Page 79 of Just Don't Call Me Yours

Margot shrugs—a noncommittal answer to keep her from being honest.

“Give me your phone,” I say, holding out my hand.

She stares at me with a furrowed brow. “No.”

“Damn it, Margot. Give me your phone.” My eyes jump to Rae for help, but she’s getting way too much enjoyment out of this. Whatever suspicions she has about Margot and me match what’s happening, and from the looks of things, she couldn’t be happier.

Matt, on the other hand, watches the three of us—Rae included—with confusion plastered on his face.

“No,” Margot says with more conviction, her eyes narrowed.

She can glare at me all she wants, but I’m not leaving without giving her my number. I’m smart enough to know she won’t give me hers, so I don’t bother asking. I’ve never needed her number until now. We’ve seen each other almost every day this semester, and if I ever wanted to get a hold of her, all I had to do was walk across the hall and knock on her door.

That all changes now.

I’ll be traveling the country, and she’ll be here, probably cursing my name.

“Damn it,” I mutter, stepping toward the bar and grabbing a cocktail napkin. I snatch a pen from where someone recently signed for their tab. Looking back at Margot, I say, “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” before scribbling my number on the paper.

“I don’t want your number, Jackson,” she says through gritted teeth as she stomps over.

Ignoring her, I reach around and tuck the napkin in her back pocket, giving her a pat on the ass when I’m done. “Just in case.”

Heat flares on her cheeks, and this time, I know it’s definitely because she wants to kick my ass—or worse. She’s at a loss for words, just standing in front of me, gaping. She’s going to kill me after that. Turning my back on her, I order a whiskey from the bartender. I have a feeling I’ll need something stronger than beer tonight.

51

margot

I’m a piece of work? He’s the one openly flirting with me when we’re supposed to make sure Matt and Rae never find out about us. We’re supposed to brush whatever happened between us under the rug.

No. Scratch that.

We’re supposed to put whatever happened between us into a wooden chest, chain it up, and drop it into the ocean. I clench my fists and glare at the back of his head as he orders a drink from the bar.

For him, maybe it is nothing. He’s the one who’s leaving. He won’t have to answer questions from everyone, but I will. Rae is already eyeing me and mouthing, “What was that?”

Shaking my head, I tell her I’ll be back and head for the bathroom. There’s a line for the stalls, so I stand near the sink and try to collect myself.

Pulling the paper from my back pocket, I stare down at the number like it has already wronged me. His handwriting is as sloppy as he keeps his room. Should I throw it in the trash or flush it down the toilet?

Then I get a better idea.

Reaching into my cross-body purse, I uncap an old lipstick and start writing on the bathroom mirror.

This asshole

I pause. What the hell am I doing? Is this what Jackson does to me? Can I really let a guy reduce me to defacing public bathrooms? What the hell would I even write? This asshole made me fall for him doesn’t exactly pack a punch, but that’s exactly why I’m angry, isn’t it? He made it clear he didn’t want anything. His goal was to leave this all behind, but I never thought I’d care. I never thought he’d infiltrate every cell of my body and reprogram them under his control.

The group of girls standing behind me have gone from saying things like, “I love your shoes!” and “Where did you get your necklace? It’s the cutest!” to complete silence.

Daring to look over my shoulder, I find four equally stunning sets of eyes staring at me.

“What did he do?” a dark-haired girl asks.

“He . . .”

“Is he one of those pushy assholes who insists on giving you his number?” A blonde standing next to her spits with disgust as she stares at the paper in my hand.

---