Page 25 of The B!tch is Bad

I did what I had to do, grabbed the colander of scallops and tumbled them in the pan. “Do you still talk to Ivan?”

Her answer was swift. “No. A few months after my mother forced him away, he married someone else. That’s part of why I disappeared. I’d made the voyage through destruction and despair. And I missed when I shot Mr. Fingerhut.”

That was a surprise. My eyes flickered to hers. “Really? How could he do that? He didn’t try to fight for you?” My response was sincere. What was wrong with the guy?

“No. No fight. I actually suspect she paid him to go away.”

I waved the spatula. “What a scumbag! I’m sorry, Patience. But if the love of your life just goes away so easily and marries someone else, maybe you should think twice about inking his name.”

She looked sheepish. “I know. I’m stupid. But you know what? You remind me of him. I think that’s why I inked his name.”

Now here was something new. I turned the scallop flame off. “In what way?”

“I was too afraid to ink ‘Creed.’ You’re so classy, magnetic, forceful. I like the way you tower above everyone else.”

She was a shy girl now, folding her hands before her lap. I didn’t want to read too much enthusiasm into her words, so I chose to make a joke. “Ivan was bald too?”

She nodded curtly. “Yes. He was suave, hot, and assertive like you. I just can’t help but obey you when you want something. It’s like I want to make you happy. I want to do as you tell me.”

How could I misinterpret that? Still, I’d be a total jagweed if I took action again. “Ivan was very assertive?”

“You could say that.” She took a step closer to me so her lily perfume wafted over me. Her aqua irises steamed from within. “I like that quality. In men, anyway. Creed, since the second I saw you I wanted to kneel and pay service to you. But I couldn’t, not after what I’d been through. Now? You comfort me. I feel protected by you. And I want to show to you how grateful I am for everything you’ve done.”

Before I could protest, she’d dropped to her knees and was mouthing my long, sluggish hard-on pressing against the buttons of my jeans.

She was submitting of her own free will.