Page 18 of Obey

Jeez. It’s exhausting being angry and grumpy.

“Mama?”

Nothing. Another check, the call is connected.

Jagger advances, hand still outstretched. How does he know if he doesn’t end the call, I never will?

Closing my eyes releases the brimming sea of tears, and streams course down my cheeks. “Bye, Mama.”

I can’t even look at him as I hand him the phone. He places something soft in my palm in its place. Without opening my eyes, I know it’s another handkerchief. He’s giving me space, not hugging me to feel better, or giving me a “there, there,” pat like I would if someone was crying in front of me, but he gave me his hanky and that counts for something.

I think.

Maybe I’m just hoping he’s not the cold, Grumpypants he was on the plane, and in the car, and the whole time we’ve been here because I’ve never felt more alone. And I really could use a friend.

When I dab my eyes and face dry and blink away the blurriness, Jagger has a crown in his hand. It’s the prettiest, sparkliest, and most pink rhinestone crown I’ve ever seen, and he’s putting it on my head.

“You can probably mark off number thirteen now, Half-Pint.”

Chapter Seven

JAGGER

I like to think I’m a nice person.

Fine, I’m a grumpy bastard. But I pay my taxes, help old people cross the street, keep to myself and don’t get in anyone’s way. So when my chatterbox, bubbly Half-Pint seatmate from the plane turns out to be my college rival’s woman, I can’t help but feel like the universe is playing some wild trick on me.

She’s in the bathroom, giving me time to figure out what the fuck my next move should be.

Harry Winslow the Third—that piece of shit never let us forget his lineage when we spoke to him—is an asshole scumbag across the board. His name was a bulletproof shield he hid behind to get whatever the fuck he wanted.

The guy was untouchable.

He paid people to write his assignments for him. He used ‘roids to get the Quarterback spot. There were at least two rape accusations against him that he made go away. The guy’s literally the scum of the earth.

And yet, here’s his woman, seemingly in pristine condition, completely untouched with a bucket list that’s as laughable as it is despicable. That piece of shit made her wait to have sex whilehe was boning everything that moved and never even went down on her?

And she fucking took it?

I can’t fathom how she thought it was okay for someone to treat her like this. How did she not know what he was like? Or does she? And she’s sparing her mom’s feelings by protecting her from the truth?

If she knew the depths of his crimes, this blue-haired shortcake in front of me would have spat them out to silence her aggressive mother. She mustn’t know.

It’s unsurprising the prick hid it from her, maintaining a double life, but did he keep her untouched for a reason? Was he saving her like some a trophy on a shelf?

My blood bubbles under my skin as my heart hardens even more. She’s not my problem. But the opportunity to stick it to that fucker Harry wells inside me, making it hard not to rip her clothes off and bury my face in her basically untouched pussy.

I’d be doing her a favor, giving her the time of her life. So what if my motives are impure, right? She’s single, fair game. A grown-ass adult who can make her own decisions.

She doesn’t need to know her asshole ex cheated his way through college, winning damn near everything I worked my ass off to achieve right out from under me. She doesn’t need to know this is personal, just that I’m willing to help her.

Would she tell him, though? If they got back together, would she be open and say “hey there was this guy Jagger who I let do some things to me.”? I doubt it. I’ll have to convince her to put a picture of the two of us on social media or something. He’s my ‘friend’ on a few platforms, but I doubt he’d pay close enough attention to notice his woman on my page.

Ifsheshared it, though, he’d see that for sure.

I fucking hate photos. And I rarely post anything on socials about my private life. I use them for my auto shop and nothingelse. But I could be swayed to make an exception for flipping the bird to Harry fucking Winslow.

It’s a win-win, right?

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