Page 110 of Bad at Love
Damn it, now he’s even hotter.
I clear my throat. “It’s not ridiculous. If that was me and some guy was touching me like that, would you like it? No.”
Laz doesn’t say anything, looks away.
“You know it would bother you.”
“I don’t get jealous.”
Ugh. Seriously? Why does he have to be the sane, rational one and I look like the jealous psycho.
“Yeah right,” I say.
He shrugs. “What? I don’t. It’s not in my nature.”
I give him an acidic smile. “You are full of shit. Remember in the bar in New York, that guy was talking to me and you came over and was all ‘she’s mine, she’s with me, caveman claiming his cavewoman,raaaar’.”
“That was because I didn’t know how you felt about me.”
You don’t know everything, I think to myself.You don’t know how much I love you.
“I can’t believe we’re arguing about this.”
“We’re not arguing. You’re accusing me of flirting when I wasn’t.”
“I’m not accusing,” I tell him. “Laz, you’re surrounded by hot groupies all the time, whether it’s for your writing or your music. Walk in my shoes for a moment.”
“Then you better get used to it,” he says.
I glare at him. “I don’t like this side of you. Were you like this with all your girlfriends or just me? Because if it was all of them, I can get why they never lasted very long. Youarebad at this love shit.”
He flinches, pales, like I just slapped him in his face.
I swallow, feeling guilt’s whiplash, and then I’m sticking to my guns and storming off through the crowd toward the bathroom before I say something else impulsive. Usually my lack of filter is borderline endearing but tonight I realize how damaging it can be to just blurt out whatever you’re thinking.
You fucked up.
You fucked up big time.
Crazy bee lady.
I’m just about at the bathroom when someone grabs my arm and whirls me around.
It’s Laz, looking angry as hell and I can’t blame him.
“What the fuck was that for?” he yells.
A girl coming out of the bathroom gives us a wary glance and hurries along.
“Don’t fucking yell at me!” I yell back at him. “I don’t want to be one of those couples, the fight in public couples.”
He makes a gruff, grunting sound, yanks me toward the bathroom until we’re both locked in the small room.
“I hate to break it to you,” he says, still holding onto my arm, his eyes flaming as he turns around to face me. “But right now, we are one of those couples. This is part of it.”
“Is it? Is this what you do to your girlfriends? Yell at them?”
“No, it isn’t,” he says. “Is this what you do with your dates, get all jealous?”
