Page 7 of Pitiful Lies

FML.

“Would you like a real massage? Your shoulders look tense,” the same manicurist asks.

“Sure,” I reply.

My eyes are still closed as I lean forward to give her room. It’s Fort Lauderdale and hot as fuck even in September.

I’m wearing a cami and a pair of booty shorts. Just like everyone else. But I still feel overheated.

Big, warm hands clasp my skin and start massaging. And my eyes fly wide open.

I know those hands.

Oh no. How the fuck did he find me here?

“Don’t touch me.”

I say it even though I want his hands on me. And the realization makes me mad.

I look right into Angel’s pale blue eyes, and I frown, hard.

Fuck him for coming here, looking better than anyone has a right to. And who does he think he is massaging my shoulders?

I try to move, but he holds me firmly in place.

“Don’t touch you, Koukla? You sure? Last time I saw you, you were begging for my touch. Remember?”

His words have me squeezing my thighs together. I’m already so turned on, just one touch and I’d likely combust.

“That was before I knew you’re nothing but a two-timing cheat,” I reply between clenched teeth and try to shake him off.

But Angel is impossible to move. And his eyes narrow like he is super pissed.

“I think we got ourselves a misunderstanding here. But no worries. We’ll get that all straightened out on the way back home,” he says, standing to his full height.

And it is impressive. Bastard just has to be tall, dark, tattooed, and handsome as the goddamn devil himself.

Fuck him twice for that.

“What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Little Doll, you can come quietly, or you can scream. Your choice,” he pauses, pressing his mouth against my ear. “You know how much I like it when you scream.”

Then he licks my neck, biting down hard, before backing up and handing the manicurist a couple of hundreds.

“Don’t worry about your parents. I got your suitcase from your mother. She’s a very nice lady. Says she’s been wondering why you haven’t left to see Anna. Your father, too.”

“You went to my parents’ condo?” I ask, eyes wide.

“Yep. Hey, you think you can work fast?”

“Yes, sir,” the manicurist says.

“Cool. Thanks. You, uh, want me to keep massaging those shoulders, Gorgeous? Or anything else? I’m always available for you,” he says to me.

This prick.

“No thanks. You’re not needed here,” I say, arching one eyebrow.

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