bloodshot like the devil herself, with three triangles and some motherfucking dental floss holding shit in place, not concealing much but, instead, enhancing every knockout curve she had.
She was carrying herself like she’d worn it a hundred times before and knew the reaction it got her, meaning she was wearing it now for one reason and to get one reaction.
