Page 11 of Ends of Being

“I figured you didn’t remember any of it, considering you never brought it up to me.”

Her eyes widen, her brows punching together as she asks, “Then why didn’t you bring it up?”

I shrug, “I didn’t see any point in rehashing a situation best left forgotten.”

“What the fuck, Darius!” Now she is shouting again. And bringing out the Darius instead of Clark. This isn’t good. “Something traumatic happened to me that I don’t even remember, and you didn’t think that maybe I should know about it so I could prevent it from happening again?”

“Oh, the danger had passed, so your knowing was irrelevant,” I say with another shrug.

She stares at me incredulously—for good reason. She knows damn well that I’m not a shrugger; I’m a matter-of-fact, shoot-from-the-hip, professional communicator, and now I have shrugged…twice.

I’m a dead man.

I remain quiet for the rest of the drive, knowing that her silence is just another trap. She’s definitely sitting over there plotting her next move. Likely daydreaming about trussing me up and stuffing me in the trunk of my own car and dumping me somewhere unpleasant.

I continue to steal glances at her as I drive toward her residence, taking in her body language as she stares out into the darkness. I’m not accustomed to her being silent, and her stillness seems wrong compared to her typical bratty chatter. I’m not certain, but I feel like I’m not a fan of this Antoinette. Hopefully, it’s a temporary response to the shock of the evening, and batshit crazy will be back forthwith.

Finally, we’re pulling up outside her building. I park the car and then reach for the door, but her hand on my arm stops me. I turn to look at her, groaning inwardly as I see she’s full-on stubborn bitch-face right now.

She crosses her arms, juts her chin out, blue eyes boring into mine as she says slowly and clearly, “I’m not getting out of this car until you tell me, in great detail, exactly what happened that led to you knowing where I live.”

Fuck.

Chapter Five

Dare

Sixmonthsago

I have been sitting at this table for almost an hour, listening to so-and-so drone on and on about so-and-so for most of it. Yes, both so-and-sos have a name; I just don’t care enough to remember what they may be. Or if so-and-so is even talking about the same so-and-so.

I catch a glimpse of long dark hair in my peripheral vision. I glance over, allowing my gaze to drink her in before focusing my attention back on my date. I think she’s still droning on about the same man, but it all blends together—is this an ex or a brother…a neighbor?

I do not fucking care.

Then that full raucous laughter drifts over and my gaze strays across the room again. I’d know that laugh anywhere; loud and annoying, and so damn sexy my cock twitches in my pants.

I turn my body toward the sound, squinting at the weird suit, leather-sport-coat jackoff sitting across from her. She’s always had the absolute worst taste in men. And even though they are usually completely different, they always have the same underlying stench of douchery surrounding them.

It’s also not lost on me that she tends to always bring her douchey dates to the same exact location I bring my boredom of the week to. Like we’re using these other people as a buffer between what’s been brewing between us since the day we met. As if the symbolism of dating other people detracted from the intense romantic relationship we’re inevitably working towards, albeit in an untraditional manner.

I get out my wallet, pull out some bills, and toss them on the table. She pauses the yammering to gape at me in mock outrage. I put up a hand in a salute, then walk away from the table, heading to the far side of the restaurant where a small table is sitting vacant.

I know, I know—I’m an asshole. But am I really? She literally spent our entire date talking about other men while swilling top-shelf booze and hammering tapas plates. I don’t see anyone crying over any supposed missed love connection this time.

I sit down, smiling at the waitress heading my way, likely to tell me I can’t sit here. I hold out a couple of hundreds, “Sazerac, please, and as you know, I’m an excellent tipper.”

She smirks at me, pulling the bills from my grasp as she asks, “Up to no good again, Darius?”

I smile at her cheekily, snapping my fingers as I reply, “You got me, Dee.”

Dee rolls her eyes at me, then turns and makes her way to the bar to retrieve my drink, and I turn my attention back across the room. I have a much better view from here while also being a bit hidden from prying eyes.My very own little creeper corner.Yes, I chuckle at my own jokes.

Antoinette gets up and heads towards the restrooms, so I keep my eyes on the jackoff still sitting at the table. He glances at his phone, then reaches into the inside pocket of his stupid leather sport coat, pulling out a small bottle. He pours something out into his palm, capping the bottle and putting it back in his pocket before putting whatever he got out of the bottle between two spoons and pressing them together. He glances around, checking his surroundings before tapping the spoon into Antoinette’s drink.

That motherfucker.

I clench my fists, forcing myself to stay in my seat, even though I want nothing more than to run over there and pound that jackoff into hell where he belongs. He looks pleased with himself, and my desire to destroy him rises even more.

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