Page 42 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

“Polite company?” Jake mocks me. “You've got no clue, Lori. We've seen shit you can't imagine. Dead bodies are nothing.”

Chico snorts, but some of the others look uncomfortable. They aren't all friends with Dez or part of his crew. Some are old classmates; others are locals who couldn't resist the invite. Their patience for horror stories is low.

“You look a little green,” Dez says to me. “You've never seen someone bury a body, have you, Lori?”

“No,” I say. “Got any tips?”

His eyes crinkle as he grins. “If it was me, I'd do it somewhere with soft dirt.” He motions out over the cliff at a flat section between us and the ocean. “Waste of energy to try and use a shovel on hard packed earth. You're likely tobreakit.”

There's some shuffling, people clearing their throats. Dez winks at me. He's oblivious to the bleak mood he's creating. The photographer shuffles through the group, ignoring Jake's deadly glare. “Hey!” he says, waving at me. "The lighting is perfect right now, Lorikeet. Let's get some photos of you and Dezmond together to commemorate this special occasion."

My guts are a nest of snakes. Dezmond is one big toothy grin. "Great idea,” he says.

"Alright," I agree, knowing there's no easy way out of this.Get it over with.I glimpse Jordan standing by himself near the backdoor. He's in the shadow cast by the roof, arms crossed so tight the muscles bulge through his dress-shirt, ready to snap the threads. He doesn't look happy as he watches us.

Dezmond swoops his hand into the crook of my elbow, forcing me to walk faster towards the display the photographer has setup. It's clear the man is a professional, and anyone else would be stoked to know they were getting picture taken by someone with his skills. "This reminds me of the beach party," he says in my ear. I tense from both his breath on my skin and the things he starts to say. "Do you remember it, Lori?"

"No," I hiss.

"Aw, babe, let me refresh your memory." He places a hand on my shoulder, smiling at the photographer while whispering to me. "You were a real bitch to me that night."

"What I remember," I say through clenched teeth, "is how humiliated you were when I didn't find your attempts at sexual assault cute."

Dez makes an angry sound. "You were stuck up then and you're stuck up now."

"No, I had too much self-esteem to let you feel me up that night. You looked like you were going to cry when I told you to fuck off. I didn't think you'd have the guts to show your face around town again."

His fingers crush the muscle between my neck and shoulder, forcing me to wince. "Turns out it was you who stopped showing your face."

"Smile!" the photographer says cheerfully.

I fix my stare on the camera lens. It's the only thing I want to see while the nerves in the base of my skull fire off warning signals.Just get through this,I think, knowing Dez is tracing his fingers down my spine like spiders creeping over my flesh.

Suddenly he worms his hand down to my ass, fondling it. Everyone is watching and can see what he does. The photographer probably captured it on film. The flurry of shocked rage explodes in my veins.

My right palm stings.

I stare at it, wondering why, and also wondering why someone in the crowd gasps. Dezmond's mouth hangs open. He lifts his fingers to his cheek, gingerly exploring the patch that's turning pink. Now I get what happened.

My body acted in defensive autopilot.

I slapped him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls.

I flex my fingers to ease the discomfort. Everyone that's in the backyard is watching us. The photographer is pale, probably debating if he should go back to directing us for the photos.

Panic is budding inside me, waiting to spread its petals to full bloom I see two faces; my mother's and Jordan's. They're standing right next to each other wearing matching expressions of disgust.

Keeping my voice calm, yet loud enough for everyone to hear over the ocean waves, I say, “You should know better than to disrespect me in front of our friends and family.”

Dezmond's eyes flare wide. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“You're marrying me,” I say, advancing on him. He stumbles backwards in surprise. “The point of this party is to show everyone how much you care about me. Grabbing my butt is the opposite of caring. Do you get it?”

His lip twitches, fighting between grimacing or sneering.

“Um,” the photographer says. He's almost transparent, the blue vein on his forehead visible.

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