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“No!” Brielle protested. “You can’t put them back. They look so good on you.”
“I’m on display. I don’t like it.”
“That is exactly why you need to buy them,” Jazz said.
“They’ll just sit at home in my closet. I’ll never wear them. And every time I look at them, I’ll feel guilty for spending money knowing I’d never wear them.”
“It’s just a pair of leather pants,” Jazz said with a frown. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that I don’t wear stuff like this.”
“Stuff like what?” Brielle asked.
“Stuff that shows off my…”
“Junk in the trunk?” Jazz supplied.
Brielle exchanged another look with Jazz before focusing on me. “What’s this really about?”
“I hear his voice in my head,” I blurted out.
Jazz’s brow furrowed. “Whose?”
“My ex.” I sighed.
“Let me guess. He didn’t want you to display yourself,” Brielle said gently.
I absently rubbed my wrist as if I could still feel his biting grip on my skin. “We fought about it one night over some stupid party for his work. He said one of his colleagues was flirting with me because I looked like a slut.”
I flinched at the memory of his ugly tone.
“Please don’t look at me with pity,” I said, my gazing bouncing between them.
“Never pity,” Jazz said.
“Nope,” Brielle agreed.
“But hearing all that only makes me want to encourage you to buy them. To prove a point,” Jazz said.
“I’m with Jazz on this one. Plus, it just makes sense since you’ll be on the back of a motorcycle soon.”
“When will I be on the back of a motorcycle?” I demanded.
“Bones?” Brielle asked.
“Back to that, are we?” I shook my head. “I’m not into Bones.”
“Why not? He’s hot,” Jazz teased.
“He’s not my type,” I said.
“He’s a super-hot biker in the prime of life who clearly wants to pursue you like a wild animal, and he looks great in leather. That’s not your type?” Brielle asked.
“Down girl,” Jazz said with a laugh.
“I need to get laid,” she mumbled.
“Yeah, you do,” Jazz agreed.
