Page 25 of The Rival in South Africa
Or the thought of who was behind the lens taking those pictures. Ion’s Instagram account, and his career, had been languishing when I took over for him. And look where his career had climbed.
“Yes, it’s for Instagram,” I said, imbuing my voice with as much haughtiness as I could. “So what?”
Alex said nothing, but the tick in his jaw gave him away. And I couldn’t help it. “My followers are going tolovethat shot. I mean, it just screamsOut of Africameets James Bond heroine. Just look at this dress.” I waved my hand down my body, looking down at myself. When I looked up, Alex had followed my instructions precisely. His gaze traveled down my legs to the tips of my toes. I watched in silence as they roamed back up, intense, as if looking through the dress and seeing the thong I’d packed just for this session.
No panty lines here.
When his eyes locked on mine, I shuddered. That was a very dangerous look, and I was angry with him. I zipped up the backpack with force and slung it over my shoulder. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I need to go clean up and change for dinner.”
I passed him in a huff, and the click-click of my heels was followed by the soft squeak of Alex’s sneakers.
“Where are you going?” I turned around, and Alex came to an abrupt stop.
“To clean up,” he said, lifting both arms from his side and dropping them back down. “I was the one who got dirty today out in the wild. You’d be right at home for cocktails in that dress.” He arched an eyebrow at me.
“Fine.” I turned before I rolled my eyes and continued out of the main building. The way back to the tent was a boardwalk, and I carefully placed my steps on the boards so as to not hook a heel between the slats.
I was very aware of Alex behind me, thrumming with impatience. We finally made it to the tent, where the flaps were down and the lanterns lit, giving the room a soft glow. It was nearly dark now, and the temperature was dropping. I needed to change into something much warmer.
“Why are you doing the Instagram thing?” Alex asked, leaning against the bed rather than making use of the facilities to get ready for dinner.
“It’s fun, and I enjoy it. Is that so wrong?” I challenged.
“Of all the things you do, why did you stick with that one? You are always so flighty; why not now?”
Seriously? I’m flighty?My anger boiled over. “What is your problem? You’ve always been a jerk about Instagram, and I don’t understand it. It doesn’t do any harm, so just leave it be. Stop hating on Instagram.”
“I don’t hate Instagram. I am on it, after all.” Alex crossed his arms, his voice raising to match mine.
“Ah, yes, I remember the first time you commented on one of Ion’s posts. You said, ‘Looks like someone’s having fun.’” I put it in mocking air quotes with my fingers. “Could you have been more condescending?” It was a photo of Ion doing shots with some of his mates from a photo shoot, but still.
“Even if I was condescending, your prick of an ex deserved it.” The vehemence with which the words came out of Alex’s mouth shocked me.
“What did he ever do to you? He’s fine….” I waffled, truly puzzled. “A bit of a party animal, but fine.”
“That’s exactly what it was. He’s a bit wild. A bit fine.” Alex ran a hand through his hair and, pushing off the bed, paced the length of the room. “You shouldn’t have been with a guy like him. You weren’t a good match.”
“Okay.” I blinked. “Desperately trying not to take offense on that.”
Alex rolled his eyes.
“For fuck’s sake, Alex, he was a model. Come on!”
On the path outside our tent, someone coughed. Ah, well, at least with the yelling, no one needed to worry about animals wandering through the campsite.
Alex’s eyes darted toward the tent entrance, and he took a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant, Nikki. It was the other way around. He wasn’t good enough for you.”
I scoffed. “Sure, that’s really believable coming from you.”
“I’m serious. You deserve a guy so much better than that.” He was on the move again, arms gesturing. “No one’s good enough for you.”
“No one?” I asked, watching in fascination as he turned and paced back.
“No one, literally. Maybe if Michelangelo’s David came to life and he was a volunteer doctor solving the maternal mortality crisis in Sierra Leone and he farted lilacs and his cum tasted like … like treacle and, of course, his cock would be huge….” He trailed off and turned to me, completely bewildered at my reaction.
I had giggled at “farts” because, well, I might be a little juvenile. But by the end of his speech, I’d bent over laughing. His face was flushed, and he looked at me for a moment before slouching down onto the edge of the bed.
“What are you on about?” I asked between fits.
