The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue #2) - Jessica Hawkins Page 0,93
become more aware of her body language. Her head is ducked, as if she’s whispering. Her arms are crossed. The man looks over her head, darting his eyes toward the car parts booth as if he’s looking for someone. Me? Clean-shaven with studied posture and ironed clothing, he isn’t a flea market salesman.
I strain to hear their conversation, but I can’t until I’m a few feet away.
“What are you even doing in this part of the city? At a flea market?” she asks. “You live across town, and you hate this kind of thing.”
“Amelia?” I ask.
The man looks over her head. His eyes lock on me like laser beams are about to shoot out and slice me down the middle.
Amelia turns around, facing me. Tension cords her neck and collarbone. She touches my arm. “Let’s go.”
“Who is this?”
“Reggie,” she says. “Or, as you know him, my asshole ex.”
My back stiffens. Her nervous energy makes sense now, but it only reminds me of the reasons she’s upset. He’s here, in the flesh, the “man” who not only cheated on Amelia for a year but who manipulated her for longer and used sex as a weapon. A punishment. Something I’m now working to undo.
Even if I have reason to be angry, I understand almost immediately it’s not the way to get under this man’s skin. He’s just as skeevy as I pictured with the smooth-skinned face and hands of a little boy rather than a man. I put an arm around Amelia’s neck, bringing her into my side. To my surprise, she relaxes against my body, and it only makes me feel more protective.
“What’s this about?” I ask him.
“It’s between me and my wife,” Reggie says, eyeing my over-the-top display of affection. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Amelia opens her mouth, but I don’t give her the chance. “Your soon-to-be ex-wife,” I correct. “My current girlfriend. You can say what you have to say in front of me.”
“Tell your boy toy to go wait across the street with the other greasers,” he says with an upward tilt of his chin toward Amelia. “It’s got nothing to do with him.”
His attempt at insults has the opposite effect he means it to, and my anger simmers into a less-threatening irritation. Name-calling is a sure sign of a loser who only fights dirty.
“He’s my boyfriend, Reggie,” Amelia says.
“After three weeks? Bullshit. You’ve never even mentioned him.”
“Why would I?” she asks. “You had a girlfriend while we were married. I figure it’s okay that I have one now that we’re divorced.”
“We’re not divorced,” he says.
“Logistics.”
“All I want is an hour. Come sit with me. You owe me that.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“Fine—then you owe it to us. It’s like you’ve blocked out the first couple years entirely,” he glances at me, “when it was good. It was so good, muffin.”
I nearly gag at the pet name. Alerts are firing off inside me. I don’t like that he thinks she owes him anything, even time. I force myself to let Amelia handle it, though.
“I haven’t forgotten,” she says, and I check her expression to see if she’s serious. “It’s just that . . . the bad outweighs the good by so much, nothing you do from this day forward could ever even it out.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t know that. We can get back there.”
“Hey, man,” I say. “Back off. I just told you she’s my girlfriend.”
“Marriage is a commitment, a journey,” he continues, avoiding my glare, “and you’re treating it as if it can be tossed out like garbage.”
“I tried,” she says, but her heart isn’t it.
“No you didn’t,” Reggie says quickly, as I keep my mouth shut, watching him do his thing with my own two eyes. He heard the quaver in her voice just like I did. “You ran out when you found out about the affair and never gave me—us—a chance to put it right. How is that trying?”
Amelia glances away. I’ve had enough. “It’s over, man. You need to go home and sort shit out with your lawyer.”
“It’s not over,” he says slowly, “until I say.”
Amelia scoffs. I’m sure she can feel the tense and release of my bicep against her neck. He can call me what he wants, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s done jerking her around.
“What fantasy world do you live in that you think I need your permission to leave you?” she asks.
“The one in which I own fifty-one percent of you—your business, your apartment, your bank account.”