Page 19 of Jagger

I’m in the middle of a dance when a small hand wraps around my arm and pulls me off my client. At first, I assume it’s another impatient woman hoping to snag my attention, but then I realize it’s Vida. A determined look sits etched on her face. Even after what took place last weekend, I’m shocked as hell to see her. She smiles knowingly and then we’re off…

“Where are we going?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer and, truthfully, I already know given the fact she’s hauling me toward VIP.

Sure enough, as we near the opening of the corridor, the bouncer steps aside and allows us through without question.

Pushing through the door, she whips me inside, her chest rising and falling almost wildly as she secures the lock in place.

“Are you crazy? I was with a client,” I say, somewhat exasperated, but the second she pushes down the straps of her dress, I’m left speechless, gulping through an intense rush of desire.

“Strip, Jag,” she orders, advancing toward me with confident steps, her hips swaying side to side.

A trail of clothes follow in her wake.

In my surprised state, I manage to whip off only my shirt before she shoves me onto the couch and straddles my lap. I take a moment to drink her in and when my gaze slithers up to her mischievous stare, her mouth crashes into mine forcefully. Both hands threaded in her hair, I kiss her with equal ferocity, our tongues lashing against one another, teeth nipping in between, too.

“What are you doing to me?” My question is barely audible above the music. “What are you fucking doing to me?”

“Giving you more of what we both want,” she says, reaching between us to pop the button on my jeans…

Three weeks.

Almost three weeks have passed since that second night in VIP and I haven’t seen Vida since. I’m losing my goddamn mind, even with the frequent texts we exchange back and forth on a daily basis.

But I’ll take that over nothing at all.

Besides it’s not her fault. She’s been dealing with a contrite ex-husband who won’t accept he’s a little too fucking late.

Yeah, you read that right—an ex-husband.

Turns out I’m not the only one with baggage…

While I suffer from baby mama drama, Vida has an ex-husband who, apparently, is only now seeing the error of his ways, a year after their divorce has been finalized.

“He’s lonely in that palace,” is what she’d said to me when we aired our dirty laundry.

A palace that felt more like a prison than a home while they were together. That alone was one of the reasons why she’d been single since, focusing solely on the job he’d prevented her from having for so long. Although he’d allowed her to finish her education, when it came time to put her hard-earned degree to use, the man wanted a trophy wife. Vida dealt with it to keep him happy, spending hours upon hours in a luxurious mansion with nothing to do other than look pretty when he returned home from work.

But after some time, and with the help of her friends, she realized she wasn’t truly happy.

That she didn’t love him anymore.

And she was quick to act on it, hitting him with the divorce papers early one morning before he left for work.

Three-hundred and seventy-something days later, and here he is, persistent in his efforts to win Vida back.

I’m not having that shit.

His loss is my motherfucking gain.

No take backs.

Which brings us to now…

Me: I need you to do something for me.

That’s the text I just sent Vida before slipping out of my Lexus to the front doors of Palo Verde High School. She has no idea I’m here, and while I don’t how she’ll feel about that, I don’t really fucking care.

I need to see her.

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