15
“What the fuck, Grant?” I whisper angrily.
Grant gives me an amused grin. “Well, well, well. Somebody’s jealous.”
Now I want to punch him in his perfect little face.
“I’m not jealous,” I protest, a little too heatedly.
“Look, you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“I’m not worried,” I protest again, way too heatedly.
And I’m not, I tell myself. Why would I be worried? I don’t have any right to be worried. We’re not married. He hasn’t promised me anything. He doesn’t owe me anything. We haven’t even talked about what ‘this’ – our relationship, if you can call it that – is. I’m not his girlfriend, he’s not my boyfriend. We can sleep with whomever we want.
I don’t voice any of that aloud, though – especially not that last sentence.
Still, the thought of him and Dominique together, naked in bed, is enough to tie my stomach into knots.
It’s kind of funny, in a fucked-up sort of way. A few hours ago I was telling myself I wasn’t in love with Grant, that I couldn’t fall in love with him, that I had to distance myself to keep my heart safe – and now I’m ready to get in a catfight with some slut from his past.
I don’t normally use the word ‘slut,’ by the way. But I really, really, really want to call that bitch in the other room the worst word I can, and I never, ever use the ‘c’ word. So ‘slut’ it is.
I try to remind myself that I don’t care, I’m footloose and fancy free, I could sleep with JP if I wanted –
Oh, God, YUCK.
I try to erase that thought from my brain.
Not that he’s ugly, mind you – just that he’s not Grant. Nowhere near him, in fact.
While I’ve been lost in my own private, tortured reverie, Grant has continued talking. “Trust me, there’s nothing between us.”
“Maybe on your side,” I harrumph.
“Whatever. She’s just like that.”
“What, slutty?”
Grant gives me a disappointed look. “Really? Really.”
I have a little inward twinge. I hate, hate, hate when men slut-shame, and here I am using the word as a weapon.
Even if it fits.
“Okay – trampy?” I suggest. “Vastly inappropriate? Obnoxiously forward? Sexually predatory?”
“Flirtatious. Besides, she and I used to date.” My anger and hurt must show on my face, because he hastily adds, “But we haven’t for years.”
“And yet you took the first opportunity you had to look her up when we’re on the run? That’s interesting.”
I’d meant for that to come out with a kind of mild irony. Instead, the words have a bitter, sarcastic core dipped in jealous venom.
Grant crosses his arms and looks at me sternly.
I sigh. He’s right, I’m being ridiculous.
Buuuut…
“Why do we need her?” I ask, trying to regain my vantage point as the sane, sensible woman I used to be just five minutes ago, before she walked into the room.
“Because Dom’s an amazing tightrope walker and gymnast. She’s like the best female performers in Cirque de Soleil – strong, agile, incredibly flexible.”
Greeeaaat. So she’s incredibly flexible.
In bed, too, I’ll bet.
Which starts a whole slideshow of images I don’t want to see.
I wish I had Clorox for my brain right about now.
“I don’t care how flexible she is,” I gripe. “Why do we need a gymnast?”
“Well, it’s not just that. She can do parkour – ”
“You can do parkour. We’ve already got somebody who can do parkour, so why do we need her?”
“We can always use another escape artist,” he says mildly.
“You’re the escape artist! You’re a cat burglar, for God’s sake! We don’t need her.”
“She has finesse. She’s probably the most graceful thief I’ve ever seen.”
I boil a little at that comment. ‘Graceful’ is not an adjective you want to hear your man say about his ex.
‘Smelly’ and ‘bad in bed’ would have been much better.
“Plus, she’s a martial artist,” Grant says. “Judo and kickboxing. Really good at it, too.”
Little Miss Dominique, she’s fucking perfect at EVERYTHING.
“I just don’t see why you’re duplicating skill sets,” I say, trying to sound logical.
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s your primary objection.”
FUCKER.
I scowl. “My primary objection is that of all the thieves you could have contacted for help, you call the one ex-girlfriend you have.”
“Well… actually… she’s not the only ex I have from that particular circle of friends.”
Great. I imagine a legion of Dominiques, gorgeous nymphs and Amazons of all nationalities and races.
“So, just the most attractive one, huh?” I fume.
He sighs and wraps his arms around me. I struggle at first, but he holds on, overpowering me.
“Hey – hey, look at me,” he commands.
I don’t want to.
“Eve… look at me,” he says, his voice soothing.
I raise my eyes gradually to his.
“You’re the only one I want, okay?”
I want to believe him – I do –
And then he leans over and kisses me. Soft… slow… deep.
All my jealous rage drifts away as I melt into his lips.
When he ends the kiss, he smiles. “I only want you. Not her.”
Oh God. It feels so crappy being insecure… I want it to stop…
But every time I think of her, I think of how she must look naked… and how he’s been naked with her… how he’s made love to her…
It makes me sick. And terribly afraid of losing him.
“I still think you should ditch her,” I grouse.
“Well, you have to admit, compared with JP, she’s pretty enthusiastic about helping us.”
“Helping you. And I think she wants your dick as payment.”
Grant looks thoughtful. “Huh… if only I could finance all my business deals that way…”
I glare at him. “Not funny.”
He kisses me again, then whispers, “Don’t worry, you’re the only one getting paid that way. Direct deposit, baby.”
“You’re so romantic.”
He laughs.
“Speaking of getting paid,” I say mischievously, “JP just got a raise.”
“So you want…” He pauses, as though searching for a number. “…more dick?”
I make a face at him.
He keeps a straight face as he continues, “You know, I investigated insuring my penis with Lloyd’s of London once.”
“…what?”
It has to be a joke – right? I know it’s a joke, I just don’t know how it’s going to go down. (So to speak.)
“Yeah,” he says. “They estimated that when I have sex, it’s so good that every time is worth a million dollars.”