Page 39 of Ex Marks the Spot

I find Hartley on the dance floor again. I haven’t seen her this carefree since before I left for Wade’s bachelor party, and I hate knowing that one look at me is all it’ll take to ruin it.

“I promise you, the only processing she wants to do involves my body and a meat grinder.”

They think I’m joking, but they haven’t?—

Hold on.

I give my full attention to the scene unfolding on the dance floor. Hartley’s dancing with Kadeeja and Haylee, but the guy behind her keeps putting his hands on her waist. She turns and maneuvers to the other side of the girls.

That works for about five seconds.

Then the guy wedges himself into their triangle, wraps his arms around her from behind, and grinds into her ass.

I don’t remember shooting out of my chair or making it to the dance floor in four strides, nor do I remember what I say to Hartley, but I vividly recall what I say to the asshole who groped her as I lift him by his shirt and haul him to the staircase leading to the sidewalk.

“Keep. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off. Her.”

He holds his arms up, feigning innocence. “Hey man, she was the one shaking her ass at me.”

White-hot rage burns through my veins as I lift him another inch off theground and press his body further into the railing. “She was fuckingdancing. That wasn’t an invitation to touch her.”

“Then maybe she shouldn’t have?—”

My fist connects with his jaw before he finishes his sentence, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to kick him in his face when he collapses on the concrete.

Through the rush of blood in my ears, I hear a male voice call my name from somewhere at my left. I turn and see our security team...along with everyone else in our group, two waiters, and a police officer.

Shit.

If I get kicked out of the competition for being arrested, Hartley’s gonna bepissed.

The officer exchanges a few hushed words with the waiters, then approaches me slowly.

“He punched me!” The asshole pushes himself up and rises on two wobbly feet. “I want to press charges.” I take great satisfaction in watching him swipe at the blood dripping from his nose and his bottom lip.

The officer removes a set of handcuffs from a pouch on his belt and eyes me. “You hit him.” It’s not a question, but his stony face and ensuing silence tell me he expects an answer.

What are the rules for international arrests? How do I get a lawyer when Hartley and I only have two hundred American dollars in leg money? Do Argentine jails allow collect phone calls?

As I consider my options, I spot her over the officer’s shoulder. Five minutes ago, she was belting a breakup anthem and having the time of her life. Now, she’s standing with one arm wrapped around her waist and her other hand pressed to her mouth. Burning hatred or not, I’d do it all over again without hesitation.

“Yes. I hit him.”

The officer’s gaze bounces between me, the asshole, and my bloodied knuckles. When his eyes meet mine again, he nods once and says, “Good.”

I blink.

“Good?”

He extends his hand and grips mine in a firm shake. “Good.” Then he turns to the asshole and says, “Te jodiste.”

The man pulls a face. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You fucked up. You want to touch women? Okay. Maybe I know some people who want to touch you tonight.” With that, the officer handcuffs the asshole and shoves him forward through the small crowd of onlookers.

Unsurprisingly, we all decided to return to the hotel. I don’t know the protocol for what to do or say after stopping a narcissistic tourist from feeling up your ex-girlfriend, so I mostly tried to stay out of Hartley’s way as we wound down for the night.

Before we got on to the elevator, Gianna made a quiet remark about Hartley no longer needing a meat grinder for me. Maybe there’s some truth to that because once we’re in bed with the lights out, she says,

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