“I fuck random women all the time. I use them for sex, then discard them like trash.”
My breath catches in my throat, and a jealousy I shouldn’t feel hits me with a harsh wallop.
Jordan grabs his beer and takes a long drink. His eyes don’t leave mine for a moment, almost like he’s daring me to look away, but I don’t … I can’t.
His confession just doesn’t fit with the Jordan I’ve gotten to know. But then when do you really ever know anyone?
I, better than anyone, know that.
But the thing annoying me most is the stupid little voice on repeat in my head. The voice that wonders why, if Jordan does what he says he does, hasn’t he hit on me?
I hate that I think this. I shouldn’t want him to hit on me, but I did … do.
I can feel my skin prickling.
Tapping my fingertips on the table, I swallow down my feelings. “And your point is?”
My response surprises him. I see it in the widening of his eyes.
Trying to hide his surprise, he straightens his back like he’s gearing up for round two.
“My point is … I’m responsible for those actions. They’re not the actions of a good person.”
He wants me to dislike him. Why?
I shrug, forcing a casual I don’t feel. Then using his earlier words against him, I simply say, “Depends on how you look at it.”
His eyebrows lift.
I’ve got his attention now.
He leans close, arms perched on the table. “And how are you looking at it, Mia?”
God, I totally love how he says my name.
“Well … the way I see it, you’re a lose/win. I’ve known men who do far worse things than just sleep around with lots of different women.”
Okay, so Forbes did that too – but that’s not going to help make my point, so I’ll just eclipse the fact.
His brow furrows. “Your ex?”
I take a deep breath. “The black eye wasn’t the first time he hit me.” I rub the instant chills from my arms.
I see Jordan’s jaw tighten. “How often?” His words come out punchy.
“Um…” I lift my suddenly heavy shoulders, my confidence slipping. Memories slam into my mind. A blur of memories, mixed with two faces.
Oliver…
Forbes…
Slammed up against a wall.
Thrown to a floor.
Pinned to a bed.
Thrown down the stairs.
Hit.
Slapped.
Kicked.
Punched.
Beaten.
Broken ribs, wrist, fingers…
Heart–broken – irreparable.
Worthless.
In pain.
All the time.
It never stopped.
No one ever saved me…
“Mia.” I feel Jordan squeezing my hand.
I blink my eyes clear.
“Jesus, are you okay?” His voice is soft, but his jaw is tight.
“Yeah, I … uh.” I touch a hand to my face, wanting to cover any emotion showing on it.
“I lost you again. Where did you go?” he asks gently.
Closing my eyes on a long blink, I shake my head and slide my hand from his.
I hear the grind in his teeth as he speaks, “How often did he hurt you?”
Swallowing down my shame, I answer, quietly, “More often than not.”
His face freezes. He looks like he’s in pain. “Why did you stay?” It sounds more like a plea than a question.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got all night … week … year.”
“It’s not worth going into.”
He drives his hand into his hair. “But you left. Came here. What gave you the push?”
“He tried to rape me.”
I see my words hit him like a physical blow. He recoils, hands white-knuckle around the edge of the table.
There’s this horrible strained pause between us.
I feel sick.
My body has broken out in a cold sweat. Tremors running all over, settling into my stomach, a pit of fear and self-loathing.
I need food. And privacy.
Now.
I curl my fingernails into the bed of my hand, trying to control my urge to leap from my chair and run to the nearest convenience store.
Jordan’s eyes have not left my face. A myriad of emotions scrolling through them. I don’t want to look at him right now, but I can’t seem to bring myself to look away.
“He did what?” I don’t know if he actually says the words, or mouths them because my ears are ringing with the truth.
I pull my top lip into my mouth, biting it.
I blink once. Twice. “He tried to … rape me.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Jordan whispers angrily. Elbows on the table, he drops his head in his hands.
I shouldn’t have told him. Why did I tell him?
I shrink back into my seat, wishing to be invisible. Wanting to rewind time.
The atmosphere is awful. The silence painful.
When I reach the point where I can’t take it anymore, which isn’t long, I push my chair out.