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“How’s Nate doing?” I asked him, the words doled out slowly for better effect.
A wise person once said that in a relationship you should keep the fights clean and the sex dirty.
I don’t do that. Neither does Dante. We never have.
We do everything dirty. And I’d just taken the dirtiest jab of all.
Left hook. I felt it right in my own gut. That’s how I knew it was a solid hit.
He stopped smiling, stopped looking at me, his head dropping, eyes aimed down at his feet. “Are you even sorry for what happened with him?” The question came out of him with excruciating restraint. Softly and slowly, each word drawn out.
I was. Wrenchingly so. Kept me awake at night sorry.
Have you ever chewed up someone’s heart and then spit it out?
Doesn’t sound too bad? Maybe thinking this person is your worst enemy?
But what if it wasn’t? What if it was one of your dearest friends? Someone who worshipped the ground you walked on unconditionally.
I’d always had a gift for the irrevocable, and what I’d done to Dante’s best friend, Nate, had been just that.
But I’d die before I admitted it to him.
“Does he miss me?” I asked instead.
God, that one was so bitchy even I felt the sting of it.
Dante took a very deep breath and straightened. He squared his jaw and stared me down. “Can we call a truce for the night? We really do need to talk. And not here. Somewhere private.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” I drawled back. “This wouldn’t be the most elaborate thing you’ve ever tried just to get me into bed.”
His face turned hard with disdain. “Trust me, that is not why I’m here.”
Another, even stronger, flash of temper curled through me, urging me towards destruction.
It was almost funny how we could set each other off with just a few words, the wrong look, the incorrect tone.
We were landmines for each other, and he’d just stepped squarely onto one of mine.
Any show of indifference from him, be it fraudulent or fair, was unbearable to me.
Boom. Explosion.
I felt moved by two overwhelming urges in equal parts.
I wanted to slap him silly and fuck him blind.
I restrained myself from doing the first with no small effort.
But I actually considered doing the second. Only for the most twisted reasons, of course.
I was gaging things, trying to decide which action on my part would be more hurtful to him.
Because I wanted to hurt him.
As usual, I wanted to make him bleed.
And of all the things you could say about us, about how he felt about me, and how I felt about him, each of us knew that going to bed together again would hurt us both.
