Page 38 of Secondhand Smoke

“What did Tonya say to you?” she demanded, voice sharp and so unlike herself. She sounded angry. No, not just sounded –was.

Aidan’s expression shifted, became curious. He shrugged. “She was too good for me. But like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“What did she say?” Sam repeated. Anger pulsed through her, strongest in her wrists, her throat, right up close to the skin.

Aidan shrugged. “What do you–”

“I care,” Sam interrupted, surging to her feet suddenly, “because I’m sick to death of people like Tonya Sinclair” – she spat the name like an expletive – “misusing the entire world on a whim. Like every damn person in her path is just an amusement.”

Aidan stared at her in surprise and disbelief as she paced in front of their bench. “Wait. You know her?”

“Everyone knows her. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s been making girls hate themselves since birth.”

“Okay…” Aidan said, but she wasn’t listening.

She was seeing Tonya: seven and gorgeous even then, in that mysterious way some girls seemed like grown women from conception, tiny child’s nose already lifted in disdain. Ten and accepting tokens and favors from her fawning friends; telling Sam she couldn’t go down the slide because she “hadn’t paid the toll,” and because her glasses were “fugly.” Eighteen and tailgating in her convertible. Twenty-one and sending back a martini because there was an onion instead of an olive, shaming the poor waiter until he nearly cried.

Thirty-two, and wrapping those manicured hands around Aidan’s tattooed arms, leading him into her bedroom.

Sam closed her eyes against the mental picture, hating Tonya, hating Aidan, hating herself. Hurt boiled up inside her, a hurt she had no right to feel, one that burned as it filled her.

Before she could stop herself, she whirled to a halt, facing him, braid slapping against her back. “What is it, anyway?”

He sat back, brows lifting. “What?”

“What is it about girls like Tonya that gets you guys all riled up? Is it really just about looks? She’s beautiful, and that’s all that matters? Or does she do something fr-freaky in bed” – she felt color bloom in her cheeks, bright spots of heat under her skin – “that other girls won’t? Or is it for bragging rights? I mean…Jesus, every woman has a vagina. What makes hers so special? Why does someone like Tonya get everything she ever wanted, and every guy too?”

The moment the tirade had left her, the anger was replaced with hot, acid shame, burning up her throat, choking her. She couldn’t believe her own outburst, couldn’t believe she’d said something so childish and petty.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, putting her back to him, walking away. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, though he couldn’t have heard her. She had to get away from him; couldn’t stare him in the eye after she’d let her jealously come roaring out into the open like that.

Breathing in big gulps of chilled air, squeezing her coffee cup so hard it cracked and leaked down her hand, she didn’t realize she was being followed until she caught her reflection in the plate glass of a window. Aidan walked several paces behind her, hands in his cut pockets, gaze fixed to her back. He wasn’t hurrying, but he wasn’t falling behind either. He was keeping up with her, tracking her. In the fast window glimpse, he looked like a predator on the hunt.

She ducked her head and walked faster. Faster, cursing her heels and skirt, trying to…

“Samantha.” He caught her suddenly, closing in as they reached the parking lot, his hand darting over her shoulder like a striking snake and taking hold of her wrist. The way he said her name, the streak of emotion in his voice, sent sparks shooting through her veins. He turned her so she faced him.

His face was flushed from the cool air and the exertion, a blush painted along his high cheekbones. Such pretty eyes he had, dark as coffee, full of pain.

“Sam, wait,” he pleaded, and she stood stock still, because suddenly, she felt the balance tipping between them, and she had no idea which way to lean.

“I’m sorry I got emotional,” she said stiffly, the words clashing with the way she felt her insides slowly melting. “I didn’t mean to jump down your throat like that.”

He didn’t seem to hear, staring at her. He dampened his lips – a fast flash of the pink tip of his tongue – and said, “You’re right. There’s not one thing special about Tonya.”

She hadn’t expected him to saythat, of all things.

“I thought she was classy,” he continued, “and I thought she must be strong, the way she acted. I was looking for someone, someone special, really looking this time. But Tonya’s a bitch. And she was using me. She’s not anything like you, Sam,” he said fiercely. “She’s nothing like you.”

Her pulse arrested a second, and then kicked into high gear, thrumming in her ears. Her voice came out a whisper. “Why are you telling me this?”

He still had her wrist in an iron grip, and gave her a little shake. “Because I figured out what I really want. Finally. Jesus Christ –finally.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

She couldn’t have heard right. This couldn’t be happening.

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