“Oh, that’s too much,” I laugh in disbelief.
Drawing back, Rebel’s eyes flare. “It’s true! He insisted that you come. He’d be devastated if you didn’t.”
“Fine,” I say with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “Count me in. On your next trip to Maine, I’ll be sure to pack my bags.”
I don’t actually mean a word I’ve said. I have absolutely no intention of adding myself to Rebel’s no doubt mile long Mile High Club checklist. I should know by now, however, that speaking out of turn around Rebel has a tendency to carry consequences.
“Good. The plane is scheduled for takeoff tomorrow morning. I’ll let Tracy know to add an extra seat.”
My thoughts spin. “Wait, what just happened here? Tomorrow?” I ask, somewhat panicked.
“Of course. You should know my schedule by now. You’re not trying to back out on me, are you?” That damnable smirk is back. I want to slap it from his face.
“Back out on you? Rebel, you have to know I was joking,” I attempt to reason. “Even if I wanted to go—which I don’t—I have work tomorrow. I can’t just take off.”
“Sure you can. Just call and let them know you’re not coming in for a couple days. They’ll find someone to fill in for you.”
My jaw drops at what he believes to be an easy solution. “I know I don’t have as glamorous or acceptable employment as you’d probably like, but it’s my job and I take it seriously. I can’t just leave. It’s rude and irresponsible, neither of which I am.”
“Despite it not being your life’s ambition, I agree,” he says seriously. “Your dedication is a quality I find very endearing, but you made a promise and it would be rude not to follow through. So, I’m holding you to it.” With a seductive smirk, he tucks something cool and hard between my cleavage. “You’ll be needing this back.”
Angling my head down, I reach between my boobs and retrieve my phone. I give him an arch look. “I’m not going with you,” I tell him firmly as I drop the phone in my purse. Feeling the need for space so I can get my head together and banish the urge to throttle him, I pull away. “I need to use the restroom.”
Grasping my wrist, Rebel holds me in place and lowers his mouth to my ear. “You’re going. The sooner you accept it, the quicker we’ll be able to enjoy all the fun parts I have planned. Now,” he says louder, slapping my ass, “hurry back. My speech is in ten minutes and I want to be able to look out and see your face while I make it.”
“You’re an insufferable ass,” I growl.
“More name calling, pussycat?” he muses. “We’ll see how mouthy you are when I stuff my cock down your throat later.”
Oh, he is just too much!
Whirling around, I storm away from the dance floor in search of the bathrooms. Rebel has a damn answer for everything, and it usually involves his dick. I should be furious with him for talking to me like that, but I’m furious with myself instead, because now all I can think about is wrapping my mouth around that thick, hard length.
Bursting into the ladies’ room, I find an empty stall and squat to relieve myself. Why can’t I just be normal? Before Rebel, sex had always been a tool to scratch an itch. After Rebel, it became a necessity. It’s always on my mind, keeping me constantly balancing on the knife’s edge of arousal. All it takes is a few dirty words or suggestions from him and I’m ready to combust.
I hate the control he has over me. I love the control he has over me. It’s as if my mind isn’t my own. He’s cast a spell on me, one that makes me horny as hell anytime he enters a room. One look, one touch, and I’m done for.
Well, no more. He can’t really expect me to bow to his every whim. His word is not God. He can’t make me travel to Maine with him. I won’t. I have responsibilities, and as curious as I am to find out what exactly he meant by having “plans” I refuse to buy into it. Obviously, it was a ploy. A ruthless tactic to get me to agree to go.
Well, I’m not that easy. I mean, I am, but only in bed.
Resolved to tell him exactly where I stand, I straighten my dress and leave the stall. This has got to be the fanciest restroom I have ever seen. It’s practically a spa. Hell, I’m not sure spas are even this nice.
There are giant bottles of lotion neatly aligned on smoked glass shelves next to a basket of feminine napkins and a crystal bowl filled with breath mints. I mean, come on. What kind of woman would I be if I didn’t stuff my handbag with a few items before I go?
After my bag is good and full, I head over to the sinks. Dipping my hands under the automatic faucets set to the perfect temperature, I begin washing my hands. I’m inhaling the heavenly aromatic soap when the door whisks silently open. When I look up, I see the devil staring back at me in the mirror.
Florence is the kind of woman who makes your skin crawl and insecurities you didn’t know you had rise up all at once.
She’s wearing this emerald green number that falls down her body in soft waves and her vibrant red hair is gathered and pinned on one side of her head so that it falls in delicate ringlets over her shapely shoulder.
I have the sudden urge to claw her eyes out.
Her eyes stay locked with mine as she glides up to the counter beside me. Setting a glittering gold clutch on the counter, she pops it open and begins applying a second coat of shimmering gold lip gloss to her already perfectly painted lips.
I hate her with a passion that only grows more pronounced the longer I am forced to breathe the same air. The idea that she’s been with Rebel in any way turns my stomach.
Destroying one of the artfully folded white hand towels, I pat my hands dry and toss it in the laundry bin on my way out.
“I like your dress.”
I pause before reaching the door, unsure I heard her right. Is Red paying me a compliment? Turning, I catch her eye in the mirror.
“Red is a good color for you,” she adds.
Caught off guard, I’m not sure how to react to that. I hate this woman, and yet she’s being nice to me. Running my hands down the luxurious material I say, “Thanks. Rebel—”
“Hates red, I know.” She sighs dramatically, as if it is such a terrible thing and immediately every muscle in my body tenses. “Pity you didn’t know before buying it. It’s such a lovely dress. I’d have chosen it myself if I didn’t know how adverse to the color he is.”
If that’s true, which it isn’t, then I can finally see why he threw this bitch away.
Recognizing her angle, I narrow my eyes at her reflection. She’s wearing this sympathetic smile that could almost pass as real if it wasn’t so damn fake. I know a jealous ex-lover when I see one, and she is every bit the jealous type. I saw it in her eyes that night at the club when Rebel brought her in for a couple’s lap dance, and I see it shining just as bright and alive now.
Florence thinks she can upset me with her words, with her so-called insider’s knowledge of Rebel, but what she doesn’t know is that I’m standing in a position she’ll never be in. I suddenly feel very possessive of it. Our relationship may have its share of problems, but I’ll be damned if she’ll be the one to drive the final nail. Drawing in a breath, I take a step toward her, holding my bag in front of me.
“Damn,” I say with feigned angst. “This dress was so expensive. Like a year’s salary expensive.”
Turning in her high heels, she leans against the counter, her face scrunching up in pity. “Oh, that’s terrible. And now you’re stuck wearing it in front of everyone, knowing how much he despises it. I can’t even imagine how embarrassed you must feel right now.”
“I know. It’s absolutely humiliating, right?” Taking another step, I meet her eyes and lower my voice. “I mean, Rebel paying so much money for something he hates? Ludicrous. And the way he touched me earlier, the way he looked at me?” I shake my head, touching my hand to my chest as I lay it on thick. “Now I understand why he looked like he wanted to rip the dress off my body. He hated it so much, he’d rather me be naked than wear it.”