The Devil Wears Black(11)
“Stage fright, love?” He said the word love like it was profanity.
I had to remind myself his mind games didn’t matter. Ronan Black mattered. His sister and his mother mattered. Their hearts. My conscience.
“Sure,” I bit out sarcastically. “Wouldn’t want my fake in-laws to think their fake future daughter-in-law is not as charming as they initially thought.”
“Ever heard about the term fake it till you make it?”
“I’m sure the women in your life are familiar with it,” I quipped.
He smirked wryly. “Our relationship might’ve been fake, but the orgasms were anything but.”
The cars behind him honked loudly, not pausing for a breather. The sound began to echo in my head. I wanted Chase to know I was not going to be some yes-woman who’d cater to every whim and idea he had, even if I’d agreed to help him.
“Get in, Mad. Unless you want me to get in a fight with half the street.”
“Tempting,” I bit out. I mean, it was.
He smirked, completely oblivious to the chaos teeming behind him as more and more cars began to honk. It wasn’t like me to keep people waiting, but making my point trumped being polite. He needed to know I was serious.
“If you get nervous, just picture everybody naked.”
“All right, then,” I said, my eyes traveling as south as they could down his body at this angle. “Are you cold, Mr. Black?”
He laughed, enjoying our exchange. “I don’t remember you being so feisty.”
“I don’t remember you being this intolerable,” I shot back. I realized it was true. When we’d dated, he’d seemed way more polite and closed off, and I was . . . well, less myself.
I hopped into his car, opting to stare out the window throughout the drive, watching Manhattan’s high-rises sliding by in slow motion. Like flicking through a magazine quickly, the scenery changed frequently, glossy through the filter of the squeaky-clean window. All the hysteria I’d somehow managed to shove under piles of to-do lists and work throughout the week simmered back up as we left the city. How was I supposed to mask the sheer loathing I had for this man? I couldn’t kiss him or hold his hand. Jesus, I’d just realized I was supposed to share a room with him. No way, José.
It had been hard enough to explain the situation to Ethan a couple of days after agreeing to this fiasco, when I’d met him after Chase dropped in for a visit. I relayed the entire situation to him, including Chase’s cheating, his dying father, and my own experience of losing a parent. Then I told him about the nickname Sven and Layla had slapped on me. Martyr Maddie.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I asked Ethan for the millionth time over xiao long bao and Chinese beers. I was treading carefully. I understood how crazy it all sounded. Ethan and I had never discussed exclusivity. We dated casually but hadn’t slept together, let alone put a label on what we were. We had shared a few sloppy kisses, nothing more. I wanted him to put his foot down and tell me he wasn’t comfortable with the idea. It’d have been the perfect excuse. But Ethan, who saw the good in everything—serial killers included, I suspected—simply nodded, grabbing another dumpling with a chopstick and tossing it into his mouth.
“Sure? I am more than sure. I’m honored to be dating someone like you. The only thing this weekend in the Hamptons is going to prove is that you”—he pointed at me with his chopsticks—“are an amazing person. Chase Black was a fool to cheat on you, and you’re still helping him out. You’re fantastic.”
I watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Besides, we aren’t really exclusive, are we?” He rubbed the back of his neck, blushing. “We haven’t even . . . you know.”
I did know.
“So”—he shrugged—“it’s not like I’m in any position . . . what I mean to say is that I’m good with it. Really.”
For some reason, his reaction had unsettled me. I wanted him to be at least a little unnerved by the prospect of my spending the weekend with my ex-boyfriend. Which was completely irrational, since I wasn’t possessive toward Ethan at all, and because he was right—he and I weren’t really exclusive.
Back in reality, Chase read my thoughts.
“Does he have a name?” He snapped me out of my reverie, his eyes still glued to the traffic jam we were approaching. It seemed like the entire world was headed to the Hamptons. A bottleneck of trucks, Priuses, and convertibles waiting in a never-ending line of vehicles.
“Don’t start,” I warned.
He tutted. “Touchy. I’d be, too, if my partner was dumb enough to send me off to a weekend in the Hamptons with someone who’d previously fucked me to three consecutive orgasms in less than twenty minutes.”
“Can you be any cockier?” I whipped my head around to scowl at him.
“Yes, but then I’d have to wear a condom.”
There had been some relief to breaking up with Chase. Six months into our relationship, I was still flustered and constantly berating myself for saying the wrong thing in his presence. My voice was always high pitched when he was around, and I filtered my words, my thoughts, to try to be the woman I thought the Chase Black would date. He felt so far out of my league that I concentrated on not making errors more than I did on getting to know him and having fun. I’d always felt less. Less attractive, less stylish, less smart. Hating him now was so much easier than trying to worm my way into his bitter heart, like I had when we were dating.